Back at the Start (02)

The boat rocks gently beneath you, the rhythmic slosh of the Aegean Sea against its wooden hull a soothing symphony. Kastor stands at the bow, his hands steady on the tiller, his shoulders relaxed as he works the sails with practiced ease. A warm breeze skims across the water, carrying the faint tang of salt and the subtle sweetness of sun-warmed cedar from the caïque's polished deck.

You lean back against a pile of folded blankets - gifts from the villagers, the sun soaking into your skin, its golden warmth tempered by the cool spray of mist when a wave laps higher against the bow. The shoreline unfurls in a painter’s palette of white cliffs, golden beaches, and lush green hills dotted with olive trees. Here and there, small villages cling to the hillsides, their houses glowing bright under the midday sun, their rooftops a scatter of terracotta and azure domes.

The soundscape is idyllic - seagulls call out overhead, their cries mingling with the occasional creak of the mast and the gentle rustle of sails catching the wind. Farther out, the deep blue horizon stretches endlessly, the sunlight scattering across the waves in diamond-like glimmers. A pod of dolphins breaks the surface to your left, their sleek bodies gliding effortlessly alongside the boat before vanishing as quickly as they appeared.

Kastor’s voice cuts through the hum of the sea, low and teasing. "You look like you belong here, stretched out like some sea goddess surveying her kingdom." He casts you a grin over his shoulder, the sunlight catching in his hair as he turns his attention back to the helm, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly as he adjusts the sail. Despite his playful tone, there’s a quiet confidence in the way he handles the boat, as though he’s been doing this all his life.

The wind shifts slightly, and with it comes a new scent - herbs and wildflowers carried down from the hillsides, mingling with the salt air. You close your eyes, breathing it in, the sun tracing patterns across your closed lids. For a moment, you let everything else fall away: the weight of your lineage, the expectations, even the pull of destiny. It’s just you, Kastor, the open sea, and a day that feels as if it might stretch on forever.

Kastor glances back at you, "Would you believe me if I said I didn’t? It’s like... I just know. Maybe it’s the Athena in me - strategy, intuition, adaptability - all coming together to make me look impressive." His tone is light, but there’s an edge of wonder beneath it, as if he’s surprising even himself. He reaches up to adjust the sail, the sun catching the sweat on his skin and making him glisten like a bronze statue brought to life. After a moment, he pauses, rolling his shoulders with a low groan. "Speaking of the sun, it’s really giving me a workout today."

Before you can reply, he grabs the hem of his toga and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. The sunlight immediately illuminates his lean, athletic frame, every movement emphasizing the defined muscles in his arms and chest. His skin is lightly tanned, the kind of warm tone that speaks of someone who’s spent a lot of time outdoors, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat that catches the light, giving him an almost ethereal glow. He doesn’t stop there. Kicking off his shoes, he undoes his pants and steps out of them, leaving him in nothing but his boxer briefs. The fabric clings to him just enough to outline his toned legs and narrow waist, his body a perfect blend of strength and elegance - like a sculpture carved by the gods themselves.

You feel a heat rise to your cheeks, and you quickly look away, pretending to admire the shoreline. But it’s impossible to ignore the sight of him out of the corner of your eye as he moves around the boat with easy grace, securing lines and adjusting the rudder. His muscles ripple subtly with every motion, a testament to his natural athleticism and years of training.

Kastor catches you stealing a glance and smirks. "Enjoying the view?" he teases, leaning casually against the mast for a moment. He grins before turning his attention back to the boat, the sun continuing to bathe him in its golden glow.

Kastor pauses mid-motion, his fingers tightening around the rope he’s adjusting as your words settle between you. His smirk deepens, but there’s something else in his expression now - an awareness, a challenge. He straightens, turning toward you fully, and for a moment, you think he might suggest it, might call your bluff and push you to match his confidence. But instead, he just lets his gaze drift - slow, deliberate - over you, taking in the way the breeze tugs at your clothes, how the sun is already warming your skin even through the fabric. He tilts his head, his smirk softening into something more knowing.

"Well," he muses, his voice casual as he returns to working the sail, "far be it from me to tell you what to do. But if you are feeling overdressed…" He shrugs, muscles shifting with the motion, and moves past you to adjust the rudder, deliberately giving you space - choice.

