Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damian Wayne stood alone in the drawing room. There was a clear boundary separating them, one that he was not privy to: the ones that knew her and the ones that did not . 

Even though it was as vast as grand, a space clearly built to accommodate and impress, it was not broad enough to contain Cain, Drake, Thomas, Brown, and him . Cain sat perched on the windowsill, her stillness more telling than any movement. She had been watching the door with an intensity that suggested she saw something the rest of them couldn't – or wouldn't – acknowledge.

Thomas wisely made an excuse and left the property, unable to stomach the bloodbath that was sure to follow. Damian just watched from his perch recounting the entire evening from start to finish, making sure no detail went unnoticed by him.

Anne Elizabeth Wayne. 

That was a name he had originally heard when he had bested his mother in combat and learned about his true heritage. The name had haunted him since that day, whispered between strikes as his mother's blade had clashed against his own. 

He had vague, hazy memories of that time when he was four: whispered conversations between his mother and the shadows, her growing obsession with reports from Gotham, and the way she would grip his shoulder too tightly whenever Wayne Enterprises made the news.

His mother had spoken of her then—a ghost in the Wayne legacy, a child who had vanished into the abyss before Damian had even made his first victory over the mountains of Interlaken. 

"There was another," Talia had told him, her voice carrying that dangerous edge he knew too well. "Your father's firstborn." Her words were precise and calculated. "A daughter. She vanished when you were small, but her claim to Wayne blood precedes yours. Your position is...vulnerable." The last word had been a weapon, designed to strike deep.

What he remembered more clearly was the aftermath—the sudden tightening of security, his mother's cold fury, the way his training intensified tenfold. He had been too young then to understand the significance. 

"Remember, my son," Talia's voice echoed in his memory, "in Gotham's high society, legitimacy is everything. Your claim must be absolute. Unquestionable. There can be no room for alternatives." She had let the implication hang in the air between them, heavy with threat.

Now, standing in the drawing room's oppressive silence, Damian could almost hear his mother's words again: "Secure your birthright. There are those who would contest your claim to the Wayne name. Those who might emerge from the shadows with older blood than yours. Remember that when she returns—and she will return. The Wayne blood is too strong to stay hidden forever."

He had dismissed it then as another of his mother's manipulations. But now, watching the others' reactions to that name - seeing Drake's carefully controlled expression, noting how Brown had gone unusually still - Damian felt the first real stirrings of doubt.

Drake's careful neutrality, Brown's uncharacteristic silence—they knew something. Perhaps everything. The fact that they might know more about his father's firstborn than he did made his jaw clench. All those years, his mother had used this unknown half sister as a specter, a threat to push him harder, to make him prove himself more worthy of the Wayne name.

Not to mention the raw emotions her mere homecoming brought from the senior members of the house. It was simply dangerous. The realization that they might have known his half-sister, might have formed bonds with her while he remained in the dark, made his chest tight with an emotion he refused to name.

The portrait above the fireplace seemed to mock him, his father's stern face gazing down at the scene below. How many secrets did the Wayne manor hold? How many more ghosts lurked in its shadows?

His fingers instinctively traced the hilt of the knife concealed at his belt. He had fought for his place here, bled for it. If there truly was another heir, one who preceded him…

No. He wouldn't allow it. He was Bruce Wayne's son, trained by both the League of Assassins and Batman himself. Whatever threat this Anne Elizabeth Wayne posed - whether she was truly his father's firstborn or another pretender - he would face it head-on.

But first, he needed answers. And in a house full of detectives, those answers wouldn't stay buried for long.

—

As predicted, the only one that wasn’t adopted was the first to crack. 

"So," Brown broke the suffocating silence, unable to contain herself any longer. "Are we going to talk about how Bruce's actual daughter just walked back into our lives like some kind of ghost story come true?"

"Steph," Drake warned, his fingers tapping rapidly on his phone. "None of this makes sense. The energy signatures from that night, the way my brain couldn't process what I was seeing..."

Cain's hands moved in sharp, decisive gestures. Her movements carried the weight of certainty that made Damian's jaw clench. She saw truth in bodies the way others saw it in words, and whatever she read in the prodigal daughter's presence left no room for doubt.

"She moves like family," Drake translated without looking up from his phone. "Like Bruce."

"Tt. As if Father's emotional display proves anything," Damian interjected, though the memory of his father's uncharacteristic behavior made something twist uncomfortably in his chest. "For all we know, this could be an elaborate deception."

“The security footage from seven years ago is completely corrupted," Drake muttered, more to himself than the others. "Every record from that period is either missing or damaged. It's too clean to be accidental."

Cain shifted slightly, her head tilting in that peculiar way that meant she was listening to something beyond their perception. Her presence, usually a comfort in its steadfast certainty, now only served to highlight how much they didn't know.

"I remember when she disappeared," Brown said quietly, her eyes distant. "I wasn't...I wasn't part of this yet, but the papers talked about it for months. Bruce Wayne's only daughter, vanishing without a trace."

Damian's fingers traced the hilt of his knife, a habit he'd never quite broken. "If she truly is Father's firstborn, why was she never trained as Robin? Why do none of the records mention her combat abilities?"

"Because she wasn't meant to be Robin," Brown replied, her voice uncharacteristically sharp. "She was just his kid."

The words hung in the air, heavy with implications Damian refused to examine. From somewhere deeper in the manor, he could hear Grayson's laugh, followed by Todd's deeper voice. The sound made the distance feel even greater – the clear divide between those who knew her and those who didn't.

Cain suddenly stood, fluid grace in every movement, and signed something that made Drake's eyes widen slightly. She moved to the window, her head tilting as if listening to something none of them could hear. Her hands moved in a pattern Damian recognized as an old League meditation gesture, though he doubted she knew its origin.

"Something's different about her," Drake said, finally looking up from his phone. "The way she carries herself, the way she moves...it's not League training, not meta-human abilities, but something else entirely."

"Perhaps she simply learned to survive," Damian suggested, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "As we all have."

Brown shot him a look that was far too knowing for his comfort. "You know, being his firstborn doesn't make her a threat to you, baby bat."

"Your assumption that I feel threatened is both presumptuous and incorrect," Damian snapped, though his grip on the knife hilt tightened. "I merely point out that seven years of absence requires explanation."

"Like you explained your resurrection?" Brown’s words weren't cruel, but they hit their mark nonetheless."Some things in this family, we just...accept."

He just ended up thinking about the Heractic clone and how the fight for his own identity ended up in such calamity. What’s to say the return of his supposed older sister wouldn’t end similarly?

The sound of footsteps in the hallway silenced them all. Damian straightened imperceptibly, watching as Alfred appeared in the doorway. 

"I trust you'll forgive the rather emotional atmosphere upstairs," Alfred called from the doorway, his composed manner softening slightly. "Master Bruce and his eldest children are...having a needed moment. Though Gotham won't patrol itself, I'm afraid. Why don't you make your way to the cave? The others will join shortly."

As they filed out of the drawing room, Damian lingered behind, his eyes once again drawn to the portrait above the fireplace. His father's stern face gazed down at him, offering no answers to the questions he wouldn't allow himself to ask.

The Wayne blood was supposed to be his birthright, his claim to this legacy. But now, watching how the others reacted to her mere presence, he wondered if perhaps there were older claims than his, deeper ties than blood alone could forge.

₊⁺⋆⁺₊

Bruce Wayne had a list full of regrets. A list so long that he would surely be dead before it would ever end. But near the top, etched in guilt and shame, was Anne Elizabeth.

He remembered the night he found her, a golden cradle gleaming on the manor steps like a challenge. Inside, a note bearing only her name. The name had struck him immediately - Anne Elizabeth, the solution to an ancient Greek puzzle box his teacher had once given him. The box had taken him three days to solve, and when he finally opened it, inside was a simple message: "Wisdom comes to those who seek it."

His teacher. The woman who had called herself Helena Sage. She'd appeared during his travels, a master of seemingly every martial art, every academic field. Her grey eyes had held millennia of knowledge, and Bruce had been captivated not just by her beauty, but by her mind. They'd spent countless hours in discourse about philosophy, justice, strategy. He'd never felt more intellectually challenged - or more out of his depth.

Then one day she was simply gone, leaving him heartbroken and lost. 

The DNA test results had seemed impossible. He'd never been intimate with Helena, yet here was undeniable proof of shared genetics. He'd run the test three times, each with the same result. In his confusion and denial, he'd retreated behind the cowl, leaving Alfred to handle the day-to-day care of an infant he couldn't bring himself to fully acknowledge.

He'd told himself it was for her protection. Better to keep his distance than risk her becoming a target. But watching her grow from the shadows, he saw how she cataloged everything, analyzed patterns just like he did. How her grey eyes held that same ancient wisdom he'd seen in Helena's. He'd been a coward, using Batman as an excuse to avoid facing the impossible reality of her existence.

When she disappeared, the guilt had nearly consumed him. Every lead he followed turned to mist - literally, he now realized. He'd thrown himself into the search with a desperation that frightened even Alfred, but she was simply gone.

Now, holding his daughter - his brilliant, brave, impossible daughter - Bruce felt the weight of all his failures. He wanted to ask about everything: about Helena, about where she'd been, about the strange things he'd seen on Mount Tam. But he couldn't risk losing her again. Not when he'd just gotten her back.

"My little girl," he murmured into her hair, the possessiveness slipping out before he could stop it. She stiffened for a moment, then melted further into the embrace.

The questions could wait. For now, this was enough - his daughter, home at last, even if home meant something different than it used to. He'd adapt. He'd learn. He'd do whatever it took to keep her this time.

After all, wisdom comes to those who seek it.

—

The manor’s vast land stretched out before them, tapestry of shadows and darkness. Bruce watched as his children – and the thought still caught him off guard sometimes, how many of them there were now – settled into an uneasy constellation around the balcony.

Annabeth leaned against the railing, her posture deliberately casual in a way that reminded him painfully of her childhood attempts to appear unbothered. The outline of what was clearly a celestial bronze dagger pressed against her jacket pocket – he recognized the material from his encounters with Helena years ago. He wanted to ask about it, about the obvious combat training in her stance, about the way her eyes constantly scanned for exits just like he'd taught his sons. But he held back, remembering how his interrogations had driven Dick away once before.

"So," Jason broke the silence, sprawling in one of the deck chairs with affected nonchalance. "No costume for you then, princess? Because we've got some spare kevlar lying around."

Dick shot Jason a warning look, but Annabeth just shook her head, a sad smile playing at her lips.

"I've done enough fighting," she said quietly. "The world's made me do that plenty already."

The words hit Bruce like a physical blow. What had she been through in those seven years? What battles had his daughter faced while he searched for her in all the wrong places?

"You know," he found himself saying, the words coming out before he could stop them, "I should have told you about Batman. You deserved to know."

