The True Tale of Cadmus
Act I: Sister, Wherefore Art Thou?
In which a bull rides off with a princess, and the gods honor a woman who says “no.”
Our tale begins not with a prophecy, a sword, or a curse, but with a girl.
Europa of Tyre—princess, diplomat, and the sort of young woman whose name would eventually be given to a whole continent—was the pride of Phoenicia. Not because she was a king’s daughter (she was), nor because she was beautiful (she absolutely was), but because she was exceptional. Witty. Intelligent. Dignified.
The kind of woman whose opinions were not just listened to, but remembered. And remembered by gods, no less. Zeus, King of Olympus, had seen many mortal women. He’d seduced, chased, cursed, married, and occasionally turned into swans for them. But Europa? She did something few others had: she told him no.
Not angrily. Not rudely. Just firmly and finally.
She wasn’t interested in his storms, or his thunder, or his eyes “like burning skies.” She had ambitions, and none of them involved being a notch on an immortal’s lightning bolt.
And Zeus, unexpectedly (at least to those who ascribe the later roman and Victorian interpretations of him) , respected that.
In fact, he was so taken by her self-possession that he made her an offer. Not a seduction, not a trap—but a gift. A place of her own. A realm she could rule as queen, not pawn. A new life, unburdened by duty to a father’s house or the looming inevitability of a political marriage.
Europa considered.
She liked the sound of it. But she wasn’t naïve. “I’ll go,” she told the god, “but only if you swear my family will never find me. I’m not about to become queen of anything if my brothers are just going to drag me back by the ankles.”
Zeus swore by his own lighting spear.
And then, in what was somehow the most dramatic and efficient choice, he turned into a massive white bull.
Europa climbed onto his back—composed, regal, not screaming even a little—and together they rode off across the sea. Not quite into the sunset, but close enough for myth.
Their destination was Crete.
There, Zeus fulfilled his promise. He gave her land, subjects, and a throne. Europa became Queen of the Minoans—respected, beloved, and sovereign. A mortal woman who bent a god’s will not through violence, but conviction.
Of course, her disappearance did not go unnoticed.
Tyre did not handle her absence with grace. King Agenor and Queen Telephassa—Europa’s parents, and veteran players in the game of dynastic politics—were livid. They had plans for their daughter. Alliances to make. Wars to avoid or win. To them, this was not a love story—it was treason.
“She was kidnapped!” Agenor roared.
“Possibly seduced by a god!” Telephassa added, scandalized and secretly impressed.
They demanded justice.
Or, failing that, results.
The royal edict was swift and clear: the princes were to find their sister. Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix were each given warriors and supplies, and dispatched to the corners of the known world. “Return with your sister,” their father declared, “or do not return at all.”
Which, as motivational speeches go, could use some work.
Cadmus—sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and already the weary middle child—sighed and muttered, “What has Europa gotten us into this time?”
But he went.
They all did.
Not because they wanted to, necessarily—but because they had to.
Because before the gods ever shaped the fates of men, families had already mastered the art of impossible expectations.
And so began a search that would ripple through legend. One sister lost to the sea, and three brothers chasing not just her shadow, but their own destinies.
Act II: Fate Finds a Way
In which kingdoms are founded out of spite, and one brother refuses to quit.
And so the sons of Tyre rode out—not as conquerors, not yet, but as loyal brothers bound by blood, threat, and the subtle parental art of weaponized guilt.
They searched high and low. They asked questions in markets and temples, bribed oracles and innkeepers, chased down rumors, and followed trails long since gone cold. And one by one, weariness crept in.
Phoenix, proud and golden-hearted, journeyed west until the weight of grief pressed him into the soil. “Europa is gone,” he declared, “but I can build something new.” And there, in the lands of Libya, he founded the kingdom of Phoenicia, naming it not for himself, but for the fire that had burned away his hope.
Cilix, more pragmatic than poetic, traveled northward and did the math. No sister. No signs. No safe return. He found himself in Anatolia, liked the weather, and claimed the region as his own. “Better a living king,” he reasoned, “than a loyal corpse.” Thus Cilicia was born.
Some called them cowards. Others, founders.
But Cadmus?
Cadmus did not stop.
Not because he was more noble. Not because he loved Europa more. But because he was tired of being the middle son.
Now that his brothers had voluntarily removed themselves from the race, the throne of Tyre gleamed on the horizon. He could practically see it. Europa would be the proof. The triumph. The key to home and crown.
So Cadmus pressed on.
He scoured ports and ruins, braved bandits and beasts, faced down storms and prophecy. He crossed borders and languages, gave up comforts and certainties. His men began to grumble. His horses began to die. His supplies grew thin. And still he pressed on, lips tight, eyes hard.
Because sometimes, obsession looks like loyalty.
And sometimes, fate respects the stubborn.
The gods, watching from above (as they often do when mortals are in pain but still entertaining), took note.
Cadmus had not found his sister.
But something else was waiting for him.
Something he never expected to find, love.
Act III: Cadmus and Harmonia
In which a brooding man meets a radiant goddess, and fate softens—slightly.
Cadmus was not what poets call “romantic.”
He was tall, yes. Broad-shouldered. Sharp-eyed. But if you asked his soldiers to describe him, you’d get phrases like “grits his teeth a lot”, “probably sleeps in armor”, and “laughs only when someone else is in pain.”
Years of exile and disappointment had turned him into a walking storm cloud with excellent posture. And yet—because the gods are known for meddling, matchmaking, and making things interesting—Cadmus met her.
Harmonia.
Daughter of Electra. Goddess of divine balance, harmony, and everything Cadmus was not.
Where Cadmus was all edges, Harmonia was grace. Where he bristled with tension, she hummed with stillness. She had the sort of calm that made birds land on her shoulder and grumpy warlords reconsider their life choices.
They met—depending on which bard you ask—at a sacred spring, a crossroads shrine, or after Cadmus had punched a prophet and needed medical attention. However it happened, something clicked. Not like thunder or divine revelation, but more like a quiet exhale after a lifetime of holding breath.
He was suspicious, of course. He always was. But she smiled, and didn’t ask him to smile back.
And that, somehow, was worse.
They talked for hours. Then days. Then longer. Cadmus, normally the kind of man who grunted in place of whole conversations, found himself speaking in full paragraphs. Sometimes even jokes.
