Let's see what happens in the arena with Rider...

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Scene 11: The Prophecy

2020 B.C.

To the horror of his lifelong mentor and the wife who sat beside him in the stands — both of whom knew now that this was more than just a game — Rider stepped up to take his aim.

"Wait," commanded a stentorian and very self-important voice, from the canopied section reserved for privileged observers, where a man presently stood and raised his hand. He was the judge presiding over this event, a position earned by his status as the wealthiest noble in the land. "You are not a recognized athlete; I presume you must be a recent addition to the competition. State your name."

Rider paused, gaze resting only for a moment on the judge before he turned his head to fix his glare on a particular spectator. A man whose pale grey beard bespoke his age, slouching deep in his seat, posture betraying the years that he had spent in hiding.

"My name," Rider began, discus firmly in hand, "is Perseus."

The old man, naturally, made nothing of this.

"Son of Danaë," Rider continued, "the late princess of Argos..."

At the sound of that one haunting name, the man's sallow face fell as if staring straight into the chasm of hell.

Rider went on. "...who was the daughter of..."

With spastic, panic-stricken desperation, the old man suddenly flailed out of his seat and started floundering through the sea of spectators toward the nearest exit out of the arena. Which, as fate would have it, was situated rather far from where he had been seated.

"...the former king..." Rider proceeded.

His dark blue glare steadily followed the man as he struggled and stumbled his way through the crowds. And now that this contestant had mentioned Argos's erstwhile king — for, across many realms, Acrisius was notorious for his cowardice — the audience began to whirr with whispers, wondering whether this frantic old man might in fact be the coward who had fled from his own kingdom.

"Ohh, very dramatic," remarked the boy seated by Dictys and Lachesis, who had sold Rider this invaluable secret, exposing Acrisius. "Just as the fateful fulfillment of a prophecy should be."

Dictys shook his head, dismayed, and spoke in vain beneath his breath. Knowing that even if his voice were at its highest volume, at this point the words would surely go unheard. "Rider, don't..."

Lachesis bit her lip and shuddered.

With his next utterance, Rider's discus-throwing arm began to rise, as fierce and fatal as the fire in his eyes. "...Acrisius."

The coward continued to push through the stands as a faint rush of wind brushed across the arena, ever so slightly stirring the sands. Rider hefted the makeshift weapon in his hand, tightening his grip on the sharp, solid disk, standing still and silent for a second as he recognized and weighed the risk. Not yet far gone enough to ignore it.

The old man's movements did not deter him in the slightest; Rider relished the challenge of a moving target, and in his own ability to hit the mark, empowered by his hunger for revenge, he had full confidence.

And yet... and yet... and yet what? What gave him pause, in this momentous moment — was it the danger that his throw would pose to innocents? But if his aim proved to be true, then there was no such risk, he knew. This was not the time to doubt what he could do. It didn't matter how the wind blew. In memory of Danaë — the daughter cast to probable death by her own disgusting excuse for a father — this was an aim that Rider's hell-bent heart was fated to pursue. And now that he had come this far, he had to follow through. He had to.

Assuming that his shot was sure to hit its mark — setting aside whatever self-doubts he might have, if he could somehow guarantee no harm to innocents — what else could ever cause this hesitance? Surely not the notion that he was a better man than this. That he should be a better man, for reasons that he couldn't understand, because he'd lost those reasons and had buried what was left of them.

All of these thoughts swarmed his mind in a matter of seconds, during which time Acrisius had made some progress toward the nearest exit. Spectators stopped him along the way, some confronting him about his true identity, so the progress was slow. The old coward was getting by, though. And upon noticing this, Rider grew ever more infuriated — the rising fury fueled his arm to raise yet further, swinging up and backward, settling into position for the throw.

Yet even as he took position, voices in his head and forces in his heart were still persisting in their protest, screaming, crying no...

And even as he steeled himself to hurl the disk, he had no clue which would prevail — the soul that bade him stop, or the body that commanded him to go.

And then, all of a sudden, it no longer fυcking mattered.