Annabeth's laugh was soft, lacking any bitterness he might have expected. "I figured it out when I was six, actually. The cave's ventilation system connects to my old room. I used to hear the Batmobile."

Of course she had. His brilliant daughter, always seeing the patterns others missed. Jason barked out a laugh while Dick looked impressed but not surprised.

"Speaking of fighting," Dick ventured carefully, "that knife you're carrying...that's not standard issue."

Bruce watched as Annabeth's hand instinctively moved to her pocket. "It's just for monsters," she said, then seemed to catch herself. "I mean, for protection. Old habits."

Monsters. The word hung in the air between them, loaded with meaning Bruce couldn't quite grasp. He thought of the impossible things he'd seen on Mount Tam, the way his mind had struggled to process what his eyes were seeing.

"Well," Jason drawled, "since you're not interested in the family business, how about some urban exploration instead? Nothing dangerous, just documenting those abandoned warehouses down by the docks. Got word of some suspicious activity 

"Jay—" Dick started to protest, but Annabeth was already shaking her head.

"I'm not a civilian you need to protect," she said, a steel in her voice that Bruce recognized from Helena. "But I'm not looking to join any crusades either. I've had enough prophecies and quests to last a lifetime."

Prophecies? Quests? Bruce filed away each cryptic reference, building a picture he wasn't sure he wanted to complete. His daughter carried herself like a veteran, spoke in riddles about monsters and prophecies, and somehow seemed both younger and older than her years.

"You don't have to explain anything," he found himself saying, surprising even himself. "Just...stay. As long as you want, however you want. No expectations."

The look of gratitude in her grey eyes made his chest ache. They had so much to rebuild, so many years to account for. But maybe this time, he could do it right.

"Although," Jason added with a smirk, "if you change your mind about that investigation..."

"Jason," Bruce warned, but there was no heat in it. Some things never changed – Jason would always push boundaries, Dick would always try to mediate, and Bruce would always worry. But now Annabeth was home, bringing with her mysteries he wasn't sure he was ready to unravel.

For now, watching his children under the Gotham stars, that was enough.

₊⁺⋆⁺₊

She was here first, you know," Brown said, her voice carrying that insufferably knowing tone when it was just the both of them suited up and standing next to each other in the cave, "Before Dick, before any of us. Bruce's actual daughter."

He maintained his composure despite his blood literally boiling. "Spare me your amateur theatrics, Brown. If you have something of actual significance to say, say it."

She looked like she was going to elaborate but then just tightened her ponytail and thought better of it. She turned her attention to Jason and Dick and Tim who had just made their way down, also in their tactical gear. 

Then the familiar sound of Father's heavy footsteps followed, along with...hers.

The way they moved together was.. unsettling. There was none of Father's usual calculated distance, none of the careful boundaries he maintained even with Grayson. She fit into his space like she had never left it, and he adjusted to her presence with an ease he had never witnessed before.

He remained in his position, observing. Analyzing. The way Drake anxiously checked his readings, the way Todd's posture shifted between defensive and protective, the way Grayson couldn't seem to stop smiling even as his eyes betrayed his guilt.

"Master Damian," Pennyworth's voice cut through his thoughts. "Will you be joining them?" He realized he had pushed himself to the cave walls as he watched the scene unfold like a pathetic wallflower. 

Still, he straightened, his chin lifting slightly. "Naturally, Pennyworth. It would be beneath my station to skulk away like some common coward."

As he followed her as she inspected the Batcomputer, he couldn't help but notice how she – Anne Elizabeth, Annabeth, whatever name she chose to claim – carried herself with the bearing of someone accustomed to command. Not unlike Father. Not unlike...

No. he would not allow such thoughts to undermine his position. He was his father's son, his true heir. No matter what secrets this prodigal daughter might harbor, no matter what strange powers she possessed, that fundamental truth could not be altered.

Damian watched from the shadows of the cave as Todd pitched his "simple reconnaissance" plan. It was supposed to be Todd, Grayson, and her , but of course Father had intervened.

"I'll handle this one," Father had said, his tone leaving no room for argument. But Damian had caught the softness in his eyes when he looked at her – a softness that made Damian's stomach turn. "Damian will join us."

"And we’re taking her into the field?" He gestured toward Annabeth without looking directly at her, his tone clipped. "She lacks even the most rudimentary training. This is a liability, not a strategy."

"Damian," Annabeth said sharply, stepping forward. "I can hear you. And for the record, I didn’t ask to go on your little vigilante escapade."

His jaw clenched at her tone, so reminiscent of Father’s, yet entirely unearned. "The field is no place for civilians," he snapped. "You should remain here where you can’t endanger the rest of us."

"Enough," Father interjected, his tone decisive.

Now here they were, crammed into the car like some grotesque parody of a family outing. She sat in the passenger seat – his seat – while Damian was relegated to the back like a child. The betrayal stung more than he cared to admit.

"The tip came from a reliable source," Father explained as they drove. "Multiple disappearances near the old Monarch Theater. All the victims reported seeing owls before they vanished." 

"Owls?" Her voice held a note of recognition that made Damian's eyes narrow. "In the city?"

"Tt. Your expertise extends to ornithology as well?" The words came out sharper than he intended, but he couldn't help himself. Every time she spoke, every casual display of knowledge, felt like another crack in his carefully constructed place in the family.

She turned slightly, those unsettling grey eyes meeting his. "I just find it interesting. Owls have significant meaning in many cultures."

"Spare us the academic lecture," Damian sneered, though his mind was racing. There was a pattern here he couldn't quite grasp, and it infuriated him.

The car fell silent as they approached the theater. Damian observed how she carried herself – the way she scanned their surroundings, how her hand kept straying to that strange knife in her pocket. Not the movements of some civilian architect. The movements of a warrior.

His mother's words echoed in his head: The Wayne blood is too strong to stay hidden forever . What else was she hiding? What claim to his birthright did she intend to press?

The abandoned theater loomed ahead, its facade a testament to Gotham’s decay. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface, and faded posters clung to the walls like relics of forgotten dreams. Yet, as Damian’s sharp eyes scanned the building, something caught his attention. A faint symbol was etched into the stone near the entrance—half-obscured by grime and decay.

“What do you make of that, Father?” he asked, pointing it out with a subtle nod. His tone was calm, but there was a flicker of pride in being the first to notice.

He  leaned forward from the driver’s seat, his gaze narrowing. “Odd. It’s not a gang tag or any marking I’ve seen before. We’ll document it for analysis later.”

Annabeth, seated in the passenger seat, shifted uncomfortably. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her jacket, but her expression betrayed a flicker of recognition when her eyes fell on the symbol. She quickly looked away, hoping no one noticed.

Damian, of course, did.

“You recognize it,” he said, his voice sharp. It wasn’t a question. 

Annabeth hesitated, offering a small smile. “It’s...vaguely familiar. Might be something I’ve seen in an old book or lecture. Architecture and history overlap sometimes.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, his suspicion sharpening like a blade. “Convenient,” he said, his tone dripping with skepticism. “I suppose ancient symbols just happen to come to mind for you?” She read them too easily, understood them too well. Each casual observation felt like a deliberate display of superiority, of older knowledge that preceded his own.

"These markings," she murmured, tracing one with her finger. "They're a warning."

"Everything about you is a warning," Damian muttered under his breath, but she heard him anyway.

Bruce cut in before Annabeth could reply. “Robin. Focus on the mission.”

“Tt,” Damian huffed, turning his gaze back to the theater. His father’s words silenced him, but his thoughts continued to whirl. She’s hiding something.

Annabeth glanced at him from the corner of her eye, trying to maintain a friendly tone. “It’s just an observation, Damian. No need to get defensive.”

“Defensive?” Damian shot back, his voice low and cold. “I merely find it interesting that someone with no prior connection to this city suddenly knows more than she lets on.”

She just hummed and looked away but Damian recognized the spook in her eyes. She was afraid of something. Perhaps Damian's words had cut closer than he had imagined, but close wasn’t good enough. He was out for blood. 

Chapter Text

There was not much left to see but Annabeth had this sinking feeling that there was a large picture, one painful obvious, that she was just blind sighted to.

She ended up yawning, getting the attention of both her father and…step-brother. 

She was still used to having a semi-presneat father figure but having another brother was way too quick. And one as whiny as him. He was nothing like her demigod siblings and everything she was not. He made great effort to monopolize Bruce’s attention while she maintained a set distance, already suffocated by the attention thrust onto her. 

You should head back and rest," Bruce said as he noted her exhaustion. "Spoiler can escort you."

Annabeth wanted to protest - she wasn't some helpless civilian who needed protection - but the weight of the night's revelations and the constant tension with Damian had worn her down. Besides, there was something about those owl markings that made her skin crawl in a way that had nothing to do with typical monster encounters.

"I'll radio Stephanie," Bruce continued, already reaching for his communicator. Damian made a dismissive sound but remained mercifully silent.

Fifteen minutes later, a figure in purple dropped down beside them with surprising grace. Stephanie Brown pulled back her hood, revealing a shock of blonde hair that reminded Annabeth painfully of home and some of her siblings that she left behind.

"Hey there, new Wayne!" Stephanie's cheerfulness felt almost jarring against the gothic architecture. "I hear I'm your designated ride share for the evening?"

"Apparently," Annabeth replied, unable to keep the edge from her voice. She immediately regretted it when she saw Stephanie's smile falter slightly. It wasn't the girl's fault that Annabeth was on edge.

As they made their way across the rooftops—Stephanie leading, Annabeth following with practiced ease that she probably should have hidden better. Spoiler kept up a running commentary about Gotham's vigilante dynamics.

"So Tim's usually the detective brain of the operation - when he's not too busy with the Titans. Actually that’s giving him way too much credit ‘cause that title definitely goes to Babs. Dick's the people person. Jason's...complicated. And Cass could probably take all of them in a fight but prefers not to and Duke comes and goes!" Stephanie glanced back. "Bruce doesn't usually bring new players into the field this quick. You must be something special."

Annabeth's chest tightened at the word 'special.' "I'm really not. Just in the wrong place at the right time, I guess."

"Ha! Aren't we all?" Stephanie laughed, but her eyes were shrewd. "You know, the last time I saw Damian this worked up was when Tim first came around. He's got some...territorial issues."

"I noticed," Annabeth said dryly, thinking of his barely concealed hostility.

They paused on a gargoyle-lined ledge, and Stephanie's expression grew more serious. "Look, I know it's not my place, but the Bats are complicated in their own way . They've all got their damage, their secrets. But they're good people. Even the tiny angry one."

Annabeth felt a sudden wave of homesickness for Camp Half-Blood, where at least everyone's damage was out in the open. Gods and monsters were straightforward compared to family politics.

"I appreciate the insight," she said carefully, "but I'm not really looking to join the family business. I've got my own complications."

