Medea - a twisted tale of love and vengeance

The Argo cut through the sea like a blade of bronze, her sails swollen with the breath of the gods. The ship was more than just wood and nails—she was a living thing, whispering in the wind, groaning under the weight of legend. Onboard, the Argonauts moved like restless ghosts, their eyes locked on the endless horizon, waiting for the next storm, the next monster, the next omen.

The journey to Colchis was not just a test of strength but of will, a battle not only against the wrath of Poseidon but against the demons that lurked in the hearts of men.

A week into their voyage, a storm struck with the fury of Olympus itself. The skies cracked open, vomiting fire, and the sea churned like an enraged beast. Waves as tall as mountains crashed over the Argo, tossing men like rag dolls.

"Hold the ropes or hold your breath!" bellowed Heracles, his muscles straining as he pulled a waterlogged mast back into place.

Jason, hands numb from the cold, fought to steer the ship through the chaos. Beside him, Orpheus plucked a desperate melody on his lyre, his music a feeble attempt to calm the raging sea.

The gods were watching. This was a test.

"Poseidon wants us to drown!" spat Meleager, wiping salt from his eyes.

Jason gritted his teeth. "Then let him come down and do it himself."

But the storm did not claim them. The Argonauts held. The winds howled, the sea roared, but the men did not break. When dawn came, the waters were still. The storm had passed, but its omen lingered.

"The gods have their eyes on us," murmured Orpheus, his fingers still trembling over his lyre. "And not all of them are kind."

Weeks later, they made landfall on a nameless island to rest and resupply. But the island was not empty.

It was a graveyard.

Mounds of skulls bleached by the sun, the air thick with the stench of rot. At its center, a circle of warriors stood, their spears gleaming like fangs.

"Who are you?" Jason demanded, stepping forward.

A warrior with scarred arms and hollow eyes tilted his head. "We were once like you. Travelers. Heroes. Fools."

They called themselves the Cursed Legion—men who had sought glory but found only damnation. Stranded by the gods, they had turned on one another, feasting on the flesh of their dead.

"Leave," one of them whispered, his voice raw, "or join us in the feast."

Jason turned to his men. "We leave. Now."

But Heracles, never one to back down from a fight, drew his club.

The island burned that night, the cries of the damned swallowed by the waves

Even now on the Argo, the challenges did not cease.

One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, the crew heard screams.

"Something's coming," warned Atalanta, drawing an arrow.

From the shadows, they came—winged creatures, their talons dripping with rot, their eyes hollow pits of hunger.

The Harpies.

They descended upon the ship, shrieking, their claws raking across skin and wood.

"Hold the line!" Jason roared, swinging his sword.

The battle was chaos—swords clashing, arrows piercing the sky, the Harpies' shrieks curdling the blood in their veins.

Heracles crushed one beneath his boot, its bones snapping like twigs. Meleager severed another's head, its black blood spattering across the deck.

But they did not stop.

"They do not die!" cried Pollux, his spear lodged in one's chest.

It was Orpheus who saved them.

He lifted his lyre, his fingers dancing across the strings. A song unlike any heard before—a song that made the Harpies falter, their wings trembling, their hunger momentarily forgotten.

One by one, they fled into the night.

The Argonauts stood in stunned silence, the waves lapping at their bloodied ship.

"We are nearing Colchis," Orpheus murmured. "The gods are growing restless.