And Harmonia listened—not with patience, but with understanding. She saw him, bitter edges and all. She didn’t flinch.
So he fell in love.
So did she.
Of course, being immortal, Harmonia had the luxury of time. “Go,” she said, when he confessed he still had a sister to find. “I’ll be here. Whether it’s in ten months or ten years.”
Cadmus, for once in his life, hesitated. Not out of fear. Not out of doubt. But because leaving felt like slicing off part of himself. Still, he swore a solemn oath beneath stars and sacred trees that he would return.
Then he tightened his cloak, and went off into the dusk.
More than ever, he was determined not just to find Europa— —but to earn his way back to her.
Back to Harmonia.
Before he departed, Harmonia—ever the voice of radiant, immortal practicality—gave Cadmus one final piece of advice.
“Have you considered not wandering the Earth like a half-drunken explorer with no map, no direction, and nothing but spite in your saddlebags?”
Cadmus blinked, utterly deadpan.
“...Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?”
She rolled her eyes with all the grace of a celestial body shifting orbit. “Go to Delphi. Ask the Oracle. You know—actual intelligence gathering.”
And because Cadmus was not entirely stupid—and more importantly, because he valued his girlfriend's opinion and his skull remaining intact—he followed her advice.
Act IV: A Quest for a Cow
In which Cadmus climbs a mountain, receives an unhelpful prophecy, and begins his bovine-guided detour into destiny.
Cadmus climbed Mount Parnassus grumbling the whole way, muttering to himself about divinely ordained goose chases, bad wine, and how Delphi smelled faintly of goats and hubris.
Still, he knelt before the sacred Oracle and asked—because Harmonia had insisted, and one ignored a goddess-wife at their peril:
“Where may I find my sister, Europa?”
The Oracle, veiled in smoke and divine ambiguity, replied in a tone that was somehow both cryptic and deeply annoyed: “That I cannot provide.”
Cadmus sagged, rubbing his temples.
“Great. Just great. I climb a mountain for a broken soothsayer.”
The Oracle narrowed her eyes, folded her arms, and tilted her head in the universal posture of divine irritation.
“You shall find a cow that carries the moon upon its back,” she intoned, her voice like thunder through silk.
“Follow it. Where it lays, you shall found a city. There, you shall reign as king.”
Cadmus blinked.
“The moon. On a cow?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “And now get off my mountain. I have prophecies to hand out to grateful people.”
And with that, she vanished into incense and indignation.
Cadmus trudged back down the mountain.
“Follow a cow,” he muttered. “Marvelous. I’m a cow-chaser now. Why not throw in a chicken with the gift of speech while we’re at it? or a golden sheep!”
But wouldn’t you know it?
The very next day, a gleaming white cow, marked with a crescent-shaped patch like moonlight on her back, wandered into his camp and stared him down with all the indifference of prophecy fulfilled.
Cadmus sighed in that special way only heroes and some experienced husbands and fathers can.
Knowing full well he couldn’t fight fate, he and his men began to follow the damn cow.
For days.
Then weeks.
The cow wandered through valleys, over hills, across rivers, and once directly into someone’s orchard, where it ate an entire row of sacred figs and started a minor religious incident with sevreal nymphs and a demi-god.
Cadmus had to bribe the local priest with a polished amphora and a compliment about his beard just to avoid a divine scuffle . And still—the cow did not lay down.
When it slept, it slept standing up. Like a smug, lunar-branded monument to Cadmus’s rapidly diminishing patience.
At least once a week, Cadmus tried to tip it over. Every attempt failed.
“Even the sacred cows are immune to common sense,” he muttered.
“I’m going to die of prophecy-chasing before I die of old age.”
His weary retinue, loyal to the end (or too confused to quit), endured the journey with gritted teeth and growing confusion.
Together they fended off wolves, fought off monsters (including a one-eyed boar with anger issues), and once had to convince a starving bandit that yes, following a cow for divine reasons was a real job, and no, Cadmus wasn’t carrying anything worth looting—except sarcasm and a questionable destiny he didn't really want all that much.
Still, he followed the cow.
Because what else was he going to do? Go back to Tyre and tell his mother he failed? Not that he could go back home what with the exile thing looming over his head.
Eventually, after traversing a frankly absurd amount of terrain, the cow stopped on a sunny hilltop near a freshwater spring, looked at Cadmus as if to say “this’ll do,” and gently folded its legs beneath it.
Cadmus stared at the cow for a full minute.
Then sat down beside it and whispered,
“If this is a joke, I swear by every Olympian with a drinking problem, I will make beef stew out of you.”
The cow said nothing. Because it was a cow.
But the land was good. The spring was clear. And Cadmus—prophecy-tethered and finally free from bovine travel—unsheathed his sword and drove its tip into the earth, marking the spot with the first stone of what would one day be called Thebes.
But first… he needed water.
Act V: Cadmus and the Dragon at the Spring of Ares
Waters guarded by a Wyrm
Cadmus needed water.
Water for himself. Water for his men. Water to cleanse the prophetic cow, which—given recent events—was about to be both sacred offering and dinner. He had made it this far, and intended to offer a proper sacrifice in thanks (and in hope that at least one god wasn’t just yanking his chain with this whole prophecy business).
He sent his men ahead to the spring to wash and gather water.
Then, thoroughly exhausted, he leaned against a tree and muttered, “Just five minutes,” before drifting into the first sleep he’d had in days.
When he woke, the sun had shifted. The camp was too quiet.
His men had not returned.
“Great,” he muttered, grabbing his spear and helmet. “What now?”
He informed the cow—politely, as it might still be holy—that he’d be back shortly to fulfill its destiny as stew.
What he found at the spring was carnage.
The water ran pink with blood. Bodies lay torn and broken, armor crushed like eggshells, weapons snapped like twigs. His elite warriors—his friends, his brothers-in-arms—were dead.
And the dragon feasted.
A monstrous, scaled serpent coiled around the spring, its eyes gleaming with hunger and the satisfaction of a meal well-earned.
Cadmus stared.
Then sighed. “Damn it. Now I need to kill a damn dragon?”
He didn’t have to, strictly speaking. But Cadmus, for all his gallows wit and sour moods, wasn’t made of stone. These men had followed him from Tyre. Had trusted him. And he wasn’t about to let them be forgotten meat on a serpent’s breath.
But he didn’t charge in like a fool.
