The air of Athena's temple was heavy with incense and quiet devotion.
The great owl-eyed statue of the goddess loomed above, bathed in golden light that filtered through the high stone windows.
At its base, a girl knelt, her delicate hands clasped tightly in prayer.
She was strikingly beautiful, though her beauty bore none of the immortal radiance of a goddess—hers was the fragile loveliness of flesh and bone.
Her name was Medusa, daughter of the primordial deities Ceto and Phorcys.
By blood, she should have been revered.
As a child of ancient powers who ruled the seas before even the Olympians rose, she should have commanded respect and awe.
Yet here she was, kneeling as a simple priestess, her voice trembling in humble prayer.
The reason was cruel, yet simple.
Unlike her immortal sisters, Medusa had been born a defect. Mortal. Fragile. Vulnerable.
A flickering flame in the endless night of her family's immortal line.
