Protogenos

Chapter 11: Era

Chapter 11

Era

As the dusk settled over the village of Anavra, its last rays of sunlight seemed to shy away from the spectacle unfolding at its gates. Once a place of tranquil passage for those entering and leaving the town, the field now bore the marks of a battleground, disturbed soil and scattered debris painting a picture of chaos.

In the midst of this disarray stood Perseus, his figure a finitude to the destruction surrounding him. Blood, a vivid red that clashed against the black ivory fabric of his chiton, stained the garment as if marking him as a warrior prince in the truest sense. The royal attire, now marred by the violence of his actions, did little to detract from the authority he exuded.

Among the cluster of soldiers that surrounded the primordial, a nervous whisper began to ripple through their ranks, their earlier bravado now replaced by a tactile fear.

One, younger and less seasoned than the others, his armor ill-fitting and his hands gripping his spear with an uncertainty that aired volumes, spoke up. "Should we not pray to the Olympians for protection?"

"Alas! I dearly neglect the offerings of mine meal yesternight."

"To Hades with such, I say we flee," Another voice uttered.

"Aye, young one. To flee would be the wiser course."

A fifth, clad in nothing but leather that shifted with each tremulous breath he took, chimed in, his voice a mere whisper, as if afraid to be overheard by the gods themselves. "Yet, should we not stand our ground? To retreat in the face of a heretic may draw Olympian ire upon us as well."

"Nay, I fear the gods no less than yon demigod, but to stand against such power is to court death itself. What hope have we against a force that felled the great Heracles?"

Their conversation fell to a hush as they observed Perseus move, each man wrestling with his own courage and cowardice.

Perseus's posture, as he stood over the petrified form of Heracles, was one of undisputed dominance. His gaze, fixed upon the stone figure beneath him, was as sharp as blade, reflecting a resolve that bordered on the divine. The air, heavy with the scent of turned earth and the iron tang of blood carried the weight of a moment that would be etched in the memory of the village for generations to come.

In the shadow of the ongoing scene, Zoë found herself enveloped in the warmth of Prometheus's woolen embrace. The blanket, a simple piece of cloth moments ago, had become a sanctuary from the horror that had unfolded before her eyes.

Yet, as the reality of her safety settled in, she hurriedly scrambled out of it, a blush coloring her cheeks at the intimacy of the gesture.

"I... thank thee," she murmured, her voice barely carrying over the gentle breeze that ruffled the wheat fields around them.

Prometheus, his gaze fixed on the scene ahead, offered a scoff in response, a sound that seemed out of place amidst the solemn aftermath. "Thou art under the protection of His Grace now," he stated matter-of-factly, his voice carrying a hint of sternness.

"And thus, by extension, mine own responsibility."

Taken aback, Zoë crossed her arms defensively, her eyes flitting between the titan and the distant figure of Perseus. The reminder of her newfound "protection" did little to ease the turmoil of emotions within her. She opened her mouth to retort, only to be cut off by a loud, commanding shout from the direction of the guards.

The guards of Anavra, a motley crew clad in armor that had seen better days, encircled Perseus with trepidation etched deeply into their faces. Their disarray was not just in their attire but mirrored in their faltering steps and the hesitant glances they exchanged, as if questioning the wisdom of confronting a figure of Perseus's stature.