From somewhere in the crowd through which the coward was staggering now, some unknown stranger in the stands called out: "Long live King Proetus!" — and the next thing Rider witnessed was a glint of deathly metal in the distance — followed by a gush of crimson, as the stranger swiftly came behind Acrisius, swept his dagger straight across the old man's throat, slicing through a thick sheaf of pale beard and spilling dark blood, slaughtering upon the instant.

On the same instant, shrieks of fear and gasps of shock broke out across that section of the audience; spectators hastily stood up to flee, stampeding one another, creating waves of chaos that reverberated all throughout the stands. The judges and officials tried to call for order, but the games today were clearly at an end.

"Mother of shit!" exclaimed the boy who sat by Dictys and Lachesis, witnessing the death from a safe distance. Seated across the arena from where it had taken place, only peripherally affected by the ensuing panic, he was thus calm enough to form conclusions, gathering from his knowledge of the long-standing rivalry between Proetus and Acrisius of Argos. "Proetus sent assassins out to find and kill the bastard!"

In the arena, after one more glance in the direction of the fallen former king who should have been his for the slaughtering, Rider thrust his discus to the sand beneath his feet and turned to leave.

Meanwhile, the boy breathlessly rambled on about whether or not this unforeseen turn of events counted as a fulfillment of the prophecy, given that Perseus's words had after all alerted the assassin to the true identity of Acrisius... musing aloud whether pious historians might tell the story differently, over the centuries — such that the cause of death would be the discus thrown by Perseus, in their stories, leaving no room for doubt as to the accuracy of the prophecy... but as to all of this, Dictys and Lachesis could not have cared less.

They were already clambering through the stands toward the nearest exit, hoping to find Rider before he disappeared from the vicinity of the arena. In the midst of the evacuating crowds, Dictys caught sight of him eventually and hastened after him.

"Rider — Rider, stop," Dictys exhorted. "You must calm yourself."

As Rider strode forward in silence, the fumes radiating from him were downright tangible, even from this angle as Dictys trailed behind and couldn't see the flames that flared inside his seething eyes.

"I know and understand what you were set to do. But this I know, too," Dictys dauntlessly continued. "You would not have done it."

Rider shook his head but otherwise stormed on with no response.

"I could see the hesitation in your eyes, the spark of doubt," Dictys pressed on as he drew up alongside the man he would always regard as his son, Lachesis following not far behind them. "And in these recent days, as the pain of your losses has threatened to lead you astray, obsessed with nothing but revenge — to see your hesitance, that spark of doubt, I've never been more proud—"

"I do not need your misplaced pride in me," Rider snapped. "I need blood, and I need victory. And my father will give it to me."

"For gods' sakes, Rider, forget about Proetus," Dictys implored. "I am your father, too. For years, I was the only one that mattered to you. If only you weren't blinded by your bloodlust, then you'd see that there is good in you, and in this world, and that you are loved—"

"Loved?" Rider spat. "Love is what blinds. Worse yet, delusions of."

From where she walked a ways behind, though well within earshot, Lachesis unconsciously lowered her eyes.

"And in my life, that's all love ever is: a lie," Rider declared. The love of a mother, a brother, the love of his fate and the love of his wife — in one way or another, all were built on lies. And today, Rider had hesitated and then failed as a result, leaving one of his most important ambitions to die, and he knew that the ghost of some lost love had been the reason why. "So don't dare tell me there is good in that, or in this world, or in my godforsaken soul. Don't even fυcking try."

And with that Rider forged ahead. One thing he knew for sure, amidst the lies that fogged his head, was that his father was his ruin. First — and worst — Proetus had begotten him, by way of a grave sin, committed against Danaë and also against him, for giving life to a son whose very birth was cursed. And now he had sent an assassin to complete the task that had been Rider's mission, and his destiny, according to the prophecy that had provoked Danaë's father to keep her locked up in the first place. This was all fυcked up in far too many ways, but one thing Rider knew for sure, blinded by the lie of love no longer, was that his father had to fυcking pay.

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Next scene, we'll check in with Cloe in modern-day Greece...

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