Hippocoon land

3. The Map, the Shop, and the Pleading Eyes “My little master, we’re in town,” the coachman rasped, voice rough as stone as he eased the carriage onto sun-warmed cobblestones. Gwen looked up from his scroll, a smirk tugging at his lips, eyes bright with anticipation. “Good work. Stay close—we’ll need you this afternoon.” He swung the door wide and strode out like the street belonged to him. Heracles and Amelinda followed, both watching Gwen’s tall frame cut through the sunlight. The noon glare lit his short curls bronze, a fleeting halo that made him look like the gods themselves had spotlighted his arrival. “Keep the horses ready,” Gwen called, voice easy but commanding. “Yes, little master,” the coachman replied, giving a stiff nod before steering the carriage away. The three stood in the heart of a bustling square. Perfectly cut cobblestones stretched beneath their feet, worn smooth by generations of steps. Ochre, pale blue, and rose-dust facades leaned together, their paint fad...

2. Perseus, Amphitryon, and the Academy's Secret Amelinda hugged her mother tight. “I’ll make you proud.” Alcmene’s voice gentled. “Let’s take this outside. The garden’s quieter.” They stepped into the sunlit garden. Blossoms glowed, the breeze carrying a trace of something divine. A stone Athena watched from the corner, eyes glinting faintly, as if aware of their summons. Alcmene smoothed Heracles’s golden hair, her gaze shining. “You leave soon. I’ll be fine with July and Lena. Don’t worry for me.” Heracles searched her face, trying to memorize its warmth. “You’re sure, Mom?” “I’m sure,” she whispered, fingers brushing the old pendant at her throat. Her eyes turned distant, as though she knew more of Hippocoon than she would say. “Look after yourself—and them.” His jaw tightened. A question burned through his chest. “Mom… does Amphitryon love me?” Her hand stilled. Pain flickered across her face. “Of course he does. Duty keeps him away.” Heracles’s fists clenched....

1.  The Map, the Shop, and the Shadowed Eyes Morning light streamed through the cracked window of Alcmene’s stone manor, spilling gold across the kitchen’s rough-hewn walls. Heracles slouched at the scarred table, thumb worrying at a splinter. A memory pressed at him—shadows slipping into the night, his mother’s trembling hand gripping his shoulder. Across from him, Amelinda wrestled a blackened loaf. Her knife skidded uselessly against its crust. “This thing’s tougher than Minotaur hide,” she muttered, curls falling into her face. Gwen lounged by the wall, an apple spinning through his fingers, grin sharp enough to start trouble. Outside, his family’s polished carriage gleamed in the morning sun, the wiry coachman perched stiff on the bench. “Give it up, Amelinda,” Gwen called, snatching the apple mid-spin. “Bread’s winning. I came here to be a legend, not a baker.” Heracles tipped his chair back with a smirk. “Legend? You’re more like a disaster waiting to happen.” “D...