The story has always been told as a warning.
As if it were a fable about pride, divine punishment, and monsters who deserved the fate they received. As if the world needed a villain to justify its own cowardice. As if repeating the same version, countless times, could make it true.
But stories are weapons… And those who write them decide who bleeds in silence.
They say Medusa was beautiful.
They say it as if that were the beginning of everything—as if beauty were an inaugural sin, as if the error lay in the eyes that observed her, and not in the hands that took her.
They say she was one of Athena's most faithful devotees, guardian of the temple, sworn to her vow, dedicated not only by faith, but by choice. Medusa did not seek power. She did not seek glory. She sought belonging. Order. A place in the world that made sense.
She believed in the gods.
She believed that devotion was a shield.
Then came Poseidon.