"Don't we all," Stephanie replied with a knowing smile. "But sometimes complications have a way of finding us anyway. Especially in Gotham. And even if you don’t share legal ties with the other Bats."

“Wait, are you not adopted?” she asked then winced at the bluntness. 

Thankfully, the fellow blonde didn’t take offense. "No, I've got my own family. I just got tangled up in all this," Stephanie gestured vaguely at her costume and the cityscape around them. "Started off trying to stop my dad–he was a small-time crook called the Cluemaster. One thing led to another, and suddenly I'm part of the whole Bat-circus."

Annabeth nodded slowly, understanding more than she let on. She knew all about getting pulled into larger-than-life missions because of family connections.

"And now?" she asked, genuinely curious about how someone so...normal seemed to handle straddling these two worlds.

"Now I'm in high school, fighting crime, and somehow still managing to maintain a semi-decent GPA." Stephanie grinned. "Though I think your arrival might actually help with that, Bruce has been so distracted lately that he's actually letting us have regular patrol schedules."

Annabeth shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not trying to distract anyone. Or change anything."

"Hey, no one's blaming you," Stephanie said quickly. "Trust me, any shake-up in the Bruce-Damian dynamic is probably healthy. Those two are way too intense sometimes." She paused, then added more softly, "And between you and me, it's kind of nice having another blonde around. The Bats tend to run dark-haired and brooding."

Despite herself, Annabeth felt a small smile tugging at her lips. There was something refreshingly straightforward about Stephanie, a quality she had yet to find in anyone else. 

"So, what's your story?" Stephanie asked as they approached the manor. "I mean, if you want to share. No pressure. We all have our secrets around here."

Annabeth tensed slightly, her hand instinctively moving toward her celestial bronze knife. She didn't want her fresh start already stained with lies. "It's also complicated."

"Isn't it always?" Stephanie laughed, but her eyes were kind. "Look, whatever brought you here, whatever you're running from or looking for,you don't have to figure it all out at once. Gotham's weird enough without adding family drama on top."

"You have no idea," Annabeth muttered, thinking of the owl markings and her growing suspicion that Gotham's particular brand of weird might intersect with her world in ways she wasn't prepared for.

They landed on a balcony of Wayne Manor, and Stephanie helped her inside with practiced ease. "Well, this is your stop. Try not to let the baby bat get to you too much. He eventually warms up like a….um glacier in global warming. I mean I just got him to stop calling me a harlot!"

"Thanks for the escort," Annabeth said, meaning it. 

"Anytime!" Stephanie beamed. "Seriously, if you ever need a break from all the testosterone and brooding, give me a call. I know all the best places to get stress-eating waffles in Gotham."

As Stephanie disappeared into the night, Annabeth stood for a moment in the quiet of the manor. The grandfather clock down the hall ticked steadily, marking time in a way that felt almost mocking. Somewhere in this city, ancient symbols were appearing, owls were watching, and people were vanishing. And here she was, caught between two worlds again, trying to decide which secrets to keep and which to share.

She made her way to her room, mind racing with possibilities. The owls, the markings, Damian's suspicion, Bruce's protectiveness—there had to be a pattern. But as she'd learned from years of quests and prophecies, sometimes the most obvious answer was the one you were least prepared to face.

Oh . 

Annabeth had been walking to her old room from another lifetime ago. When she was just a little girl and the world was so big and vast, the worst thing in the world ranged between spiders and the manor becoming dreadfully empty for another month. She stood in front of her old door, unable to muster the courage to check if everything was the same as the night she left.

The demigod noticed that this wasn’t one of the parts of the Manor that was burned down, an end that would’ve been righteous. All she thought when she saw the door was little her hiding under the blankets and an entirely different person she wasn’t anymore. Annabeth made up her mind, turning around stoutly and walking towards the room she recalled to be Jason’s. He clearly didn't have any of her hesitation and it was already a mess, an organic thing that that growed and shifted to accommodate his changing personality. 

Change, change is good , she thought as she tossed some of the shirts on his bed to the floor and curled up under the sheets. She was out like a light.

—

She awoke just before sunrise, an old habit from her youth. That was just the issue wasn’t it when one returns to the home of their childhood, that you revert back to the person you once were? 

Still, there was a giddy and bubbly feeling within her. Her time here hadn't been all horrible, and she was about to do something she missed terribly. She danced out of bed and pulled open the window, a gust of bitter wind reached to caress her but she paid no mind.

Annabeth climbed out of the room and tiptoed on the edge of the windowsill and then leaped upward, landing on the roof with grace. The cool tiles under her feet stung her in the really pleasing way minty gum often does. She sat down for several minutes watching the burnt orange sphere slowly peak past the horizon. It wasn’t long though that her mind started to race anxiously and she pulled out a small crystal from the pockets of her hoodie—Percy’s hoodie. 

She tightly grasped the small prism. The rising sun’s rays caught onto the clear object and it fractured the light, creating a beautiful faint rainbow. 

The blonde smiled to herself contently as she tossed a drachma into the air, the golden coin disappearing before it hit the ground. “Iris, Goddess of Rainbow, show me Percy Jackson.”

Within the rainbow expanded the image of Percy, presumably in his apartment for the school term. He was snoring as he laid sprawled across the bed and looked so peaceful that she had a sudden urge to not wake him but just watch as he slowly stirred. 

Instantaneously as if it was like someone wound a jack-in-a-box, the boy sprung up with his eyes frantic and suspicious. When he saw her, he calmed down somewhat and tossed her his goofy grin. “Way to surprise a guy. And here I thought a monster was watching me or something!”

She ignored the comparison. “Did your school start already?”

“Um yeah, it’s like February. Can’t wait to finally graduate Middle School, though. English’s been a killer.” He yawned, “What about you, are you going to enroll in high school?”

A public education would really help her to apply for college. Annabeth thought about her private desire to go to Columbia. It had always been a childlike dream to her when she had settled on architecture as a way to drive her instent need of creating something permanent and constant but no demigod really lived past their teens. Luke was the outlier. Her expression hardened but Percy being Percy noticed and switched the topic. 

“So um, where you at? That doesn't look like Camp.”

She loosened up in spite of herself and there was a ghost of a smile on her face. “I decided to take your advice and give my family a chance.”

He properly sat up this time and spoke with whispered enthusiasm. “Woah, wait, that's huge! How’s it been going? They treating you well and everything?”

Annabeth thought long and hard about yesterday—the dinner, discussion, and impromptu detective session. It was all heartfelt and emotional and typically all the things he hated…but it had felt nice . They had cared about her, showing it clearly by all the worry and trying to involve her. And Bruce, well she expected him to demand answers. She had told herself the minute it became an interrogation session she was done, but he had covered for her in a way in the face of Tim and didn’t demand any answers and—

Finally she steeled on "It was good. Very—" but Percy looked at her with raised eyebrows and she knew he needed more. "Fine. It was...different than I expected. Better." She twisted her hands in her lap, forcing herself to maintain eye contact even though every instinct screamed to look away. "They were kind. Genuinely kind, but I don’t know maybe I’m being too much but meeting them made me realize we’re strangers. Strangers that grew up together and changed because the people they were when I left are so vastly different than, well, the side they’ve shown me today.”

She looked back up but he nodded, encouraging her to continue. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel grateful that they still care about me or mad that they made me feel like I had to fight for their attention in the first place. And there’s so many new people here, it’s like I’m an outsider again, watching the interactions of a family that doesn't really concern me”. 

“That’s the thing about feelings, Annabeth. They’re way too complex for anyone to really make sense of. You just got to feel them and let it all wash over you. Or at least that’s what my mom told me.”

She bit back a laugh but that came out pained. Your mom always knows what to say, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, she's pretty amazing like that," Percy agreed, his voice soft with understanding. "You know, it's okay to feel both things at once. Grateful and angry. That's kind of your specialty – holding two opposing thoughts in your head."

Annabeth wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the morning chill more acutely now. The sun had risen fully, painting Wayne Manor's gothic architecture in shades of gold and shadow. "I just...I keep thinking about how young I was when I left. Seven and a half, Percy. I thought I was so grown up then."

"We all did," Percy reminded her gently. "Remember me at twelve, thinking I could take on the whole world?"

"You kind of did, Seaweed Brain."

"Yeah, but I had you." His words hung in the rainbow-tinted air between them. "And now they have you too. Maybe that's what matters – not who you were when you left, but who you are now that you're back."

There was a moment of silence that felt peaceful rather than uncomfortable, a testament of how close they had gotten in the last few years but then Annabeth’s mind started racing again and she blurted out “I’m going to do it properly. Enroll in high school and everything and give this all a chance.”

Percy looked proud. “That’s my girl!”  

A noise from below caught her attention – probably Alfred, starting his morning routine. Some things really didn't change. "I should go," she said reluctantly. "It's almost breakfast time here."

"Go be with your family," Percy encouraged. "And Annabeth? Remember what you taught me – sometimes the bravest thing isn't facing a monster, it's facing the people who love you."

The image faded, leaving Annabeth alone with the morning sun and her thoughts. She stayed on the roof a moment longer, watching the expanse of land in upstate Gotham slowly become more illuminated. It looked different in daylight – less mysterious, but somehow more complex. Like her family, she supposed. Like herself.

When she finally climbed back through the window, she found Jason leaning against the doorframe of his room, arms crossed.

"Roof's still the best place for secret calls, huh?" he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Used to find Dick up there all the time after you...after you left."

Annabeth tensed, but there was no accusation in his eyes. Just understanding, and maybe a hint of that old mischief she remembered.

"Some habits die hard," she replied, matching his tone.

"Tell me about it." He pushed off the doorframe. "Come on, Alfred's making breakfast. And fair warning – Tim's probably already got fifteen theories about where you've been, but Bruce told him to let you tell your story when you're ready."

"Bruce said that?"

Jason's smile was complicated. "Yeah, well, dying and coming back tends to change your perspective on things. He's learning. We all are."

As they headed downstairs, Annabeth felt something settle in her chest. Being back in this house was uncomfortable and hard; it made her question who she even was, down at her core. She wasn't the same girl who'd left Wayne Manor all those years ago, running from everything and anything, but apparently still a Wayne– whatever that meant now. Maybe that was okay. Maybe they could all learn to be something new together.

The walk to breakfast felt longer than it should have. Jason filled the silence with commentary about the manor's recent renovations, but there was an underlying tension neither of them wanted to address. Finally, instead of heading straight to the dining room, Jason veered off toward an empty hall.

"Alfred' can wait five minutes," he said, catching her questioning look. "Unless you're scared of being alone with your formerly dead brother?"

"Please," Annabeth scoffed, falling into old patterns despite herself. "I've faced worse."

"Have you?" The challenge in his voice was unmistakable as he shut the mahogany  door behind them. "Because last I checked, princess, you pulled a disappearing act that would make Batman proud. Left us all thinking you were dead."