It’s an invitation, not a demand. A test, maybe. Or just another game between you.

And as he moves, the sunlight tracing every flex and ripple of his lean frame, you realize he’s in no rush for an answer. He’s going to let you watch him - let you want - until you decide how you want to play this next move.

You stretch out on the sun-warmed deck, the heat kissing your bare skin as the sea breeze whispers over you. The moment should be freeing - you should feel bold, triumphant even, peeling away layers between you and him. You dared him to look.

And yet…

Kastor doesn’t react the way you expected. He doesn’t fumble or stare, doesn’t break rhythm in the way he handles the boat. His gaze flickers to you, yes - quick, sharp, assessing - but then it moves on, back to the sail, to the sea, as if he’s completely in control of himself.

As if you are the one caught off guard.

The realization settles in like the shifting of the tide. You wanted his attention. Craved it, even. But Kastor - he’s not playing this game the way you thought he would. He’s not chasing. He’s just… there, steady, unrushed, entirely at ease in himself.

And that’s when it hits you.

This isn’t a game to him. Not the way it is to you. Kastor has never needed to win your attention, never had to beg for scraps of your gaze. But you - you’re starting to realize how much you want his. How much you watch him when you think he’s not looking. How much your heart skips when he does look, even just for a second.

Somehow, without you noticing, the balance has shifted.

He has you. And the worst part? You’re not even sure he knows it.

What do you do?

The boat rocks gently beneath you, a slow, rhythmic motion that lulls your body into a state of sun-drenched stillness. The scent of salt fills your lungs, thick and briny, mingling with the faint, warm scent of the wooden deck heating under the afternoon sun. Beneath that, there’s something else - Kastor’s scent, a mix of sea air, sweat, and whatever oils linger on his skin from the temple baths.

The Aegean sings around you, a soft symphony of waves lapping against the hull, their steady hush punctuated by the occasional splash of water against the boat’s side. The wind teases through the rigging, causing a soft, almost melodic flutter of the sail. You can hear Kastor moving - his bare feet padding against the deck, the creak of wood beneath his shifting weight, the occasional rustle of rope as he adjusts the lines. Every so often, he exhales, low and steady, the sound of someone completely at ease with the world.

You try to relax, to let the warmth soak into your skin and pretend you don’t care that he’s not looking at you.

Then...

A sharp, unnatural sound cuts through the gentle hum of the ocean. A crack, like wood splintering, followed by a thud. Not from the boat. Something else.

Kastor stills.

Then it comes again - a distant, echoing boom, like something heavy slamming against stone. And this time, it’s followed by something far worse.

A scream.

What do you do?

Kastor moves first, stepping up onto the edge of the boat, his body taut with tension as his sharp eyes scan the horizon. You follow his gaze, pushing yourself upright, and then you see it - movement on the distant shore, near a rocky outcrop where a small cluster of buildings clings to the coastline. Another boom echoes over the water, and a plume of dust rises from one of the buildings. Then comes another scream - this time, you can tell it’s a woman’s voice, raw with terror.

"There," Kastor says, pointing toward the village. "Something’s attacking them."

A shadow moves beyond the dust, something huge. You squint against the glare of the sun, trying to make sense of the massive figure looming over the buildings. Then, as the dust clears, you see it properly - a hulking, monstrous shape with thick, gray skin and a single, glaring eye.

A Cyclops.

It lifts a boulder in its massive hands and hurls it toward the village, the force of the impact sending another shockwave through the air. More screams rise as villagers flee toward the docks, desperate to escape.

Kastor clenches his jaw, already reaching for the ropes to steer the boat toward shore. "We have to do something."

Kastor doesn’t hesitate. The moment you say "We will", he tightens his grip on the tiller and steers the caïque toward shore with sharp, practiced movements, his expression carved from stone. The wind fills the small sail, pushing you forward, faster now, over the churning waves.

The Aegean spray kisses your skin, salty and cool, but you barely register it - your gaze is locked on the shoreline, on the panicked villagers fleeing down the dirt paths, baskets and nets abandoned in their wake. Another boom shakes the air, and you catch sight of the Cyclops again, its thick, gnarled arms raised as it lifts another boulder.

