Phetus hesitated, his expression tense, as if weighed down by an unseen burden. A foreboding feeling flickered across his aged face. With a resigned sigh, he grasped his spoon, scooping up a small portion of food. But before he could even bring it to his lips, a cacophony of caws rang out in the distance, the thunderous sound growing closer by the second.
The very moment the spoon brushed his mouth, a swarm of harpies burst through the hut's open windows.
Hael and Ceremus barely had time to react before the winged creatures descended upon Phetus, their sharp talons scraping against the wooden table as they devoured the food from his plate in an instant. Not a single crumb remained. Then, just as swiftly as they had arrived, the harpies shot back out into the sky, leaving behind an eerie silence and the old man frozen in place, his shoulders hunched in quiet agony.
Phetus lowered his gaze to his now empty plate, his expression unreadable. Ceremus, still recovering from the shock, studied the old man, then the vacant spot where his meal had been. A realization dawned upon him—this wasn't the first time. The man's frail frame, the haunting hollowness in his cheeks, the defeated way he sat—it all made sense now. The harpies had been stealing his food for a long time.
A rare pang of sympathy struck Ceremus, a sentiment he was unaccustomed to feeling.
Hael, on the other hand, felt something far stronger—rage.
His body tensed as his hands curled into fists. Without hesitation, the towering warrior launched himself through the window, his long legs carrying him at an astonishing speed as he tore after the thieving creatures.
Ceremus gawked at Hael's retreating figure, momentarily stunned. Even for someone as unshakable as the king, the sheer ferocity of the giant's reaction caught him off guard.
"Just where–"
"I knew this would happen," Loki sighed, shaking his head. "The second I saw those vile things, I knew they'd stir up trouble."
Ceremus shot the bird a sharp look before snapping his attention back to the window. With an irritated sigh, he pushed himself up from the table.
"Loki," he commanded. "Come with me. I'll need to make use of those wings of yours."
The bird hesitated for only a moment before following, casting a lingering glance at the old man, who still sat motionless, a shadow of defeat hanging over him.
As they rushed outside, Ceremus wracked his brain for a solution. He had heard stories of divine animals—creatures with the power to manipulate their forms. Loki, as a divine beast, was no exception. Ceremus had once asked Hael if his avian companion could grow larger, and though Hael had not been certain, he had believed it to be possible.
Now was the time to test that theory.
"Loki," he called, keeping pace with the bird. "Can you grow bigger?"
Loki blinked, momentarily surprised by the question. Then, he nodded. "Yes, I can."
Without further prompting, Loki's body underwent a startling transformation. His feathers shimmered, his frame expanding at a rapid pace. Within moments, the once-small bird had grown to the size of a great stallion, his powerful wings unfurling against the night sky.
Ceremus watched in silent approval before vaulting onto Loki's back. "If those pests want to take to the sky, we'll crush them in their own domain."
Loki wasted no time. With a powerful beat of his wings, he shot into the air, his talons slicing through the wind as they ascended.
Meanwhile, Hael had already pushed his body to its limits, using the dense trees as leverage to propel himself toward the fleeing harpies. His movements were seamless, his sheer agility defying his massive frame.
Sensing the relentless force pursuing them, the harpies screeched in alarm and tried to climb higher into the sky, flapping frantically to escape Hael's reach. But Hael was undeterred. His piercing gaze never wavered from his target.
Then, from above—
"Hael!"
The deep, commanding voice of Ceremus rang through the air. Hael turned his head, momentarily startled by the sight of the king and the now-magnified Loki descending toward him.
"What—"
"No time to explain," Ceremus snapped. "Get on. We end this now."
Hael didn't hesitate. With an effortless leap, he landed behind Ceremus, his strong hand instinctively finding purchase around the king's waist to steady himself.
Ceremus stiffened at the unexpected warmth pressing against him, but he forced himself to ignore it. There were more pressing matters at hand.
The harpies had begun to slow, assuming the threat had been lost. Their mistake would be their downfall.
Unfortunately for them, Hael was a force of nature.
And he would not stop until his task was complete. Until the creatures that dared to steal what was not theirs were wiped from the sky.
As soon as the harpies came to view, he stood on top of Loki's back and leaped into the cast of harpies, sword in hand.
Loki and Ceremus watched as Hael blind-sighted the cast, cutting through each of their heads with practiced ease. The harpies each fell one by one, plummeting to their deaths. Seeing the wild and unforgiving look in his eyes sent a shiver down Ceremus' spine, his heart skipping a beat. Hael had never looked more attractive to the King of Trojas in that moment.
With the problem now eliminated, the three returned to the hut, where they found the old blind man they had left behind still sitting in his chair. The despondent look that had once marked his face was now replaced with a gentle smile.
"Kind heroes, I cannot thank you enough for defeating those cursed creatures," he said.
Ceremus raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, while Hael looked stunned. "How did you know?" he asked.
The old man's smile deepened. "I see all, and I know all," he replied cryptically.
Phetus was no ordinary man; unlike mortals, he was blessed with the gift of foresight—a gift he cherished deeply and sought to use to aid others. He often warned people of their impending doom or certain death, and his predictions were always accurate. The gods, however, took notice of his meddling with fate, seeing him as a potential threat. To punish him, they rendered him old and blind, stripping him of the lavish life he had once known. He secluded himself in an old hut in the forest, away from others.
Worse still, he was cursed with a fate far worse than death—eternal starvation. Every time he attempted to eat, harpies would appear out of thin air, devouring all his food and leaving not a single crumb for him to consume. Despite his tragic life, Phetus still had the gift of foresight, and he knew two brave souls would eventually come to his aid.
He patiently waited for their arrival. The moment they set foot on the island, he knew they were the ones he had been waiting for. This was why he had prepared a meal for them in advance, to welcome them into his home. With the harpies now slain, his fate was altered. No longer would he have to endure such misery.
"Please, sit and enjoy the rest of the meal," Phetus insisted.
His bright smile, coupled with the trio's confusion at his words, compelled them to sit down in agreement. They spent the rest of the meal conversing, the tension between them slowly easing.
As the rest of the crew went to gather provisions for their journey, Phetus was finally able to depart. It was strange—almost as if the islanders had been waiting for their arrival, providing them with whatever they needed, free of charge.
Ceremus couldn't help but glance at the old man with suspicion but said nothing. Just as they were about to board the ship, Phetus stopped Ceremus.
"What is it?" Ceremus asked.
Phetus smiled before his expression grew serious. "I shall impart some words of wisdom to you, as a thank you for saving me," he said.
Ceremus raised an eyebrow. He wasn't particularly interested in hearing meaningless words from an old man he barely knew, yet something in his gut told him he needed to listen. He gave the old man his full attention.
"Go on," he said flatly.
Phetus' smile disappeared and was replaced with a somber expression. "The man who holds the answer to your problems is named Tiresias. Seek him out when the time comes," Phetus said, then turned his back to him.
"Tiresias?" Ceremus repeated, his expression muddled.