There it was – the anger she'd been waiting for in everyone else— she hadn't expected it to be wrapped in Jason's particular brand of sarcasm. He was never like this when she was little, and the newfound bitterness made her soul ache. She found herself slipping into the same role she'd taken with Luke—always being the mature one, always trying to understand and contain someone else's rage. Luke had taught her that lesson well, hadn't he? Be mature, be clever, be useful or be left behind. It was almost funny–she'd run away from being a child only to spend her life desperately proving she was old enough to be worth keeping.

"That's rich, coming from you," she shot back, her careful composure slipping at the thought of Luke. "At least I chose to leave. You just had to run off playing hero and—" She caught herself, but too late.

Jason's laugh was sharp and bitter. "Go ahead, say it. Got myself killed? Yeah, I did. But at least I was trying to save someone. What were you running from, spiders?"

The words hit harder than any monster's blow. Annabeth's hand instinctively went to her knife, a gesture that didn't go unnoticed.

"Nice blade," Jason remarked, eyes narrowing. "Not standard Wayne equipment, is it?"

"No," she admitted. "It's not."

"So what is it? Because Tim's been driving himself crazy trying to figure out what kind of metal that is, and why it doesn't show up on any of his scans."

"Jason—"

"Save it," he cut her off, but his voice had lost some of its edge. "Look, I get it. We've all got our secrets. Hell, I've got a few that would make Bruce's hair turn even grayer. But..." He ran a hand through his own hair, the white streak stark against the black. "You were my sister, Anne Elizabeth. Before Ethiopia, before whatever happened to you—you were the only one who didn't treat me like I was just Dick's replacement."

The use of her governmental  name, not the childhood one he'd given her, made her chest ache. "You were never a replacement, Jay. Not to me."

"Yeah, well, dying has a way of changing your perspective on things." He dropped into one of the library's ancient armchairs, suddenly looking tired. "You know what I remember most about coming back? Not the Pit, not the rage— though trust me, there's plenty of that. I remember thinking 'I can't wait to tell Annabeth about this.' How messed up is that?"

Annabeth perched on the arm of another chair, keeping her distance but staying close enough to show she was listening. "I understand more than you think about coming back from the dead. About rage, and choices, and..." she swallowed hard, thinking of Luke, "...and watching someone you care about choose a darker path."

"Yeah?" Jason's eyes were calculating now. "Your mysterious other life teach you all about that?"

"Something like that." She met his gaze steadily. "I'm not ready to talk about all of it. But I will say this—I didn't leave because I didn't care. I left because I had to. I was suffocating and severely limited, cooped up in the manor until one of you would get bored and decide to give some time of day. And besides there were things that needed to be accomplished that would never happen staying in this gilded cage."

"Poetic," Jason snorted, but there was a hint of his old grin. "You sound like Dick now. All wise and shit."

"Please never compare me to Dick again."

"What, you don't want to be the family's golden child?"

"I think that position's firmly occupied by Tim now."

Jason's laugh was genuine this time. "Oh man, wait until you see him and the demon spawn go at it. It's better than cable." He sobered slightly. "Speaking of the replacement's replacement..."

"Damian," Annabeth said carefully.

"Yeah, look, the kid's...intense. And he's got some serious issues. Like, puts my problems to shame kind of issues. Just...watch your back around him. Not saying he'd actually try anything, but..."

"But he sees me as a threat to his place in the family," Annabeth finished. "I'm familiar with the concept." More than familiar, she'd seen it play out with countless new arrivals at Camp Half-Blood, each one struggling to find their place in their cabin's hierarchy. All veering to get any sort of attention from their parents. 

"You've changed," Jason observed, not unkindly. "The old Anne Elizabeth would've had held his hands and whipped him into shape to become the perfect media-trained heir.” Yes, that was what she had done with him .

"The old Anne Elizabeth was seven," she reminded him. "And it's Annabeth now."

"Right, right. Annabeth. I thought you despised that name." He tested the name again, then smirked. "I guess that means I have to call you princess now."

She rolled her eyes, but found herself smiling. "Some things never change."

"Oh, lots of things changed." Jason stood, stretching. "I died, came back homicidal, tried to kill Bruce a few times, may or may not still occasionally shoot people..."

"Jason!"

"Non-lethally! Usually." His grin was unrepentant. "Point is, we've all got our damage. You've obviously got yours. But maybe" he shrugged, aiming for casual and missing by miles, "maybe we can be screwed up together. Family style."

"Family style," Annabeth repeated softly. "I’d be down for that”. 

"Cool. Now can we please go get breakfast? Alfred stress-bakes when he's emotional, and your return has him in a baking frenzy."

As they finally headed toward breakfast, Annabeth couldn't help but think about how different this Jason was from the boy she'd known – rougher, angrier, but somehow also more real. She wondered if he saw the same changes in her.

—

As it turns out, Alfred had only just begun on the first meal of the day. Scones, he exclaimed. Jason pushed him out and it was like old times again: Jason was the head chef making experimental dishes and she was his assistant, cutting the ingredients and being his number-one helper.

"Lavender and honey?" Jason raised an eyebrow at the ingredients Annabeth was measuring. "What happened to good old-fashioned blueberry scones?"

"Alfred's recipe book has notes about experimental flavors in the margins," she replied, carefully grinding dried lavender buds. The familiar motion of pestle against mortar helped steady her hands. "Besides, I thought you were all about breaking tradition now."

"There's breaking tradition and there's whatever this is." He peered over her shoulder at the ancient recipe book, its pages worn soft with use. "Though I guess this is better than your weird olive obsession."

"One time. I put olives in cookies one time when I was six." The grinding motion faltered as something dark flitted past the kitchen window, but she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Nope." Jason started measuring flour with surprising precision. "You know what else I'm not letting go of? The fact that you actually color-coded Alfred's recipe notes. Nothing's changed, you're still the biggest nerd in the family."

She bumped his shoulder with hers, sending a small cloud of flour into the air. "Says the guy who can quote entire passages of Pride and Prejudice."

"That's different. That's literature."

"Uh-huh." She smiled despite herself, adding the lavender to the dry ingredients. The kitchen was warm with morning sun, and for a moment, she could almost pretend this was normal. Just two siblings baking together.

Then Jason had to go and add cardamom to the mix.

"What?" he challenged at her look, "If we're experimenting, let's experiment. Trust me on this."

And maybe that was the heart of it – trust. She watched him measure the spice with careful precision, so different from the reckless boy he portrayed, and wondered how many other layers there were to rediscover. And then the recklessness was back as Jason rummaged through the cabinets with concerning enthusiasm after he found a little culinary torch and started to be just a bit too fire happy. 

"Please don't torch the kitchen," she said dryly.

"That was one time," Jason protested, pulling out mixing bowls with more force than necessary. "And technically, it was Tim's fault."

"Everything's technically Tim's fault, according to you." Annabeth leaned against the counter, watching him with what she hoped was well-disguised concern. The kitchen windows were open, letting in the cool morning air, and she tried not to focus on how many owls she'd seen perched in the manor's trees on her way down. Gotham wasn't exactly known for its wildlife.

"Because everything is Tim's fault." Jason paused his scone preparations to fix her with a look. "You missed a lot of quality family drama."

"Clearly." She reached past him to grab the flour before he could spill it. "Though some things haven't changed. You still can't crack an egg without getting shells everywhere."

"Oh, sorry we can't all be perfect—" He cut himself off, perhaps remembering their earlier conversation. "Here, you do it then, if you're such an expert."

She took the eggs, grateful for something to do with her hands. The morning light caught something carved into the window frame – a tiny owl, its eyes seeming to follow her movements. She'd noticed similar markings around the place near the docks and wanted to dismiss them as gothic architectural flourishes but something about it didn’t sit right. 

"Earth to princess," Jason waved a hand in front of her face. "You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"That thing where you look like you're solving complex equations in your head. Used to do it when we were kids too, right before you'd come up with some crazy theory about—" He stopped again, this time looking uncomfortable.

"About the spiders," she finished quietly, cracking an egg with perhaps more force than necessary. "It's okay, Jay. We can talk about it."

"Can we? Because last time I checked, you still haven't explained where you've been for seven years." He didn't sound angry anymore, just tired. "Look, I get it. But..."

Another owl called outside, making her jump slightly. Too close to the house for comfort. "But secrets have a way of coming back to haunt us," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

"Yeah, well, in this family, what doesn't?" Jason started mixing the batter with aggressive enthusiasm. "Speaking of haunting, did you see those weird markings B’s been obsessing over? The ones showing up all over Gotham?"

Annabeth's hand stilled over the bowl. "All over Gotham?"

"Yeah, some kind of ancient symbols or something. Usually near where people have gone missing. Tim thinks it's just another cult thing – Gotham's got more cults than coffee shops – but..." He shrugged. "Something about them feels off." He poured batter onto the smooth pan with surprising precision. She thought of the owl carved into the window frame, of the strange calls in the night, of the way wisdom could twist into something darker when corrupted. But those were thoughts for another world, weren't they?

"Jay," she said carefully, "have you noticed anything...strange about the owls here?"

He looked at her like she'd grown a second head as he . "The what now?"

"The owls. In Gotham. There seem to be a lot of them."

"Princess, the only wildlife in Gotham is rats and the occasional escaped Penguin prototype. Maybe Damian’s collection is finally large enough to start a zoo.” She put the scones in the oven. "Why? Don't tell me you're scared of birds too."

"No," she said quickly. Too quickly. "Just curious."

Jason gave her a long look but didn't press. Instead, he said, "You know what's really weird? How Bruce keeps finding excuses to hover around you without actually talking to you. It's like watching a very large, very awkward bat try to figure out how emotions work."

She accepted the change of subject gratefully, even as her mind cataloged owls she couldn't tell if it was Athena keeping an eye on her or part of the case. "At least he's trying. That's new."

"Yeah, well, losing kids has a way of changing your perspective." The smell of the pastry filled the kitchen. "Don't tell Alfred I said this, but I think he missed you most of all. Used to catch him dusting your room every week, like clockwork."

Something caught in her throat that had nothing to do with the burning smell. "Jason..."

"Nope, we're not doing emotional breakdowns in my scones." He pulled them out of the oven and outwardly sighed when they were only barely blackned. "Save it for family therapy. Which, by the way, is every other Thursday now. Bruce's idea. Can you believe it?"

She could, actually. Loss changed people – she knew that better than most. But as another owl called outside, closer this time, she wondered what other changes were coming to Gotham. And why she couldn't shake the feeling that her two worlds were about to collide in ways none of them were prepared for.

At least the scones were good. 

Chapter Text

She brought the remaining scones on the dinner table and left it there. By now she had figured out that the manor had its own system and people would wake according to their own schedule. What she didn't expect was running into another one of her adopted siblings, one whose name she couldn't even recall.