Cadmus, for all his bitterness, was not rash. He studied the dragon—its movements, its cave, its resting posture. He found a vulnerable spot near the back of its neck, a scale-thin seam that looked just soft enough.
When the dragon, full and satisfied, settled into a food-coma nap, Cadmus made his move.
He climbed atop the cave. Used his spear as leverage to dislodge a massive boulder. The rockfall thundered down, striking the dragon with force enough to stun and pin it for a heartbeat.
Cadmus didn’t waste the moment.
He leapt—spear in hand, snarl on his lips—and cried:
“This is for making me do more work—and for killing my friends! Probably the second one more!”
The spear drove into the dragon’s neck. The beast roared and writhed. The two grappled in a death struggle of tooth and fury. At last, Cadmus twisted the weapon and drove it deep enough to pin the creature to the trunk of a tree.
It was over.
Bloodied, breathless, and out of curses to mutter, Cadmus sat down beside the spring.
He did not know—at the time—that the spring was sacred to Ares.
He did not know that the dragon he had slain was Ares’s son.
And if you asked him later, he’d say he definitely would’ve reconsidered spearing it in the neck if he’d known. Not because he was afraid of Ares—no, never that—but because, as he put it, “the last thing I need is to piss off the violent sibling of the woman who keeps turning up and telling me to plant teeth.”
But the damage was done.
So Cadmus roasted the cow. Offered the bones and heart to Athena, muttering thanks for the tactical insight that had let him kill the dragon without dying himself.
Athena, secretly pleased that her blood soaked brute of a brother was down one murder-lizard son, appeared in person—spear gleaming, owl perched on her shoulder, smile a little too smug.
“You’ll need workers,” she said. “And warriors. Take the dragon’s teeth. Bury them in the soil. They’ll grow.”
Cadmus stared at her.
Then at the dragon corpse.
Then back to her.
“That’s not how agriculture works.”
But he didn’t argue further. You don’t sass the goddess of wisdom—especially when she’s still standing beside your sacrificial barbecue.
So he butchered the dragon.
Tooth by terrible tooth.
Then, under Athena’s watchful eye, he dug trenches, buried the teeth, and poured spring water over them with all the enthusiasm of a man very much not believing in what he was doing.
“I swear, if this ends in dragon-onions, I’m going to move in with one of my brothers.”
But the ground trembled.
And up they rose.
The Spartoi—dragon-born warriors, armored in bone, wielding blades shaped from fang and fury. Hulking, growling, eyes sharp and dim all at once.
Cadmus, unsure of how one greeted freshly grown warriors, tossed a small rock into their midst to get their attention.
The Spartoi immediately interpreted this as an attack, because they were made of brawn, battle and bone not brain power.
And began killing each other.
Cadmus watched—mouth slightly open—as the self-inflicted slaughter raged. Blades clanged, blood flew, and the earth was trampled by men made of dragon bone who were intent to each and everyone be the last one standing.
Athena and Cadmus both watched the bloody melee in shock and a bit of surprise as it hadn’t occurred them that warriors born from the fangs of the dragon of Aries and watered from the spring of Aries might be a little violent. When the dust cleared and Athena had her wits about her only the strongest Spartoi remained.
Athena raised a hand. A wave of golden calm passed through the field, halting the chaos. Of the many warriors born from dragon teeth, only five remained—scarred, battered, and now very aware that a rock was not, in fact, an enemy attack.
He slowly turned to Athena.
“Couldn’t have stepped in a little sooner, could you?”
They knelt before Cadmus.
Athena gestured, still smug.
“Your army, my king.”
Cadmus sighed.
“Wonderful. From prince of Tyre to babysitter of five dragonbone lunatics. Tell me again how this prophecy ends with a city?”
Act VI: To Wed a Goddess and Become the King of Thebes
Life gets better for Cadmus then way worse
Soon after founding the city—not that he wanted one, mind you—Cadmus finally fulfilled the one promise he’d actually intended to keep when this whole divine mess began:
He returned to Harmonia.
And true to his word, he asked for her hand in marriage.
Now, a mortal wedding a goddess would have been dramatic enough on its own—especially one like Harmonia, daughter of Electra and Aphrodite—but this wasn’t just any wedding. This was the wedding. The kind of mythic event poets wouldn’t shut up about for centuries. The kind of wedding that made even Zeus show up on time.
All the gods attended.
Zeus gave his thunderous blessing (and drank most of the wine).
Poseidon offered a crown studded with pearls pulled from the sea’s darkest trenches.
Apollo sang. His lyre made birds weep and trees sway.
Artemis even smiled once. She didn’t shoot a single male guest, which counted as affectionate approval.
Hera, in an uncharacteristic mood, offered a nod and a toast—largely because, for once, Zeus wasn’t hitting on any brides maids.
And Hephaestus, divine smith and engineer of the cosmos, bestowed a wedding gift unlike any other:
A necklace.
Forged of celestial gold. Strung with gems that shimmered like starlight trapped in glass. It pulsed faintly with divine resonance—a gift meant to bestow elegance, protection, and status upon Harmonia as she became Queen of Thebes. It was magnificent.
And it was cursed.
Not by Hephaestus, mind you. His only flaw was sentimentality. No, the curse came from someone else entirely.
Ares.
Ares was livid.
His sacred dragon—his son, no less—had been butchered. His spring desecrated. His honor dented. And now the mortal responsible was being paraded before Olympus like some golden-boy hero, showered with gifts, admiration, and divine approval.
And worse—Athena had backed him. Publicly. Repeatedly.
Ares couldn’t draw steel, not here, not now. Even he knew the rules of divine hospitality. You don’t strangle the groom in front of Zeus, not unless you want to end up turned into a stag and hunted for sport.
So—for once—Ares used his head for something other than headbutting.
He waited.
Watched.
And when no one was looking—when the music swelled and the crowd laughed and Harmonia stepped away for just a moment—Ares approached the necklace. Slowly. Softly. He touched it only briefly.
And whispered:
“Let this gift, so lovely, sow ruin.
Let it cling to the skin like fate itself.
Let it bring sorrow and suffering—not to punish Cadmus…
…but to haunt his line, forever.”
A chill passed through the golden links.
A shimmer too faint to notice danced across the gems.
And the Curse of the Necklace of Harmonia was born.
No one saw.
No one felt it.
Not that day. Not for many years.
The wedding continued. There was music, feasting, toasts, divine theatrics, questionable poetry, and a great deal of wine.