Kastor’s voice cuts through the roar of the ocean. "Hold on."

The boat jolts forward with a sudden gust of wind, Kastor expertly guiding it between the wooden fishing docks jutting out into the water. The hull scrapes against the sand as you reach the shallows, and before the boat has even fully stopped, Kastor is already moving. He jumps down first, the water sloshing around his calves, then turns to offer you a hand. You don’t need it - you’re already leaping down, splashing into the surf, feet sinking into the wet sand. Your pulse pounds, not from fear, but from the heat of purpose.

The village is just ahead, the air thick with dust, smoke, and the acrid scent of crushed stone. People still run past you, screaming, but you push forward, Kastor at your side.

You need to get closer. You need its eye.

---

The sand is hot under your feet as you run, the cries of the villagers mixing with the deep, guttural growl of the Cyclops. You don’t think about your bare skin, the sun against your back - you only think about [I]them[/i], the people who have welcomed you, the ones who carved your image in stone, the ones who see you as a goddess. A goddess should protect her people.

The Cyclops stands in the center of the village, taller than any of the clay-bricked houses, its skin the color of old leather and stretched taut over bulging muscle. Its single eye glows amber, flicking back and forth as it searches for something else to crush.

You skid to a stop, feet kicking up dirt and dust, and throw out a hand. The magic in you surges forward, eager to be used. Kastor summons his gladus and shield, both gifts from his mother, and moves closer.

The monster hesitates, its thick brow furrowing. Its gaze locks onto yours, and for a moment, you feel it - power threading through you, reaching for it, for its mind, for its will. You pull at the magic, willing it to bind, to wrap around the monster like chains.

But something is wrong.

The magic resists. It slips from your grasp like water through your fingers. The spell is forming, but it’s slow, like trying to force honey through a sieve. The Cyclops blinks once - then twice - and suddenly, it shakes its massive head, breaking your hold before it even fully takes shape.

No. No, no, no.

The Cyclops roars, furious, and swings a massive arm toward you. You barely have time to throw yourself backward before the ground where you stood explodes in a shower of dust and shattered stone. You hit the dirt hard (take 1 Harm), the impact jolting through your spine. Panic claws at you. Your magic failed. It’s never failed like this before. You don’t understand.

But Kastor - Kastor doesn’t hesitate.

He leaps forward, his body a blur of movement. He leaps up to slash at the beast’s arm - his blade drinking deep - and the Cyclops bellows in pain. It reels back, clutching at the wound, its eye darting wildly.

Kastor is already moving again, shouting at the monster. "Over here, ugly!"

The Cyclops turns toward him, distracted, enraged. Kastor’s gaze flicks to you for a split second - checking, calculating.

He’s buying you time. But if that Cyclops hits him with that club - he's going to be in serious trouble.

What do you do?

You shove your hands into the dirt, grounding yourself as you push up to your feet, your body screaming in protest. The air is thick with dust, the scent of brine and smoke, the sound of Kastor’s taunts and the Cyclops’ enraged bellows.

"Why didn’t it work?" The thought beats in your head, over and over. Magic is stronger here. It should be stronger here.

Your fingers twitch, instinctively seeking the magic, not just to bind but to understand.

You call it again - not to seize the Cyclops, but to see what you’re missing.

The air ripples. The world around you sharpens. Your breath slows, and suddenly, you feel it.

Something heavy. Ancient.

It’s not the Cyclops resisting you - it’s the land itself.

This village, these streets, the crumbling edges of the shore - there’s a presence woven into them. A deep, old enchantment, sunken into the bones of this place like a heartbeat beneath the surface. Not a spell of protection or destruction, but one of claiming.

This land does not belong to you. Or to your mother, either.

It is tied to someone else.

And the Cyclops - it isn't just attacking. It’s being drawn here, pulled by that same tether, the way a fish is reeled in by a line it never saw coming.

Your stomach twists.

You reach deeper, peeling back the layers, past time and sand and stone -

And then you see.

A name, burned into the bones of the land. An oath, long whispered.

Crius.

This land is his.

And that means so is the Cyclops.

It is a bit of a stretch, but it sounds like you're ordering the villagers. Let's see how it goes!