The young man who walked into the dining hall moved with the easy confidence of a trained athlete. His dark brown skin had a healthy glow, and his close-cropped black hair was meticulously maintained – a stark contrast to his casual attire of a well-worn hoodie and jeans that downplayed his lean, muscular build. But it was his eyes that caught her attention – sharp and intelligent, they seemed to process everything around him with an almost unnerving intensity, as if he was seeing things others couldn't. 

"Hey, Annabeth, right?" He grabbed a scone without hesitation. "I'm Duke. We haven't officially met yet."

She nodded, watching as he bit into the pastry. His casual approach threw her off balance, she'd been bracing herself for another emotionally charged reunion.

"Oh man, these are actually good," Duke said, looking pleasantly surprised. "Jason helped, didn't he? Has that cardamom thing written all over it."

"How'd you know?", she said dryly. 

"Living here, you pick up on everyone's weird food quirks." He reached for another scone. "Tim's addicted to coffee, Damian's secretly obsessed with ice cream but won't admit it, and Jason thinks he's some kind of spice guru."

Annabeth felt her shoulders relax slightly. This was normal. Almost suspiciously so.

"So," Duke continued, "you planning on hiding out in the kitchen all day, or...?"

"I'm not hiding," she said automatically. Though maybe she was, a little.

"Sure." He didn't sound convinced. "Just like I wasn't hiding in the library my first week here. This place can be a lot."

Something about his straightforward admission made her pause. "How do you handle it?"

"Honestly? I don't live here full-time. Having my own space helps." He brushed some crumbs off his shirt. "Plus, it's kind of nice being the newest kid. Less expectations, you know?"

She did know, actually. It was part of why Camp Half-Blood had felt like such a relief at first - no one there had known her as Bruce Wayne's lost daughter.

"Though I guess you're technically the newest-oldest kid now," Duke added thoughtfully. "That's gotta be weird."

Annabeth couldn't help but laugh. "Everything about this is weird."

"True that." He stood up, grabbing one last scone. "Hey, next time try adding orange zest to these. And maybe ease up on the cardamom, Jason gets carried away sometimes."

As Duke headed for the door, he turned back. "Oh, and if you need to get away from all the..." he gestured vaguely at the manor around them, "this? The garden house is usually pretty quiet. Just don't tell Damian I told you about his secret brooding spot."

Annabeth watched him go, turning his words over in her mind. It was strange, but that brief conversation had felt more normal than anything else since she'd returned. Maybe because Duke hadn't needed anything from her—no explanations, no emotional reunions, no carefully navigated trauma.

She glanced at the remaining scones. Orange zest, huh? She'd have to remember that for next time.

If there was a next time.

Gods, she really needed to stop doing that - assuming every moment here was temporary. 

—

She followed his advice to go to the garden house and prayed to the Olympians it would be empty. They had a knack for not listening to her so it wasn’t a surprise to find her brother focusing on milking a large cow. 

Annabeth froze in the doorway of the garden house. Damian didn't look up from his task, his movements precise and practiced as he worked with the cow. The scene was so incongruous with his usual aggressive demeanor that she almost laughed. Almost . He tensed and she knew she had been caught. 

"I wasn't aware this was occupied," she said carefully, already backing away.

"Clearly." His tone was clipped, but he still didn't look up. "Batcow requires morning milking. Unless you'd like to add agricultural expertise to your ever-growing list of convenient skills?"

The barb was clear, but Annabeth had faced down gods and monsters. A suspicious twelve-year-old, didn't quite measure up even if he had something uncanny about him. She stepped fully into the garden house, letting the door close behind her.

"Actually, I helped run a strawberry farm for years," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "Though I'll admit, dairy wasn't our specialty."

That got his attention. His hands stilled for a moment before resuming their rhythmic motion. "A farm," he said flatly. "How pastoral."

"Camp Half-" she caught herself. "The place I stayed. It was self-sufficient. Everyone had to pull their weight."

Damian's eyes narrowed at her slip, but he said nothing. The only sound was the steady stream of milk hitting the metal pail. Annabeth found herself analyzing the garden house's architecture - the clever way the Victorian structure had been modified for modern use, the reinforced supports that suggested it occasionally housed larger animals than just a cow.

"You're doing it again," Damian said suddenly.

"Doing what?"

"Analyzing. Cataloging. Like him." The last word came out bitter. "Tell me, sister , did you inherit that trait naturally, or did someone teach you to think like our father?"

The word sister sounded like a curse in his mouth. Annabeth considered her next words carefully. She'd had enough experience with proud, damaged young demigods to know when someone was spoiling for a fight.

"I think," she said slowly, "we probably both got it from him. Nature and nurture working together."

"Tt. How diplomatic of you."

"It's not diplomacy, Damian. It's truth." She moved to lean against one of the support beams, making sure to stay in his line of sight. "You're worried I'm here to take something from you. I'm not."

"As if you could," he scoffed, but there was something uncertain in his voice.

"You're right," she agreed, which seemed to surprise him. "I couldn't. Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—you've earned your place here. With him. With all of them." She gestured vaguely toward the manor. "I'm not looking to replace anyone or claim anything. I just..." she trailed off, remembering Percy's words before she left camp.

"You just what?" Damian demanded, finally turning to face her fully. "Decided to waltz back into our lives after seven years of silence? Expected everything to simply fall into place?"

"Actually, I expected it to be exactly this awkward and complicated," she said dryly. "I'm an architect, Damian. I know you can't just patch over foundational damage and expect the structure to hold. It takes time. Careful work. Sometimes complete reconstruction."

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he turned back to Batcow. "Your metaphors need work," he said, but some of the edge had gone out of his voice.

"Probably," she agreed. "I learned most of them from a horse."

That startled what might have been the ghost of a laugh from him. "Now you're just being deliberately absurd."

"You have no idea," she muttered, then pushed off from the beam. "I'll leave you to your milking. But Damian?" She waited until he glanced at her again. "Thank you for not immediately throwing a knife at me when I walked in. I know that took restraint."

This time the almost-laugh was definitely real, if quickly suppressed. "Don't flatter yourself. I simply didn't want to startle Batcow."

Annabeth nodded solemnly. "Of course. Very professional of you."

As she left the garden house, she could have sworn she heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "not entirely abhorrent." Coming from Damian Wayne, that was practically a declaration of friendship.

Baby steps, she thought. Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither was family.

—

Annabeth went to hide in the library. It wasn’t exactly hiding per say but she didn’t know what to do and the mahogany walls and smell of old leather books and crinkling paper always calmed her down. 

She took the usual route but it ended up lost. Fire, she remembered. Over half the Manor was changed in her absence. Nothing was ever constant, it was a fact life had continuously hammered into her until she would remember. 

She traced the walls trying to orient herself. The renovation had changed everything—walls where there used to be doorways, new corridors where empty space had been. Even the window placement was different, throwing off the angles she'd memorized as a child.

A soft movement caught her attention. Through one of the new archways, she spotted Cassandra Cain in what appeared to be a reading nook, surrounded by books with worn spines. As she got closer she saw it was some sort of ballet book and the girl would read a bit then set it down to replicate the move from her notes. 

Her movement was a fluid dance of shadows unlike the honed training of vigilantes surrounding her or the raw power of a demigod, even though something told her that the girl was lacking in neither. She was something else entirely. Something almost divine.

She moved like she was writing poetry with her body, each gesture carrying weight and meaning far beyond mere combat. Annabeth found herself translating automatically—not just the intentional movements but the microexpressions, the subtle shifts that spoke volumes. It reminded her of Malcolm teaching the younger campers who'd lost their voices to monster attacks, of Will Solace working with trauma survivors who found signing easier than speaking.

When Cassandra finally noticed her, there was no startled reaction, no defensive posture. Just a slight tilt of the head that somehow managed to convey both acknowledgment and curiosity.

'Beautiful form,' Annabeth signed, her movements precise and clear. 'Your kicks flow like water.'

Cassandra’s eyes widened fractionally - surprise, but also something else. Recognition, maybe. Understanding. Her hands moved in response, quick and graceful: 'You know dance?'

"Some," Annabeth spoke while signing, falling into the comfortable rhythm of simultaneous communication she'd developed at camp. "Though mine's more about survival than art."

Cassandra nodded, reading the layers of meaning in Annabeth's stance - the warrior's vigilance, the architect's attention to detail, the survivor's wariness. 'You move like stories,' she signed. 'Many stories.'

Annabeth couldn't help but smile. Trust Cassandra Cain to see right through her carefully constructed walls with just a glance. 

Then, to Annabeth's surprise, she signed: 'Lost?'

"That obvious, huh?" Annabeth replied, her hands automatically moving to sign along with her words.

She studied Annabeth for a moment, then: 'You know hands-speak, too?'

"ASL? Yeah. Learned it at..." Annabeth hesitated, then settled for, "Yes. Learned at camp. Many kids, different needs.'

'Coming to library?,' Cassandra signed decisively, standing up. ' Barbara Gordon teaches. Better than books alone.'

"Barbara Gordon?" The name slipped out before Annabeth could stop it. "I... I remember hearing about her. Before."

That was a name she knew only through whispers and fragments, caught between closed doors during her isolated childhood in the manor. Dick had mentioned her sometimes, voice warm with admiration. She'd seen newspaper clippings about Commissioner Gordon's brilliant daughter.

Cassandra nodded. 'She knows you too. Come.'

"I don't want to intrude-" Annabeth hesitated. She'd been trying to keep to herself, to not interrupt  the family's established dynamics. But Cassandra was looking at her so earnestly like a puppy and she couldn't help but melt at the sight.  , 'Not intrusion,' Cassandra signed firmly. 'Learning. Growing. Good things.' She frowned at her hesitation and she signed: 'Library good. Quiet.'

There was something so straightforward about Cass's invitation that made it hard to refuse. They exited the manor together, communicating in a mixture of ASL and body language. Cassandra didn't need her to explain the weight she carried, didn't ask about the shadows in her eyes. She just accepted, observed, understood.

And that's how Annabeth found herself following Cassandra Cain through Gotham's streets, heading toward the public library she'd never visited during her first life in the city. It felt strange, walking these streets in daylight. Everything looked different than she remembered from her childhood glimpses through manor windows that showed her just the glimmers of the skyline. The city was breathtaking, an entirely different visual experience from when she had ran away and the towering buildings seemed like a maze, trying to trap her in Gotham forever.

Barbara had already set up a place in the back when they arrived, her red hair catching the afternoon sunlight. She raised an eyebrow at her presence and Annabeth saw the moment of recognition cross her face, but instead of the usual awkward pause, Barbara simply smiled warmly and signed: "The more the merrier. I was just about to go through some advanced grammar structures but I think we should take a break and focus on Gotham-specific signs today. Every city develops its own dialect, especially for things like landmark names and local slang."

She gestured to the chair beside her.