Even Cadmus managed a crooked smile or two.
But the gods, being what they are, never give without taking.
And though Cadmus had won a kingdom, a goddess, and the favor of Olympus...
He had also earned something else:
The slow, inevitable shadow of a curse.
Act VII: A Curse, a Cost, and the Triumph of Love
In like a hero out like a dragon
Though Cadmus ruled wisely, though Harmonia loved fiercely, and though Thebes flourished for a time, darkness clung to their line like ivy on ancient stone.
One by one, griefs came.
Children fell to madness, to violence, to misfortune no prayer could soften. The city suffered strange calamities—famines, omens, plagues. The gods were silent. The people whispered.
Cadmus bore it all. He wore his crown like a burden and his sorrow like a second skin—never blaming Harmonia, never breaking before his people. But in quiet moments, when the halls were empty and the fire burned low, he would stare at the cursed necklace—once a wedding gift, now a symbol of all that had gone wrong.
At last, he could bear it no more.
He abdicated the throne, leaving it to his grandson Pentheus, and departed Thebes with Harmonia at his side. They journeyed to Illyria in search of peace from the dooms Cadmus thought were his fault. Perhaps even an end.
But peace is a fickle god.
Ares came.
Not with sword or fire—but with smug satisfaction. With a cruel smile curling across his war-bitten face.
“So,” he said, “you feel the weight of my vengeance. For my son you slew. For the spring you stole. You and your cursed line have paid. And shall continue to pay—forever.”
Cadmus—old, mortal, and bone-weary—stood to meet the war god’s gaze.
But there was no fear in his eyes.
Only fury. And contempt.
“You mourn your serpent son?. Slain in fair battle for murdering my loyal men!” he spat.
“You curse a city and my sons and daughters who bore you no wrong?"
You punish love with misery, and call it justice?"
You are no god of glory, Ares—only blood. Only spite. Only cowardice.”
The god flinched.
No mortal had ever spoken so to him.
Ares growled low. His voice was smoke and blade.
“If you think me cowardly,” he hissed, “then take my son’s place. Be the dragon. Be the guardian. Let your skin become scales. Let your breath sear the earth. Let all who see you remember that wrath of Aires never forgets.”
And with that, he cursed him.
Blood-mist rose. The wind howled like war-horns. Cadmus staggered as his flesh twisted, his bones stretched, his veins burned with divine fire. Claws split from his fingers. Wings erupted from his back. His voice became a roar.
But his eyes—his eyes never lost their light.
And Harmonia, horrified but unflinching, ran to him.
She did not scream. She did not flee. She held him.
Then she lifted her voice to Olympus:
“If my beloved becomes a dragon, then let me be one too. Let me burn beside him. Let me guard the world with him. We were joined in joy—let us be joined in this.”
And the gods—who rarely agree on anything—answered as one.
A golden light engulfed her. Her gown became armor of shining scales. Her tears became flame. She changed—not cursed, but transformed.
When she opened her eyes, they glowed like twin stars in the dusk.
The Necklace of Harmonia—still cursed, still potent—slipped from her neck and clattered to the soil.
Its power shattered. The curse broken.
Cadmus and Harmonia did not die.
They were lifted beyond mortal realms, into Otherworld, where they became divine dragons—guardians of forgotten gates, agents of Athena’s will.
There, they fly still. Immortal. Together. Sovereigns not of kingdoms, but of fate.
When the moon is low and the stars are still, the wind may carry whispers of their vow:
“We are more than cursed lovers. We are more than ruined royalty. We are proof that even in pain, even in rage, love endures.”
And so they became what no god ever intended:
The Dragon King and The Dragon Goddess of Harmony.
Epilogue: The Dragon King and His Queen
Love eternal beyond and ever lasting
Their love became legend.
Their names, forgotten by temples, no longer stir poets to song.
But they are not gone.
In the far reaches of Otherworld, beyond the Veil where time flows like mist and dreams burn brighter than fire, a mountain of jade and obsidian rises above a forest no map records.
Upon its summit, two dragons dwell.
One is vast and burnished bronze, crowned in horns like shattered spears, his voice deep as war drums.
The other is silver and emerald, her scales glittering like starlight on calm waters, her gaze soft as truth.
They are Cadmus, Dragon King.
And Harmonia, Dragon Goddess.
Their wings darken the sky only when they choose to be seen.
Their voices ride the wind like a gathering storm.
They do not rule mortals.
They do not demand worship.
Their temple is the world’s quiet moments:
—The breath before a choice is made.
—The peace after rage has passed.
—The hand held in love despite fear.
They are not gods of vengeance.
They are guardians of something rarer:
Healing. Endurance. And the love that even Ares could not destroy.
Harmonia, daughter of Electra, bride of Cadmus, is the gentler of the two. But do not mistake her grace for frailty. Her roar can silence the howls of pandemonium itself. Her wings can calm earthquakes. To those who suffer unjustly, she brings solace. To those who cause such suffering, she brings reckoning—tempered by truth.
In secret, she is still worshipped: By witches who sing her name into cauldrons, By lost and wary who whisper prayers for harmony, By lovers who feel their pain soothed in the quiet dark.
Cadmus, once prince of Tyre, founder of Thebes, slayer of dragons and now dragon himself, is a creature of sharp wisdom and bitter fire.
He no longer seeks war. But if war comes to his door, it will not leave unscathed.
To soldiers who have fought too long… To rulers broken by grief… He comes in dreams, and asks only one thing:
“Is this pain the price of justice—or the cost of pride?”
His claws are sharp. His heart, sharper.
But it is Harmonia who tempers his fire. And Cadmus who shields her light.
Their blood still runs in mortal veins.
Heroes born of their line—some tragic, some great—carry echoes of dragonfire and divine love. They do not always win. But they endure.
That is the truest legacy of Cadmus and Harmonia.
As for the cursed necklace…
It remains.
Cast into the mortal world when the couple ascended, it resurfaces in cycles—worn by queens, stolen by villains, lost in temples swallowed by time.
It brings ruin to those who crave power. And clarity to those willing to sacrifice for love.
Some say the dragons still watch it. That when its curse reaches its final bearer… They will descend once more. To reclaim it.
And close their tale forever.
But for now, they sleep beneath the stars of Otherworld.
Wrapped around one another in a shape older than myth.
