Born of Blood

They never spoke my name. Never sang my praises. My brother’s name, though—everyone knows that one. I was born to live in his shadow. Not for lack of strength. My golden sword and I have conquered many foes. But strength means nothing when no one remembers you.

The night was black as the soul of Hades. The small town slept, unaware of the danger creeping at the forest’s edge. The beasts had been roaming for weeks, hunting for towns like this—quiet, unguarded, ripe for slaughter. They had no name, though they deserved one. In an age when monsters were common, these were more hideous than anything that walked the earth.

Born from the depths of the underworld, they slipped through a tear Hades himself had ripped open. Wolf shaped, but the size of bison. Nimble as foxes, fast as a cheetah. Their fangs and claws were forged from obsidian iron—sharper than any mortal weapon.

I stood alone on the road at the town’s entrance. I saw them slinking between the trees, their ember bright eyes glowing like coals in a dying hearth. They were crafted to carve a path of death all the way to Olympus. But tonight, I was ready.

The leader stepped forward, lifting his massive head. His eyes swirled like pools of molten blood. He snarled, warning the others that tonight’s feast would not be simple.

He lunged first. Saliva and scraps of his last kill hung from his jaws. For a creature so large, he moved with unsettling grace. As he soared over me, I drove my sword upward, splitting his underbelly from end to end. His scream was not of this world. He crashed to the earth, crimson eyes flickering before snuffing out like a candle.

The others hesitated, then circled. Six against one. A fairer fight, perhaps.

The largest slashed my leg. Obsidian claws cut deeper than any mortal wound. I struck back, slicing his shoulder. Another beast lunged, sinking its fangs into my thigh. Pain flared, but I gripped my sword with both hands and drove it through his neck. His jaws loosened as he slid off my blade.

They snapped and lunged, but I was faster. My golden sword—forged at my birth from my mother’s blood—was stronger than anything they carried. Any normal human would have died quickly. But I am not human. I stand nearly two humans tall.

The townsfolk began to wake. Their screams filled the night as they saw the battle. Three beasts remained. And then—arrows. In my back.

“Get out of here, ya giant monster!” they shouted.

“I’m saving you,” I told them.

I slit another beast’s throat. It collapsed in the center of their main street. The last two fled into the forest.

“Your town is safe now,” I said. “Those beasts won’t return.”

“You should never return here,” the town leader barked.

I turned toward the forest—then heard the cheers. My brother had arrived. His majestic wings carried him and his master down into the town. The people rushed to them.

“Bellerophon, our hero!” a woman cried.

“You scared off the giant beast!” the leader shouted.

My brother was fed and praised while his rider accepted glory for the work I had done. I let it go. I always had. Since our bloody birth, our paths had diverged.

Poseidon is my father. Medusa—my mother. The gorgon with serpents for hair, whose gaze turned men to stone. She needs no introduction. Perseus took her head and called himself a hero. To me, he is a monster.

Her blood pooled across the floor. From that blood, my brother and I rose—formed from gore and grief. A truth most tales ignore. They prefer the prettier version of Pegasus’s birth. They leave me out entirely.

Not long after the praise he earned in that town, Bellerophon decided he deserved a place among the gods. He forced my brother to fly toward Olympus. Zeus struck him down, sending him plummeting to his death. Pegasus, however, was welcomed into the heavens. My brother now lives among the gods.

Everyone knows his name.

I, meanwhile, roam the earth alone. I wed Callirrhoe, and she bore me two monstrous sons. One was slain by Hercules—another so called hero. My son, a three headed giant, was less welcome in this world than I ever was. He fled to an island, found the two headed hound Orthrus, and they lived peacefully together. Until Hercules came. Orthrus died defending their cattle. My son died defending Orthrus.

Callirrhoe moved on, bedding other men—including my father. Our daughter Echidna hid herself away in a cave, shunned for her half woman, half serpent form.

My mother slain. My father unfaithful. My children dead or exiled. My brother living in glory.

All I have left is my golden sword and the forests I wander.

You have likely never heard of me. You will likely forget me. My kin are the ones sung about in stories.

I am Chrysaor.

Do not let me be forgotten.