"Really?" Annabeth found herself genuinely interested. She was nothing like Annabeth had imagined during those years of overhead conversations. She was sunshine and steel, greeting them with a warm smile and sharp eyes that missed nothing. 

"Yup!" Barbara's eyes lit up. "The way people communicate evolves with their environment. For instance, the sign for 'Wayne Tower' is different here than the standard sign combination would suggest..."

As Barbara demonstrated the sign, Annabeth noticed how she didn't hesitate or tiptoe around the Wayne name. It was refreshing - like the building was just a building, not another weight of legacy and expectation or oppression .

'You're good at this,' Cassandra signed as Annabeth tried out the example.

'Good teacher,' Annabeth replied, nodding toward Barbara, who was pulling out more reference materials.

"Where did you learn ASL," Barbara said curiously, her hands moving naturally with her words. 

"Summer camp," Annabeth replied, trying not to think about celestial bronze blades and monster claws. "We had a lot of kids with different needs. Injuries, trauma, that sort of thing."

Barbara's eyes flickered with comfort, but she didn't push. Instead, she launched into a lesson about regional variations in signing, her enthusiasm for the subject clearly genuine.

Cassandra settled into a chair across from them, her movements fluid and precise as she added her own examples of Gotham-specific signs. The afternoon light filtered through the library windows, casting warm shadows across their hands as they worked through different variations.

It wasn't quite friendship yet, Annabeth wasn't sure she remembered how to do that normally anymore. But it was just three people in a library, learning to speak with their hands and that was something. 

—

The sun slowly made its way across the sky and soon it was a little past afternoon. Annabeth could tell by the growling of her stomach. She was about to suggest they take a break when the library doors opened and a familiar voice called out softly:

"I come bearing gifts of sustenance!"

Dick walked in carrying several takeout bags, and Annabeth's chest tightened at how little and how much he'd changed. He still moved with that easy grace, still had that warm smile, but there were new lines around his eyes that spoke of years she'd missed.

Barbara's face lit up in a way that made Annabeth's brain click pieces into place—the subtle shift in Dick's posture as he approached, the casual intimacy of how he leaned down to kiss Barbara's cheek, the worn familiarity of how she reached for the food without having to ask what he'd brought.

"I got your favorite," he told Barbara, then turned to Cassandra. "And those spring rolls you like." His eyes landed on Annabeth, and she saw a range of expressions - surprise, warmth, and maybe a touch of uncertainty. "And, uh, I remember someone used to be partial to pad thai?"

Annabeth swallowed hard. Seven years, and he still remembered her go-to takeout order. "You didn't have to-"

"Course I did," he said easily, pulling up a chair. His hands moved in ASL as he spoke—another change, another thing she'd missed. "Besides, I heard Cass kidnapped you for study group. It's practically a tradition now. Babs teaches, I provide snacks."

Watching Dick and Barbara interact was like watching a dance she'd never learned the steps to. Inside jokes in the form of quick signs, shared glances that held years of history, the easy way they moved around each other. Even Cassandra seemed to fit seamlessly into their dynamic, accepting a spring roll with a small smile that spoke volumes.

"So what're we learning?" Dick asked, his hands moving naturally with his words.

"Gotham-specific signs," Barbara replied. "I was just showing Annabeth how different cities develop their own dialects."

"Oh man, wait till you see the sign for Penguin's club," Dick grinned. "It's totally different from the old one after he renovated."

Annabeth picked at her pad thai, watching them demonstrate the evolution of various Gotham-related signs. Each one was a little story she'd missed - changes in the city, inside jokes developed over time, pieces of history she hadn't been present for.

She'd told herself running away had been the right choice. The spiders, her mother's voice, the suffocating weight of the manor—she'd needed to escape. But watching Dick teach Cass a particularly complicated sign while Barbara rolled her eyes fondly, Annabeth felt doubt creep in. How many moments like this had she missed? How many relationships had formed and grown while she was fighting monsters and holding up the sky?

"Hey," Dick's voice cut through her thoughts. "You okay? You went all serious there for a minute."

"Just thinking," she said, automatically signing along. "You've all built something really nice here."

Dick's expression softened with understanding. "There's always room for more at the table," he said quietly. "Literal and metaphorical."

Barbara nodded, her hands moving in gentle emphasis: 'Family grows. Changes. Adapts.'

"Like cities," Annabeth found herself saying. "New buildings rising where old ones fell."

"Exactly," Barbara smiled. "Now, want to see how the sign for 'Batcave' has changed over the years? It's actually pretty funny—"

Just then, the peaceful afternoon shattered with the sound of breaking glass. Annabeth's demigod instincts kicked in before her mind fully registered the threat - she was already moving, pushing her chair back and scanning for exits. Years of training had her cataloging potential weapons even as Dick and Barbara snapped into defensive stances.

Through the library's high windows came figures in hazmat-style suits, their masks fitted with peculiar filtering apparatuses that reminded Annabeth uncomfortably of beaks. The acrid smell of chemicals filled the air as they sprayed something from modified canisters.

"Scarecrow's new crew?" Dick asked Barbara, who was already pulling up something on her phone.

"No," Barbara's voice was tense. "Different M.O. This is-"

"Condiment King," Cassandra said quickly, pointing to the figure making a theatrical entrance through the main doors. Annabeth almost stopped in her tracks at the sound of her voice. It sounded rough and hoarse but had a musical quality to it nevertheless. 

The ‘villain's’ costume was ridiculous–all primary colors and oversized containers–but something about the way he moved made Annabeth's skin itch. This wasn't the usual theatrical Gotham rogue performance she remembered from news reports in her childhood. Or was it? It had been so long she couldn't even be properly sure. 

"Everyone out!" Barbara called to the scattered library patrons, her voice carrying natural authority. "Emergency exits are-"

But the spray was already taking effect. People began coughing, their movements becoming erratic. Annabeth's mind raced, she'd faced enough gods and monsters to recognize when something wasn't quite what it seemed. The way the "minions" moved was too precise, too coordinated for typical hired help. And their masks . She couldn't help but immediately think of ceremonial handlers. The way they moved reminded her of those ancient tomb paintings - figures in rigid poses, each step measured like they were following steps carved in stone thousands of years ago. Their masks had a sleek, modern design, but something about the elongated shape, the way they tilted their heads in perfect unison...it stirred a memory she couldn't quite place, like an innate and half-forgotten story from her childhood. But there wasn't time to dwell on that now. The gas was getting thicker.

"The spray pattern," she muttered, her architectural mind mapping the spread. "They're not trying to hit everyone. They're herding people toward specific exits."

Dick caught her eye, nodding slightly. He'd noticed too. "Split up?" he suggested, hands moving in what Annabeth suspected was more than just ASL—some kind of exclusive bat-family combat shorthand.

"Cass, take the east exit," Barbara ordered, wheels already moving. "Dick, west. Annabeth-"

"I'll help you get people out the back," Annabeth finished. She knew her bronze knife wouldn't be much help here, but she'd learned to fight with whatever was available. A heavy reference book could do serious damage if thrown right.

As they moved into action, Annabeth couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. She recalled the Condiment King to be all chaos and attention-seeking, but this attack felt...purposeful. Clinical, almost. Like the library itself was the target, not just a random venue.

Her instincts screamed that this was a test - but of what, and by whom? She caught glimpses of owls in the decorative stonework as they evacuated people, their carved eyes seeming to follow their movement. But that was ridiculous - just her demigod paranoia acting up. Right?

A scream from the rare books section snapped her attention back to the immediate threat. Whatever was really going on here, they had people to protect first. She could unravel the mystery later.

But as she helped Barbara coordinate the evacuation, Annabeth couldn't help noticing how the "random" damage seemed to focus on certain sections of the library. And why did those masked figures keep checking specific catalog numbers?

The spray was getting thicker, making it harder to see across the library floor. Annabeth's instincts screamed at her to grab her knife, but these weren't monsters. Probably.

"Behind you!" Dick called out as one of the masked figures lunged at her. Annabeth reacted on autopilot, years of combat training taking over. She grabbed the attacker's arm, using their momentum to flip them over her shoulder with a move she'd learned at Camp Half-Blood. The figure hit the ground with a crack that seemed too loud for a normal human.

Dick's eyes widened slightly. Barbara paused in her coordination of the evacuation. Even Cassandra, who Annabeth had seen move with inhuman grace herself, tilted her head in assessment.

No time to worry about that now. More figures were converging on the rare books section. Annabeth grabbed a heavy volume of The Desert Builders and hurled it with deadly accuracy, knocking a spray canister from one attacker's hand. The metal clattered against marble flooring with an oddly hollow sound.

"Those canisters," she called out. "They're-"

She cut herself off before saying 'celestial bronze.' The metal had that same distinctive sheen she recognized from demigod weapons. But that was impossible. She must be seeing things. And besides another look had her questioning her previous assumption, celestial bronze was no way near as fragile as it, assuming from all its dents. 

"Annabeth!" Barbara's sharp voice snapped her back to focus. "The sprinklers!"

Right. Normal solution. Annabeth vaulted over a reading table, narrowly avoiding another spray of chemicals. She needed to reach the fire alarm, but three masked figures blocked her path.

Without thinking, she muttered in Ancient Greek—a quick prayer to her mother for battle wisdom. The nearest attacker lunged. Annabeth ducked under their grab, swept their legs, and used their falling body as a springboard to leap past the others. Her hand slammed the fire alarm just as the Condiment King aimed some kind of pressurized container at her.

Water rained down from above. The chemical spray dissipated, but Annabeth's attention was caught by something else - in the chaos, she glimpsed some blur of a tattoo that sent shivers down her spine. It felt familiar in ways he would have prayed to the fates to change. 

"Hey!" Tim's voice rang out from the entrance— when had he arrived? "What are you looking at?"

The masked figures were already retreating, their mission apparently accomplished. The Condiment King made a theatrical exit, but Annabeth barely noticed. Her mind was racing. A random insignia shouldn't impact her that much.

"Since when can you fight like that?" Tim asked, eyes narrowed. He'd been there on Mount Tam, had seen through the Mist enough to know something wasn't normal. And now this.

"Summer camp," Annabeth said weakly. The same excuse was wearing thin.

"Right," Damian's voice dripped skepticism with a hand placed threateningly on his katana. He must have arrived with Tim . "The same camp that taught you everything else that’s convenient?"

"I've started to begin scanning the area," Barbara interrupted, but Annabeth caught her exchanging a look with Dick. "Whatever that spray was, it wasn't Condiment Man’s usual formula. And the damage seems… targeted. "

"The rare books section," Tim noted. "Specifically the historical records."

Annabeth felt their eyes on her—measuring, assessing. She'd fought too efficiently, knew too much, noticed things she shouldn't have. The careful balance she'd been building was cracking.

"I should help clean up," she said, trying to sound normal despite her racing thoughts. But explaining herself would mean explaining everything.