Two dragons. One flame. Wounded. Wise. And always—together.
In which a bull rides off with a princess, and the gods honor a woman who says “no.”
Our tale begins not with a prophecy, a sword, or a curse, but with a girl.
Europa of Tyre—princess, diplomat, and the sort of young woman whose name would eventually be given to a whole continent—was the pride of Phoenicia. Not because she was a king’s daughter (she was), nor because she was beautiful (she absolutely was), but because she was exceptional. Witty. Intelligent. Dignified.
The kind of woman whose opinions were not just listened to, but remembered. And remembered by gods, no less. Zeus, King of Olympus, had seen many mortal women. He’d seduced, chased, cursed, married, and occasionally turned into swans for them. But Europa? She did something few others had: she told him no.
Not angrily. Not rudely. Just firmly and finally.
She wasn’t interested in his storms, or his thunder, or his eyes “like burning skies.” She had ambitions, and none of them involved being a notch on an immortal’s lightning bolt.
And Zeus, unexpectedly (at least to those who ascribe the later roman and Victorian interpretations of him) , respected that.
In fact, he was so taken by her self-possession that he made her an offer. Not a seduction, not a trap—but a gift. A place of her own. A realm she could rule as queen, not pawn. A new life, unburdened by duty to a father’s house or the looming inevitability of a political marriage.
Europa considered.
She liked the sound of it. But she wasn’t naïve. “I’ll go,” she told the god, “but only if you swear my family will never find me. I’m not about to become queen of anything if my brothers are just going to drag me back by the ankles.”
Zeus swore by his own lighting spear.
And then, in what was somehow the most dramatic and efficient choice, he turned into a massive white bull.
Europa climbed onto his back—composed, regal, not screaming even a little—and together they rode off across the sea. Not quite into the sunset, but close enough for myth.
Their destination was Crete.
There, Zeus fulfilled his promise. He gave her land, subjects, and a throne. Europa became Queen of the Minoans—respected, beloved, and sovereign. A mortal woman who bent a god’s will not through violence, but conviction.
Of course, her disappearance did not go unnoticed.
Tyre did not handle her absence with grace. King Agenor and Queen Telephassa—Europa’s parents, and veteran players in the game of dynastic politics—were livid. They had plans for their daughter. Alliances to make. Wars to avoid or win. To them, this was not a love story—it was treason.
“She was kidnapped!” Agenor roared.
“Possibly seduced by a god!” Telephassa added, scandalized and secretly impressed.
They demanded justice.
Or, failing that, results.
The royal edict was swift and clear: the princes were to find their sister. Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix were each given warriors and supplies, and dispatched to the corners of the known world. “Return with your sister,” their father declared, “or do not return at all.”
Which, as motivational speeches go, could use some work.
Cadmus—sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and already the weary middle child—sighed and muttered, “What has Europa gotten us into this time?”
But he went.
They all did.
Not because they wanted to, necessarily—but because they had to.
Because before the gods ever shaped the fates of men, families had already mastered the art of impossible expectations.
And so began a search that would ripple through legend. One sister lost to the sea, and three brothers chasing not just her shadow, but their own destinies.
Act II: Fate Finds a Way
In which kingdoms are founded out of spite, and one brother refuses to quit.
And so the sons of Tyre rode out—not as conquerors, not yet, but as loyal brothers bound by blood, threat, and the subtle parental art of weaponized guilt.
They searched high and low. They asked questions in markets and temples, bribed oracles and innkeepers, chased down rumors, and followed trails long since gone cold. And one by one, weariness crept in.
Phoenix, proud and golden-hearted, journeyed west until the weight of grief pressed him into the soil. “Europa is gone,” he declared, “but I can build something new.” And there, in the lands of Libya, he founded the kingdom of Phoenicia, naming it not for himself, but for the fire that had burned away his hope.
Cilix, more pragmatic than poetic, traveled northward and did the math. No sister. No signs. No safe return. He found himself in Anatolia, liked the weather, and claimed the region as his own. “Better a living king,” he reasoned, “than a loyal corpse.” Thus Cilicia was born.
Some called them cowards. Others, founders.
But Cadmus?
Cadmus did not stop.
Not because he was more noble. Not because he loved Europa more. But because he was tired of being the middle son.
Now that his brothers had voluntarily removed themselves from the race, the throne of Tyre gleamed on the horizon. He could practically see it. Europa would be the proof. The triumph. The key to home and crown.
So Cadmus pressed on.
He scoured ports and ruins, braved bandits and beasts, faced down storms and prophecy. He crossed borders and languages, gave up comforts and certainties. His men began to grumble. His horses began to die. His supplies grew thin. And still he pressed on, lips tight, eyes hard.
Because sometimes, obsession looks like loyalty.
And sometimes, fate respects the stubborn.
The gods, watching from above (as they often do when mortals are in pain but still entertaining), took note.
Cadmus had not found his sister.
But something else was waiting for him.
Something he never expected to find, love.
Act III: Cadmus and Harmonia
In which a brooding man meets a radiant goddess, and fate softens—slightly.
Cadmus was not what poets call “romantic.”
He was tall, yes. Broad-shouldered. Sharp-eyed. But if you asked his soldiers to describe him, you’d get phrases like “grits his teeth a lot”, “probably sleeps in armor”, and “laughs only when someone else is in pain.”
Years of exile and disappointment had turned him into a walking storm cloud with excellent posture. And yet—because the gods are known for meddling, matchmaking, and making things interesting—Cadmus met her.
Harmonia.
Daughter of Electra. Goddess of divine balance, harmony, and everything Cadmus was not.
Where Cadmus was all edges, Harmonia was grace. Where he bristled with tension, she hummed with stillness. She had the sort of calm that made birds land on her shoulder and grumpy warlords reconsider their life choices.
They met—depending on which bard you ask—at a sacred spring, a crossroads shrine, or after Cadmus had punched a prophet and needed medical attention. However it happened, something clicked. Not like thunder or divine revelation, but more like a quiet exhale after a lifetime of holding breath.
He was suspicious, of course. He always was. But she smiled, and didn’t ask him to smile back.
And that, somehow, was worse.
They talked for hours. Then days. Then longer. Cadmus, normally the kind of man who grunted in place of whole conversations, found himself speaking in full paragraphs. Sometimes even jokes.
And Harmonia listened—not with patience, but with understanding. She saw him, bitter edges and all. She didn’t flinch.
