In the divine theater, Calliope, with her usual enthusiasm, was commenting on the combat for the enjoyment of the spectators.
"It seems that the monstrosity of Medusa is too much for Jason" said the muse with her characteristic energy. "This combat has now turned into a hunt."
On the ship. Jason moved forward with difficulty through the endless corridors inside the vessel. Each step cost him more than the last; the air seemed to grow heavier, denser, as if the ship itself were breathing against him. He had no idea how far he had gone, yet an icy certainty dug into the back of his neck: Medusa was getting closer and closer.
Finally, he crossed a threshold and arrived at a wide, almost cavernous room, dimly lit, revealing a large hold, empty at first glance. When he looked up, he noticed a net stretched across the ceiling, probably meant to secure cargo during rough voyages; now it hung inert, without any weight, as if waiting to be used.
He lowered his gaze to his left arm, where the fleece rested adhered to his skin. The warm, almost living texture of the object reminded him of its latent power. It was supposed to be able to become anything… and if that was true, then this was the moment to prove it.
He clenched his fist with determination. From the golden leather bracer wrapped around his forearm, thin, twisted branches began to sprout, covered in small leaves. Jason allowed himself a faint smile as he recognized them; they were not just any branches, but precise ingredients, selected more by memory than by conscious will.
He wasted no time. He tried to summon more elements: herbs, stems, roots, everything necessary to prepare the concoction he had in mind. However, the process was clumsy and slow. Grinding them, mixing them, and calculating the correct proportions required time he did not have.
He frowned and exhaled in frustration before closing his eyes for a moment.
"Not like this…" he murmured to himself, forcing his pulse to calm. "Think better."
He then focused on the final result, not the process. He visualized the exact proportions, the color of the liquid, its density, even its aroma. When he opened his hand, a circular glass container appeared, holding a semi-liquid brew that glowed faintly.
Jason observed it cautiously before bringing it to his lips. As soon as he tasted it, he felt the pain that tightened every muscle in his body begin to fade, as if a fresh breeze were coursing through him. His shoulders relaxed immediately.
"Perfect…" he whispered, letting out a sigh of relief.
Without wasting more time, he began to summon one after another. Dozens of containers appeared in his hands, lining up with increasing speed as he mastered the technique. Then, with agile movements, he climbed just enough to place them on the ceiling net, distributing them carefully. Finally, he secured the net back in place, now loaded with the flasks.
He descended lightly and observed his work. The trap was ready; all that remained was to lure the prey.
Jason took a piece of cloth and tied it firmly around his face, covering his nose and mouth. He knew with certainty what effects the brew would have in the air, but he was not willing to take unnecessary risks. With determination hardening his gaze, he ventured back into the ship's corridors.
Meanwhile, in the divine theater, Eris watched the scene with a smile full of interest. Before her, the projection of the confrontation shone with supernatural clarity, showing every movement of Jason. Her eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and anticipation, as if she were witnessing the beginning of a particularly promising chaos.
"Is he planning to poison Medusa?" she asked lightly.
The goddess tilted her head slightly, her tone tinged with a nearly playful amusement, as if the very idea delighted her.
"It's not poison…" Asclepius corrected from her side, without taking his eyes off the scene.
The god of medicine was unusually quiet, a rarity for someone who usually dissected every detail with words. His eyes followed Jason's every movement with clinical precision, and in his mind the pieces came together quickly: the branches, the leaves, the proportions. He had recognized each of the herbs invoked by the argonaut, and with it, the intention behind his strategy.
"It's anesthesia…" he finally added, his voice low but firm, like one confirming an inevitable diagnosis.
Eris raised an eyebrow with renewed interest and focused all her attention back on the projection. Her fingers tapped softly against the armrest, impatient, as a sharper smile formed on her face.
"Interesting…" she murmured, almost to herself, letting the word slip with a hint of anticipation.
Her gaze narrowed slightly, scrutinizing every detail of the mortal as if trying to unravel a game that had only just begun to reveal itself.
"What are you plotting, argonaut…?" she whispered, with a mix of curiosity and delight, as if she eagerly awaited the moment when everything would become unpredictable.
After several minutes of silent searching, he saw her. In the distance, Medusa's figure glided with an unsettling, almost unnatural presence. Jason stopped abruptly, controlling his breathing. Without looking away, he transformed the fleece: the bracer extended and shaped itself into an elegant golden bow. He drew the string, and an arrow of pure gold materialized between his fingers.
But he knew it would not be enough.
He closed his eyes for another moment, concentrating intensely. He thought of the brew, of its properties, of its exact composition. He visualized how it should be integrated into the arrow. When he opened them again, the tip of the projectile had changed: it was now a small cylindrical container, sealed, filled with the liquid.
For a moment, his mind drifted. A memory surfaced with unexpected force: his master, the old centaur, forcing him again and again to memorize plants, to distinguish aromas, to prepare mixtures with almost infinite patience. Back then, it had all seemed like a waste of time, an unnecessary burden compared to the edge of a sword.
A faint smile, tinged with nostalgia, crossed his face.
"You were right, old man…" he murmured softly, with a hint of gratitude. "Sooner or later, this would be useful."
He refocused his gaze, hardening his expression. His fingers released the string.
And the arrow shot forward.