And judging by the looks being exchanged around her, she'd already raised enough suspicions for one day.

Dick stepped forward, possibly to defend her, but Damian cut him off: "Father will want a full report on this."

Annabeth just nodded, water dripping from her curls. She had a sinking feeling this was just the beginning.

—

The library cleanup stretched into the evening, but Annabeth's skin wouldn't stop crawling. Every phantom itch sparked memories of tiny pinpricks, of nights spent shaking out sheets and checking dark corners. She'd spent enough time in dark corners to know when she was being watched. The shadows between the shelves seemed to ripple with invisible threads, and more than once she caught herself brushing at nothing on her shoulder. Something was here, testing the edges of her awareness with delicate, patient movements. And she kept second-guessing everything she'd seen - the weird sheen of those canisters (not quite celestial bronze, but close enough to make her stomach twist), the too-precise movements of the attackers, that blur of a tattoo that felt wrong in ways she couldn't explain.

"Here." Dick handed her a towel for her still-dripping hair. His voice was gentle, but she caught the careful way he watched her movements. "You did good work today."

"Thanks," she mumbled, focusing on drying her curls instead of meeting his eyes. The weight of unasked questions hung heavy in the air.

"Your form was... interesting ," Tim said, cataloging scattered books nearby. His casual tone didn't match his intent focus. "That flip especially. Almost looked like something I saw in-" He paused, and Annabeth's heart stuttered. Mount Tam. He meant Mount Tam.

"Just self-defense," she said quickly. Too quickly. "You know how it is in Gotham."

"Except you weren't in Gotham," Damian cut in. He was examining the dented canister she'd knocked away earlier. "Were you?"

Annabeth's hands tightened on the towel. She was fourteen - old enough to have helped save the world, young enough that her voice still cracked when she said: "I traveled. During those years."

"To summer camp," Barbara added, wheeling closer. Her tone was neutral, but her eyes were sharp. "The one that taught you ASL, fighting, architecture..."

"And an ancient dialect of Greek," Tim added quietly. Annabeth froze. He'd heard her prayer during the fight.

The walls felt like they were closing in. She'd faced monsters, held up the sky, navigated the politics of Olympus—but right now she felt every bit the scared kid she'd been running through dark alleys with Luke and Thalia. Luke, who'd promised to be family and then...

"I can't-" her voice cracked. "There are things I can't explain. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

"Can't or won't?" Damian challenged. 

"Both," she admitted. The truth felt raw in her throat. "Please. I'm not- I wouldn't hurt anyone. I just..."

"Have secrets," Dick finished. He sounded tired. "Big ones."

Annabeth nodded miserably. She wanted to tell them everything—about the gods, the monsters, the prophecy hanging over Percy's head. The image of Luke’s mom flashed in her brain. She'd learned the hard way what happened when divine and mortal worlds collided. How many people had she already lost?

"Father will need to be informed," Damian said, but there was something uncertain in his voice now. Like he was starting to see past the threat. It just made everything worse.

"I know," Annabeth whispered. She stared at her reflection in a puddle of sprinkler water, wondering when she'd started looking so much like a stranger to herself. 

Cassandra touched her arm gently, signing: 'Truth comes. When ready.'

But Annabeth wasn't sure she'd ever be ready. And judging by the tension in the room, her time might be running out.

Chapter Text

Annabeth just wanted to head to bed and sulk for the rest of her days but she was absolutely disgusting and stumbled into the shower of a random guest room. The hot water hit her shoulders, but it couldn't wash away the weight of their stares, the suspicion in Tim's voice, the way Damian's tentative acceptance had crumbled like sand between her fingers.

She pressed her forehead against the cool tile, letting the steam cloud around her. How could she explain? That her mother was a goddess who'd turn mortals to ash if they looked at her true form? That she'd watched Luke - brilliant, broken Luke - get twisted by divine politics until he poisoned Thalia's tree? That she'd seen how knowledge of the gods destroyed families, drove people mad, got them killed?

And Percy ...her throat tightened. Her own mother had rallied Olympus to vote against his life, would have killed him if they hadn't proved themselves. All because Annabeth had vouched for him, had dared to suggest Athena's wisdom might be wrong. Some days she wasn't sure what was worse - the gods' cruelty or their indifference.

The shower's heat reminded her of the lava wall at Camp Half-Blood. Another secret. Another lie. Damian's words from the greenhouse echoed in her head: "Not entirely abhorrent." He'd been feeding the cow, sharp but sincere, and for a moment she'd thought maybe...but no . She'd seen his face in the library. Whatever trust she'd built was drowning in questions she couldn't answer.

She turned the water hotter, until it nearly scalded. Better than thinking about those masked figures, their movements too precise, too practiced. The way that metal had gleamed - not quite celestial bronze but close enough to make her bones ache with recognition. Something was wrong there, beyond the obvious attack. Like looking at a familiar face in a warped mirror.

But she couldn't investigate without raising more suspicions. Couldn't protect her new family without risking her old one. Couldn't even explain why she used to wake up screaming about spiders without revealing that her mother's ancient rivalry still haunted her descendants.

Some architect she was turning out to be, watching everything she tried to build crumble before it could stand. Just like the family she'd tried to make with Luke and Thalia. Just like her father's attempts at a normal life. Just like every time she thought she'd found somewhere to belong.

The water ran frigid but she barely noticed. All she could see was Dick's disappointed face, Barbara's calculating look, Tim's narrowed eyes. They'd given her a chance - offered her a place at their table, just hours ago - and she'd repaid them with half-truths and evasions.

Maybe she was more like the gods than she wanted to admit. Keeping secrets, telling herself it was for the best, watching mortals suffer for divine games.

She shut off the water with trembling hands. In the sudden silence, she could almost hear the hollow sound of that canister hitting marble. Almost see that blur of a tattoo that made her stomach turn.

Almost believe that the shadows in the corner of her eye were just steam, and not something watching, waiting, measuring her worth.

She got out with herculean effort and dried off mechanically, her mind still churning with too many thoughts. The manor's halls felt longer and darker than usual as she made her way back to the guest room, each shadow seeming to stretch like fingers across the antique wallpaper.

Even that was a reminder that it was all temporary and she wasn’t really part of the family. Just an outsider like she had always been.

The door creaked - had it always done that? She couldn't remember. Everything felt slightly off-kilter, like a blueprint where all the measurements were just a fraction wrong.

She collapsed onto the bed, still in her towel, and stared at the ceiling. Alfred, bless his heart, had left a pair of linen pajamas but she couldn’t be bothered. The intricate molding featured tiny decorative flourishes that, if you looked at them long enough, almost resembled-

"Stop it," she muttered to herself. "Not everything is an owl."

But she couldn't shake the unease that had settled into her bones. Back in the library, for a moment, she'd thought she'd seen...but no . That was impossible. She was letting her paranoia get the better of her, seeing connections where there couldn't be any.

A soft knock at her door made her jump.

"Annabeth?" Dick's voice. "Alfred's made dinner, if you're hungry."

Her stomach twisted. The thought of sitting at that table now, after everything - trying to act normal while they all watched her, analyzed her, wondered what other secrets she was keeping.

"I'm tired," she called back. "Think I'll just go to bed early."

A pause. She could almost see him weighing his options, deciding whether to push.

"Okay," he said finally. "But we're here. When you're ready to talk."

Footsteps retreated down the hall. Annabeth pulled her knees to her chest, feeling impossibly young and impossibly old all at once. She'd held up the sky, faced monsters, navigated divine politics - but right now she felt like that little girl again, hiding under sheets from spiders that everyone insisted weren't real.

Except the spiders had been real. And now...

Steam rose from nothing, creating a strange light with shimmering rainbow colors. In cloud-like letters was written Caller Id: Perseus Jackson. Then a female voice spoke, “ Please deposit one drachma” but there was no way Annabeth was going to get up to rummage for a gold coin and face him when she had said she had told him she was going to properly try this whole family thing. 

She stared at the screen until the letters blurred. How could she explain any of this to him? Hey, Seaweed Brain, remember how I finally found my mortal family? Well, I might be ruining everything because there's something weird happening in Gotham that might be connected to my mom but I can't tell them about that without explaining everything and the last time mortals got involved with divine stuff-

She waved through the mist. Outside her window, a night bird called - an ordinary sound that somehow made her skin prickle.

"You're being ridiculous," she told herself firmly. "The Condiment King is just a C-list villain. Nothing mythological about him."

But as she finally changed into pajamas and slipped under the covers, she couldn't help remembering how the sprinklers had caught the light on those canisters. How the metal had seemed to shimmer in a way that was almost, but not quite, divine.

Sleep was a long time coming.

—

She gave up trying to enter the realm of Morpheus by force and tiptoed to the dining hall, the same place as her welcome feast. The low murmur of conversation and clink of silverware stopped her at the doorway.

They were all there, gathered around the massive table like a proper family. Tim was gesturing animatedly about something while Dick laughed. Barbara had stayed for dinner, her wheelchair pulled up next to Cassandra who was signing rapidly. Duke and Jason engaged in a private conversation and Bruce sat at the head of the table overlooking it all. Even Damian looked…well, less murderous than usual.

Until he spotted her.

The conversation didn't exactly die, but it shifted, like an orchestra missing a beat. Annabeth's feet felt rooted to the doorway, caught between fleeing back upstairs and forcing herself to act normal.

"Ah, Miss Annabeth." Alfred's voice cut through her paralysis. "I'll fetch you a plate."

"I don't want to intrude-" she started.

"Nonsense," Bruce said, but his tone was careful. Measured. Detective-voice, she realized with a sinking feeling. "Please, join us."

The walk to her chair felt endless. She could feel Tim analyzing her movements, probably cataloging them against whatever he'd seen at the library. Barbara's expression was kind but evaluating. Even Dick's usual easy smile seemed strained.

"I was just discussing plans for your official return to Gotham society," Bruce continued as Alfred set a plate before her. "I've been working on the logistics. We could host a gala as soon as tomorrow evening."

Annabeth's fork clattered against her plate. "Tomorrow?"

"The sooner the better," Bruce nodded. "It's important to control the narrative. People will have questions about your return."

Questions she couldn't answer. Her chest tightened. "I don't think-"

"Father's right," Damian cut in, his voice sharp. "If you're to be...officially recognized."

The way he said it made her throat close up. Official. Real. A true threat to his position. She wanted to explain that she didn't want any of that, that she wasn't trying to take anything from him, but the words wouldn't come.

"I..." she pushed her food around her plate. "Actually, I was thinking about school. Gotham Academy, maybe? I'd need some books to catch up, I've missed a lot of-"

"Both," Bruce said firmly. "The gala will help smooth your transition back into Gotham life, including school. I'm sure your...summer camp...provided an excellent education, but-"

"It did," she said quickly. Too quickly. More suspicious glances.