So he fell in love.
So did she.
Of course, being immortal, Harmonia had the luxury of time. “Go,” she said, when he confessed he still had a sister to find. “I’ll be here. Whether it’s in ten months or ten years.”
Cadmus, for once in his life, hesitated. Not out of fear. Not out of doubt. But because leaving felt like slicing off part of himself. Still, he swore a solemn oath beneath stars and sacred trees that he would return.
Then he tightened his cloak, and went off into the dusk.
More than ever, he was determined not just to find Europa— —but to earn his way back to her.
Back to Harmonia.
Before he departed, Harmonia—ever the voice of radiant, immortal practicality—gave Cadmus one final piece of advice.
“Have you considered not wandering the Earth like a half-drunken explorer with no map, no direction, and nothing but spite in your saddlebags?”
Cadmus blinked, utterly deadpan.
“...Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?”
She rolled her eyes with all the grace of a celestial body shifting orbit. “Go to Delphi. Ask the Oracle. You know—actual intelligence gathering.”
And because Cadmus was not entirely stupid—and more importantly, because he valued his girlfriend's opinion and his skull remaining intact—he followed her advice.
Act IV: A Quest for a Cow
In which Cadmus climbs a mountain, receives an unhelpful prophecy, and begins his bovine-guided detour into destiny.
Cadmus climbed Mount Parnassus grumbling the whole way, muttering to himself about divinely ordained goose chases, bad wine, and how Delphi smelled faintly of goats and hubris.
Still, he knelt before the sacred Oracle and asked—because Harmonia had insisted, and one ignored a goddess-wife at their peril:
“Where may I find my sister, Europa?”
The Oracle, veiled in smoke and divine ambiguity, replied in a tone that was somehow both cryptic and deeply annoyed: “That I cannot provide.”
Cadmus sagged, rubbing his temples.
“Great. Just great. I climb a mountain for a broken soothsayer.”
The Oracle narrowed her eyes, folded her arms, and tilted her head in the universal posture of divine irritation.
“You shall find a cow that carries the moon upon its back,” she intoned, her voice like thunder through silk.
“Follow it. Where it lays, you shall found a city. There, you shall reign as king.”
Cadmus blinked.
“The moon. On a cow?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “And now get off my mountain. I have prophecies to hand out to grateful people.”
And with that, she vanished into incense and indignation.
Cadmus trudged back down the mountain.
“Follow a cow,” he muttered. “Marvelous. I’m a cow-chaser now. Why not throw in a chicken with the gift of speech while we’re at it? or a golden sheep!”
But wouldn’t you know it?
The very next day, a gleaming white cow, marked with a crescent-shaped patch like moonlight on her back, wandered into his camp and stared him down with all the indifference of prophecy fulfilled.
Cadmus sighed in that special way only heroes and some experienced husbands and fathers can.
Knowing full well he couldn’t fight fate, he and his men began to follow the damn cow.
For days.
Then weeks.
The cow wandered through valleys, over hills, across rivers, and once directly into someone’s orchard, where it ate an entire row of sacred figs and started a minor religious incident with sevreal nymphs and a demi-god.
Cadmus had to bribe the local priest with a polished amphora and a compliment about his beard just to avoid a divine scuffle . And still—the cow did not lay down.
When it slept, it slept standing up. Like a smug, lunar-branded monument to Cadmus’s rapidly diminishing patience.
At least once a week, Cadmus tried to tip it over. Every attempt failed.
“Even the sacred cows are immune to common sense,” he muttered.
“I’m going to die of prophecy-chasing before I die of old age.”
His weary retinue, loyal to the end (or too confused to quit), endured the journey with gritted teeth and growing confusion.
Together they fended off wolves, fought off monsters (including a one-eyed boar with anger issues), and once had to convince a starving bandit that yes, following a cow for divine reasons was a real job, and no, Cadmus wasn’t carrying anything worth looting—except sarcasm and a questionable destiny he didn't really want all that much.
Still, he followed the cow.
Because what else was he going to do? Go back to Tyre and tell his mother he failed? Not that he could go back home what with the exile thing looming over his head.
Eventually, after traversing a frankly absurd amount of terrain, the cow stopped on a sunny hilltop near a freshwater spring, looked at Cadmus as if to say “this’ll do,” and gently folded its legs beneath it.
Cadmus stared at the cow for a full minute.
Then sat down beside it and whispered,
“If this is a joke, I swear by every Olympian with a drinking problem, I will make beef stew out of you.”
The cow said nothing. Because it was a cow.
But the land was good. The spring was clear. And Cadmus—prophecy-tethered and finally free from bovine travel—unsheathed his sword and drove its tip into the earth, marking the spot with the first stone of what would one day be called Thebes.
But first… he needed water.
Act V: Cadmus and the Dragon at the Spring of Ares
Waters guarded by a Wyrm
Cadmus needed water.
Water for himself. Water for his men. Water to cleanse the prophetic cow, which—given recent events—was about to be both sacred offering and dinner. He had made it this far, and intended to offer a proper sacrifice in thanks (and in hope that at least one god wasn’t just yanking his chain with this whole prophecy business).
He sent his men ahead to the spring to wash and gather water.
Then, thoroughly exhausted, he leaned against a tree and muttered, “Just five minutes,” before drifting into the first sleep he’d had in days.
When he woke, the sun had shifted. The camp was too quiet.
His men had not returned.
“Great,” he muttered, grabbing his spear and helmet. “What now?”
He informed the cow—politely, as it might still be holy—that he’d be back shortly to fulfill its destiny as stew.
What he found at the spring was carnage.
The water ran pink with blood. Bodies lay torn and broken, armor crushed like eggshells, weapons snapped like twigs. His elite warriors—his friends, his brothers-in-arms—were dead.
And the dragon feasted.
A monstrous, scaled serpent coiled around the spring, its eyes gleaming with hunger and the satisfaction of a meal well-earned.
Cadmus stared.
Then sighed. “Damn it. Now I need to kill a damn dragon?”
He didn’t have to, strictly speaking. But Cadmus, for all his gallows wit and sour moods, wasn’t made of stone. These men had followed him from Tyre. Had trusted him. And he wasn’t about to let them be forgotten meat on a serpent’s breath.
But he didn’t charge in like a fool.
Cadmus, for all his bitterness, was not rash. He studied the dragon—its movements, its cave, its resting posture. He found a vulnerable spot near the back of its neck, a scale-thin seam that looked just soft enough.
