One fateful night, Alcmene knelt in the temple, her prayers punctuated by the creak of a heavy door swinging open.
A goddess cloaked in soft radiance materialized within the shrine, her visage obscured by an ethereal glow.
Believing the divine visitor had answered her supplications, Alcmene trembled as she prostrated herself on the cold stone floor.
Before she could pour out her grievances, the goddess spoke:
"Alcmene, descendant of Perseus—do not let vengeance consume your days. Look forward, lest you squander the future for the sake of the past."
"Goddess, avenge me!" Alcmene cried, her pent-up anguish spilling forth like a flood. "The king's blood cries out for justice! We did no wrong—why did those rebels spill the blood of my kin?"
The goddess offered no reply. Alcmene, blinded by her own sense of entitlement, failed to see that her privileged life had been built upon the backs of the oppressed—their silks and jewels steeped in blood and tears.
"Your grandmother Andromeda was a selfless princess, a loyal wife. It seems her virtues have not passed to you."
Tyche's voice carried no bitterness; such moral decay often accompanied the dawn of civilizations. Perseus had kept his word, and Andromeda had faced death with courage, yet their finest qualities had eluded their descendant.
"Alcmene," Tyche continued, "your path is already chosen."
The dice cast aside by Perseus dimmed within the folds of fate, rejecting Alcmene's claim to divine grace. Without another glance, Tyche vanished into the waves, leaving Alcmene to wonder if she had dreamed the encounter.
Amphitryon returned victorious, bearing the heads of his enemies. Vindicated, Alcmene resigned herself to her role as queen, though her heart remained heavy.
Soon, Hera's blessing upon Perseus and Andromeda bore fruit—Alcmene bore Amphitryon a son. The discarded divinity of Perseus found new life in her grandson, whom Amphitryon named Heracles, "Glory of Hera."
Tyche's gaze swept forward, foreseeing Heracles' epic life and fiery end. Meanwhile, Jason's quest for the Golden Fleece began to ripple through the mortal world.
Born to claim a throne stolen by his uncle Pelias, Jason sought to prove his worth by retrieving the Fleece—a task set by the gods themselves. Divine favor now hinged on mortals' devotion; gods like Apollo and Poseidon donned mortal guises to walk among city-states, binding humanity closer to their will.
Bound tighter to mortals, the gods grew more cautious, lest their caprice invite chaos.
Jason's crew aboard the Argo entered the Misty Seas, where Perseus had once evaded the Gorgons. The Fleece, spirited away during their battle, lay hidden in some unknown corner of the world.
At the prow, Hercules and Peleus rowed with the strength of demigods, yet even their renown faltered against the oppressive fog. No zephyrs stirred the sails; the waves lay still, as if the sea itself had fallen asleep.
"Athena, Guardian and Strategist!" Jason called, clasping the ship's figurehead. "Grant us your light to pierce this darkness!"
The Athena-statue's bronze eyes glimmered to life. Medusa's visage, carved into the shield, turned toward the horizon. Her voice echoed in the heroes' minds:
"Hercules, scion of Perseus, Tyche watches over you. The Gorgon who blessed your forebears still answers your blood's call. She shall guide you."
Heartened, Hercules shouted toward the void:
"Medusa of the Shifting Gaze! Answer your descendant's plea!"
Unseen on her namesake isle, Medusa paused mid-game with Iris. The summons tugged at her curiosity. Emerging from her leafy hiding spot, she listened—then smiled as Iris descended, wings shimmering like oil on water.
"A worshiper calls?" Iris mused, tracing the air with her iridescent fingers.
"A descendant of Perseus," Medusa replied. "Nearby, perhaps."
Iris unfurled her wings, painting the Argo's path with a rainbow. Hercules steered them toward its end, emerging into calm waters.
Ahead, Sirens draped in seaweed perched on reefs, their laughter mingling with the splash of fish-tails. Medusa lingered, watching the mortals—her gaze locking onto Hercules.
"Bold Perseid," she murmured, "who leads you into Tyche's domain?"
"Athena guided us," Hercules stammered, averting his eyes from her serpentine coils.
"Halt, mortals." Medusa raised a hand, her voice commanding. "No unbidden guest leaves Tyche's land unscathed."
The Sirens fell silent, their forms shifting into winged beasts with taloned claws.
Arke, goddess of the rainbow bridge, descended with a grace opposite her sister's fiery beauty.
"Mortals," she intoned, "your king knows your purpose. The Fleece lies guarded by a dragon forged in Typhon's wrath—its fire devours, its breath withers. Alone, you are naught but kindling. And you, Jason—your oath binds fate itself. Betray it, and the threads of destiny will unravel your triumph."
The heroes laughed, heedless of the warning. The Fleece's location mattered more than omens. Feasting on Siren-provided delicacies, they prepared to sail.
Fish leapt from the waves to guide them; the mist parted like curtains. From her cliffside perch, Tyche watched the Argo vanish, her fingers brushing the unseen threads tethering mortals to their fates.
In the Underworld, the Furies stirred at the scent of retribution. Unaware, Jason reveled in his coming victory—little knowing how soon fate would twist.
Colchis, shrouded in mystery, revered Hecate, goddess of crossroads. She cared little for worship, spreading her sorcery through mortal pawns.
The dragon guarding the Fleece coiled in Colchis' mountains, cowed by Hecate's power. Its priestesses, wielders of forbidden magic, safeguarded the land. To seize control, King Aeëtes sent his daughter Medea to Hecate's temple.
Medea surpassed even Hecate's expectations, mastering spells that wrung screams from gods. In three years, she became Colchis' most feared sorceress, earning the king's blessing to rule. Yet Medea spurned power, locking herself in a tower to study scrolls.
"Thrones and crowns are chains," she declared. "I seek truth, not dominion."
When Medea finally descended, her beauty stunned the court—though her bloodshot eyes and tattered robes hinted at sleepless nights.
"Father," she announced, "I foresaw strangers arriving. Watch for a ship bearing Athena's likeness."
Awestruck, Aeëtes vowed allegiance to any man who won her favor.
At the docks, Medea's coven surrounded the Argonauts. Jason stepped forward cautiously.
"We mean no harm," he began, but Medea's gaze struck him dumb. He crumpled, unconscious.
When he awoke, he stood in Colchis' palace. Aeëtes apologized profusely, offering feasts to soothe the heroes' suspicions.
Unbeknownst to them, Medea's rituals had already begun—threads of prophecy and ambition weaving a tapestry none could escape.