When the dragon, full and satisfied, settled into a food-coma nap, Cadmus made his move.
He climbed atop the cave. Used his spear as leverage to dislodge a massive boulder. The rockfall thundered down, striking the dragon with force enough to stun and pin it for a heartbeat.
Cadmus didn’t waste the moment.
He leapt—spear in hand, snarl on his lips—and cried:
“This is for making me do more work—and for killing my friends! Probably the second one more!”
The spear drove into the dragon’s neck. The beast roared and writhed. The two grappled in a death struggle of tooth and fury. At last, Cadmus twisted the weapon and drove it deep enough to pin the creature to the trunk of a tree.
It was over.
Bloodied, breathless, and out of curses to mutter, Cadmus sat down beside the spring.
He did not know—at the time—that the spring was sacred to Ares.
He did not know that the dragon he had slain was Ares’s son.
And if you asked him later, he’d say he definitely would’ve reconsidered spearing it in the neck if he’d known. Not because he was afraid of Ares—no, never that—but because, as he put it, “the last thing I need is to piss off the violent sibling of the woman who keeps turning up and telling me to plant teeth.”
But the damage was done.
So Cadmus roasted the cow. Offered the bones and heart to Athena, muttering thanks for the tactical insight that had let him kill the dragon without dying himself.
Athena, secretly pleased that her blood soaked brute of a brother was down one murder-lizard son, appeared in person—spear gleaming, owl perched on her shoulder, smile a little too smug.
“You’ll need workers,” she said. “And warriors. Take the dragon’s teeth. Bury them in the soil. They’ll grow.”
Cadmus stared at her.
Then at the dragon corpse.
Then back to her.
“That’s not how agriculture works.”
But he didn’t argue further. You don’t sass the goddess of wisdom—especially when she’s still standing beside your sacrificial barbecue.
So he butchered the dragon.
Tooth by terrible tooth.
Then, under Athena’s watchful eye, he dug trenches, buried the teeth, and poured spring water over them with all the enthusiasm of a man very much not believing in what he was doing.
“I swear, if this ends in dragon-onions, I’m going to move in with one of my brothers.”
But the ground trembled.
And up they rose.
The Spartoi—dragon-born warriors, armored in bone, wielding blades shaped from fang and fury. Hulking, growling, eyes sharp and dim all at once.
Cadmus, unsure of how one greeted freshly grown warriors, tossed a small rock into their midst to get their attention.
The Spartoi immediately interpreted this as an attack, because they were made of brawn, battle and bone not brain power.
And began killing each other.
Cadmus watched—mouth slightly open—as the self-inflicted slaughter raged. Blades clanged, blood flew, and the earth was trampled by men made of dragon bone who were intent to each and everyone be the last one standing.
Athena and Cadmus both watched the bloody melee in shock and a bit of surprise as it hadn’t occurred them that warriors born from the fangs of the dragon of Aries and watered from the spring of Aries might be a little violent. When the dust cleared and Athena had her wits about her only the strongest Spartoi remained.
Athena raised a hand. A wave of golden calm passed through the field, halting the chaos. Of the many warriors born from dragon teeth, only five remained—scarred, battered, and now very aware that a rock was not, in fact, an enemy attack.
He slowly turned to Athena.
“Couldn’t have stepped in a little sooner, could you?”
They knelt before Cadmus.
Athena gestured, still smug.
“Your army, my king.”
Cadmus sighed.
“Wonderful. From prince of Tyre to babysitter of five dragonbone lunatics. Tell me again how this prophecy ends with a city?”
Act VI: To Wed a Goddess and Become the King of Thebes
Life gets better for Cadmus then way worse
Soon after founding the city—not that he wanted one, mind you—Cadmus finally fulfilled the one promise he’d actually intended to keep when this whole divine mess began:
He returned to Harmonia.
And true to his word, he asked for her hand in marriage.
Now, a mortal wedding a goddess would have been dramatic enough on its own—especially one like Harmonia, daughter of Electra and Aphrodite—but this wasn’t just any wedding. This was the wedding. The kind of mythic event poets wouldn’t shut up about for centuries. The kind of wedding that made even Zeus show up on time.
All the gods attended.
Zeus gave his thunderous blessing (and drank most of the wine).
Poseidon offered a crown studded with pearls pulled from the sea’s darkest trenches.
Apollo sang. His lyre made birds weep and trees sway.
Artemis even smiled once. She didn’t shoot a single male guest, which counted as affectionate approval.
Hera, in an uncharacteristic mood, offered a nod and a toast—largely because, for once, Zeus wasn’t hitting on any brides maids.
And Hephaestus, divine smith and engineer of the cosmos, bestowed a wedding gift unlike any other:
A necklace.
Forged of celestial gold. Strung with gems that shimmered like starlight trapped in glass. It pulsed faintly with divine resonance—a gift meant to bestow elegance, protection, and status upon Harmonia as she became Queen of Thebes. It was magnificent.
And it was cursed.
Not by Hephaestus, mind you. His only flaw was sentimentality. No, the curse came from someone else entirely.
Ares.
Ares was livid.
His sacred dragon—his son, no less—had been butchered. His spring desecrated. His honor dented. And now the mortal responsible was being paraded before Olympus like some golden-boy hero, showered with gifts, admiration, and divine approval.
And worse—Athena had backed him. Publicly. Repeatedly.
Ares couldn’t draw steel, not here, not now. Even he knew the rules of divine hospitality. You don’t strangle the groom in front of Zeus, not unless you want to end up turned into a stag and hunted for sport.
So—for once—Ares used his head for something other than headbutting.
He waited.
Watched.
And when no one was looking—when the music swelled and the crowd laughed and Harmonia stepped away for just a moment—Ares approached the necklace. Slowly. Softly. He touched it only briefly.
And whispered:
“Let this gift, so lovely, sow ruin.
Let it cling to the skin like fate itself.
Let it bring sorrow and suffering—not to punish Cadmus…
…but to haunt his line, forever.”
A chill passed through the golden links.
A shimmer too faint to notice danced across the gems.
And the Curse of the Necklace of Harmonia was born.
No one saw.
No one felt it.
Not that day. Not for many years.
The wedding continued. There was music, feasting, toasts, divine theatrics, questionable poetry, and a great deal of wine.
Even Cadmus managed a crooked smile or two.
But the gods, being what they are, never give without taking.
And though Cadmus had won a kingdom, a goddess, and the favor of Olympus...
He had also earned something else:
The slow, inevitable shadow of a curse.
Act VII: A Curse, a Cost, and the Triumph of Love
In like a hero out like a dragon
Though Cadmus ruled wisely, though Harmonia loved fiercely, and though Thebes flourished for a time, darkness clung to their line like ivy on ancient stone.
One by one, griefs came.
Children fell to madness, to violence, to misfortune no prayer could soften. The city suffered strange calamities—famines, omens, plagues. The gods were silent. The people whispered.
Cadmus bore it all. He wore his crown like a burden and his sorrow like a second skin—never blaming Harmonia, never breaking before his people. But in quiet moments, when the halls were empty and the fire burned low, he would stare at the cursed necklace—once a wedding gift, now a symbol of all that had gone wrong.
At last, he could bear it no more.
He abdicated the throne, leaving it to his grandson Pentheus, and departed Thebes with Harmonia at his side. They journeyed to Illyria in search of peace from the dooms Cadmus thought were his fault. Perhaps even an end.
But peace is a fickle god.
Ares came.
Not with sword or fire—but with smug satisfaction. With a cruel smile curling across his war-bitten face.
“So,” he said, “you feel the weight of my vengeance. For my son you slew. For the spring you stole. You and your cursed line have paid. And shall continue to pay—forever.”
Cadmus—old, mortal, and bone-weary—stood to meet the war god’s gaze.
But there was no fear in his eyes.
Only fury. And contempt.
“You mourn your serpent son?. Slain in fair battle for murdering my loyal men!” he spat.
“You curse a city and my sons and daughters who bore you no wrong?"
You punish love with misery, and call it justice?"
You are no god of glory, Ares—only blood. Only spite. Only cowardice.”
The god flinched.
No mortal had ever spoken so to him.
Ares growled low. His voice was smoke and blade.
“If you think me cowardly,” he hissed, “then take my son’s place. Be the dragon. Be the guardian. Let your skin become scales. Let your breath sear the earth. Let all who see you remember that wrath of Aires never forgets.”
And with that, he cursed him.
Blood-mist rose. The wind howled like war-horns. Cadmus staggered as his flesh twisted, his bones stretched, his veins burned with divine fire. Claws split from his fingers. Wings erupted from his back. His voice became a roar.
But his eyes—his eyes never lost their light.
And Harmonia, horrified but unflinching, ran to him.
She did not scream. She did not flee. She held him.
Then she lifted her voice to Olympus:
“If my beloved becomes a dragon, then let me be one too. Let me burn beside him. Let me guard the world with him. We were joined in joy—let us be joined in this.”
And the gods—who rarely agree on anything—answered as one.
A golden light engulfed her. Her gown became armor of shining scales. Her tears became flame. She changed—not cursed, but transformed.
When she opened her eyes, they glowed like twin stars in the dusk.
The Necklace of Harmonia—still cursed, still potent—slipped from her neck and clattered to the soil.
Its power shattered. The curse broken.
Cadmus and Harmonia did not die.
They were lifted beyond mortal realms, into Otherworld, where they became divine dragons—guardians of forgotten gates, agents of Athena’s will.
There, they fly still. Immortal. Together. Sovereigns not of kingdoms, but of fate.
When the moon is low and the stars are still, the wind may carry whispers of their vow:
“We are more than cursed lovers. We are more than ruined royalty. We are proof that even in pain, even in rage, love endures.”
And so they became what no god ever intended:
The Dragon King and The Dragon Goddess of Harmony.
Epilogue: The Dragon King and His Queen
Love eternal beyond and ever lasting
Their love became legend.
Their names, forgotten by temples, no longer stir poets to song.
But they are not gone.
In the far reaches of Otherworld, beyond the Veil where time flows like mist and dreams burn brighter than fire, a mountain of jade and obsidian rises above a forest no map records.
Upon its summit, two dragons dwell.
One is vast and burnished bronze, crowned in horns like shattered spears, his voice deep as war drums.
The other is silver and emerald, her scales glittering like starlight on calm waters, her gaze soft as truth.
They are Cadmus, Dragon King.
And Harmonia, Dragon Goddess.
Their wings darken the sky only when they choose to be seen.
Their voices ride the wind like a gathering storm.
They do not rule mortals.
They do not demand worship.
Their temple is the world’s quiet moments:
—The breath before a choice is made.
—The peace after rage has passed.
—The hand held in love despite fear.
They are not gods of vengeance.
They are guardians of something rarer:
Healing. Endurance. And the love that even Ares could not destroy.
Harmonia, daughter of Electra, bride of Cadmus, is the gentler of the two. But do not mistake her grace for frailty. Her roar can silence the howls of pandemonium itself. Her wings can calm earthquakes. To those who suffer unjustly, she brings solace. To those who cause such suffering, she brings reckoning—tempered by truth.
In secret, she is still worshipped: By witches who sing her name into cauldrons, By lost and wary who whisper prayers for harmony, By lovers who feel their pain soothed in the quiet dark.
Cadmus, once prince of Tyre, founder of Thebes, slayer of dragons and now dragon himself, is a creature of sharp wisdom and bitter fire.
He no longer seeks war. But if war comes to his door, it will not leave unscathed.
To soldiers who have fought too long… To rulers broken by grief… He comes in dreams, and asks only one thing:
“Is this pain the price of justice—or the cost of pride?”
His claws are sharp. His heart, sharper.
But it is Harmonia who tempers his fire. And Cadmus who shields her light.
Their blood still runs in mortal veins.
Heroes born of their line—some tragic, some great—carry echoes of dragonfire and divine love. They do not always win. But they endure.
That is the truest legacy of Cadmus and Harmonia.
As for the cursed necklace…
It remains.
Cast into the mortal world when the couple ascended, it resurfaces in cycles—worn by queens, stolen by villains, lost in temples swallowed by time.
It brings ruin to those who crave power. And clarity to those willing to sacrifice for love.
Some say the dragons still watch it. That when its curse reaches its final bearer… They will descend once more. To reclaim it.
And close their tale forever.
But for now, they sleep beneath the stars of Otherworld.
Wrapped around one another in a shape older than myth.
Two dragons. One flame. Wounded. Wise. And always—together.
Children
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