"Of course," Barbara added smoothly. "Though I'm curious about their curriculum..."

Annabeth stared at her plate. She could feel the walls closing in again. Tomorrow. A gala full of Gotham's elite, all watching her, judging her, asking questions she couldn't answer. And school - real school, with normal kids and normal problems and no celestial bronze weapons allowed.

Her leg bounced under the table, already mapping escape routes. She'd done it before. Grabbed her knife and backpack, and disappeared into the night. But Percy's voice echoed in her head: "It doesn't matter who you were when you left, but who you are now that you're back."

"The gala sounds.. nice," she managed, the lie tasting like ash in her mouth.

"Excellent," Bruce smiled. "Alfred will help you prepare."

The conversation shifted to other topics, but Annabeth barely heard them over the pounding in her ears. She'd survived the Titans' fortress. She could survive one party.

Right? 

—

Starting right after dinner, with Alfred guiding Annabeth through the whirlwind of gala preparations:

"The benefit of holding a gala on such short notice," Alfred said, measuring tape in hand, "is that we avoid prolonged media speculation. The disadvantage is that we must compress a week's worth of preparation into approximately eighteen hours."

Annabeth stood stiffly as he took her measurements, feeling like a statue being assessed for structural weaknesses. The manor's private tailoring room was lined with mirrors that seemed to multiply her discomfort from every angle.

"I can just wear-" she started but she knew the response before Alfred began. 

"No," Alfred said firmly. "You cannot 'just wear' anything from your current wardrobe to your official debut as Bruce Wayne's daughter."

Daughter . The word made her flinch.

He called over a team of seamstresses and she was seven again, trussed up to look like she properly belonged in her gilded cage. The next few hours became a blur of fittings, with more seamstresses appearing from nowhere with fabric samples and half-finished gowns. They clucked over her calloused hands and the scars on her arms - battlefield souvenirs that wouldn't match the image of a proper Wayne heiress.

"Perhaps long sleeves," one murmured, eyeing a particularly nasty scratch from a hellhound that must have shown up as abhorrent despite the Mist’s best efforts to cover it up

Then came the beauty team - one Annabeth hadn't known existed. They descended on her like harpies, but with hot wax and tweezers instead of claws.

"Ow!" she yelped as they attacked her eyebrows.

"Beauty is pain, Miss Wayne," one said cheerfully.

Wayne. Not Chase. Another flinch.

Barbara arrived somewhere between the manicure (hopeless, according to the technician) and the hair consultation.

"I thought you might want some moral support," she said, wheeling in with a stack of books. "Also, these should help you catch up for Gotham Academy."

Annabeth grabbed them gratefully, trying to focus on calculus instead of the people debating what to do with her unruly curls. But the numbers kept swimming, reminding her of mazes and monsters and-

"Miss Annabeth?" Alfred's voice snapped her back. "The etiquette instructor is here."

The next two hours were a special kind of torture, a repeat of her a part of her childhood she had been more than eager to leave behind . How to walk (she'd been walking wrong her entire life, apparently). How to sit ("A lady never slumps"). How to eat ("Small bites, dear, you're not lost in the wilderness anymore"). Which fork to use (why were there so many forks?). But slowly and surely, it was all returning to her and she felt like a sick parody of herself, the demigod that braved monsters and saved the world and spent her quests in forests was now the epitome of grace and elegance. 

"Remember," the instructor droned, "everyone will be watching. Judging. One mistake could damage the Wayne reputation irreparably."

No pressure.

By midnight, her head was spinning with rules and expectations. Don't fidget. Don't slouch. Don't mention anything that might raise questions about those missing years. Be vague but charming. Smile, but not too much.

"You should rest," Barbara said finally, noticing Annabeth's glazed expression. "Big day tomorrow."

Annabeth nodded numbly, heading for her room. But as she passed Bruce's study, she heard voices:

"...background check complete?" That was Tim .

"...summer camp doesn't exist..." Damian .

She walked faster.

In her room, the new gown hung like a ghost - pale gray silk that could properly pay yearly rent for a small apartment. Her reflection in the mirror looked wrong somehow, too polished, too perfect. A thin veneer of civilization painted over something wild and dangerous.

She touched the fabric gently. It would be so easy to tear.

Outside, an owl called. Annabeth locked her window.

—

The morning started with more hands pulling at her than a monster attack. Hair stylists wielding hot irons like weapons, makeup artists debating how to "soften her intense gaze," and manicurists tsk-ing over her battle-worn hands.

"Smile," one commanded, applying something to her lips. Annabeth attempted it, but caught her reflection - it looked more like a cornered wolf baring its teeth.

She couldn't stop fidgeting as they worked, every touch making her want to reach for her knife. Which was currently hidden under her mattress, because "No weapons at the gala, Miss Wayne." Even the name felt like an ill-fitting costume.

Barbara arrived around noon and Stephaine followed her with pity in her eyes. "Oh God, I’m so happy I’m not a real Wayne! As much as I like dress-up, this is surely a new form of torture."

"How are you holding up?", Barbara said, monitoring the preparations from her wheelchair. 

"Fine," Annabeth lied, watching another stylist approach with what looked suspiciously like false eyelashes. "Totally fine."

"Hmm," Barbara's expression said she wasn't fooled. "You know, when I first started attending these functions-"

But she was interrupted by Tim poking his head in. His eyes swept the room in that detective way that made Annabeth's skin crawl lately. "Bruce wants to review the security arrangements."

"I'll be right back," Barbara promised.

Annabeth sat in uncomfortable silence as more people fussed over her. Through the window, she could see Damian in the garden, practicing sword forms with brutal precision. Her fingers itched for her own blade.

The afternoon crept by in a haze of last-minute adjustments and rapid-fire etiquette reminders. "Remember to-" and "Don't forget-" and "Whatever you do, don't-"

By the time they finally helped her into the gown, Annabeth felt like she was being sealed into armor for a battle she wasn't sure how to fight. The silk whispered against her skin like secrets.

"Beautiful," someone sighed.

Annabeth stared at her reflection. The girl in the mirror looked like a stranger - all smooth edges and careful construction, nothing like the demigod who'd fought her way across the country. Her curls had been tamed into elegant waves, her scars hidden under expensive makeup. She looked...mortal. Her mother would have been disgusted. She certainly was.

"It's almost time," Alfred announced from the doorway. "The first guests will be arriving soon."

Annabeth's stomach lurched. "I need a minute," she managed, and fled to the bathroom before anyone could stop her.

She gripped the marble counter, trying to steady her breathing. Just a party. She'd faced worse. She'd held up the sky, for gods' sake. But somehow this felt heavier - all those expectations, all those eyes watching, waiting for her to slip up...

A knock at the door. "Annabeth?" Jason’s voice. "You good?"

"Yeah," she called back, voice only slightly shaky. "Just reviewing proper fork placement."

A pause. "You know you don't have to-"

"I'll be right out."

She straightened, checking her reflection one last time. The makeup couldn't quite hide the shadows under her eyes, but maybe everyone would mistake lack of sleep for aristocratic pallor.

The sound of cars arriving drifted up from below. Showtime .

Annabeth took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders like she was facing a monster. In some ways, she was.

Time to pretend to be normal. Time to play mortal. Time to convince all of Gotham's elite that she belonged in this world of silk and secrets.

She opened the door and headed straight for the ballroom.

The grand staircase of Wayne Manor loomed before her like the entrance to Olympus . Annabeth touched the corner of her dress where her knife should have been, finding only smooth silk. Below, she could hear the murmur of Gotham's elite, waiting to judge Bruce Wayne's prodigal daughter.

"Ready?" Dick appeared beside her, offering his arm. His smile was gentle, but she caught the careful way he watched her movements - still analyzing, still suspicious.

"Born ready," she muttered, taking his arm. The lies came easier in this dress, slipping into an old skin she'd shed years ago.

The announcer's voice boomed: "Miss Annabeth Wayne, daughter of Bruce Wayne."

Every head turned. Annabeth forced herself to descend the stairs like she'd been drilled - back straight, chin up, careful smile fixed in place. She was acutely aware of Tim and Damian watching from different corners of the room, cataloging her every move.

"My dear!" A woman in diamonds swooped in the moment she reached the bottom. "I remember you when you were just a tiny thing. Such a tragedy, your disappearance. But look at you now!"

Annabeth's rehearsed response died in her throat as she noticed the woman's owlish gaze that batted at her in a way that screamed false innocence. 

"Thank you," she managed, as Dick smoothly steered her away. "It's good to be home."

The next hour was a blur of similar conversations, each guest more probing than the last. They all wanted to know where she'd been, what she'd done, why she'd returned. She stuck to her prepared answers - boarding school abroad, personal reasons, family loyalty - but she could feel Bruce watching, noting every variation in her story.

"You're doing great," Barbara assured her during a brief respite. "Just keep-"

"Annabeth Wayne?" A new voice cut in. "I'm Rachel Elizabeth Dare. Our fathers do business together."

The redhead's appearance was jarring among the formal wear - her black dress was splattered with what looked like paint, and her curls were deliberately untamed. Something about her made Annabeth's demigod senses tingle. The girl radiated an aura of casual disregard for everything Annabeth had spent hours perfecting.

"Nice to meet you," Annabeth said carefully, envying how easily Rachel seemed to wear her chaos.

Rachel's green eyes seemed to look right through her. "Is it? You're lying about something. I can tell."

Annabeth's careful mask slipped for a moment. "Excuse me?"

"Rachel," her father appeared, looking apologetic. "Stop bothering Miss Wayne. I apologize, she's...imaginative."

But Rachel kept staring at her with unsettling intensity. "There's something different about you. Something ancient. Like the shadows I've been seeing around Gotham. You remind me of him..."

"Annabeth." Barbara’s voice cut through the tension. "The Kanes would like to meet you."

She escaped gratefully, but Rachel's words echoed in her head. Shadows around Gotham?

The Kanes turned out to be an elderly couple with sharp eyes and matching owl cufflinks. "We've been so looking forward to meeting you," Mrs. Kane said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "We're particularly interested in your...educational background."

Something about their posture made Annabeth's combat instincts flare. They stood too perfectly still, like predators waiting to strike.

"I'm afraid it's rather boring," she deflected and looked around for Barbra  but she was lost in the masses.

"Oh, we doubt that." Mr. Kane's voice dropped lower. "We have certain...educational programs ourselves. For gifted young people with...particular heritage. Your mother would have appreciated our curriculum."

Annabeth's pulse quickened. The casual mention of her mother felt deliberate, probing. She recalled what the media had said about her mother, a university lecturer that passed away. She had never been sure if that was the persona Athena took when she met Bruce or it was one of his easy white lies. He had a habit of crafting perfect cover stories, weaving truth and fiction so seamlessly that sometimes even she struggled to remember which parts were real - a skill that had made her wonder, more than once, if that's where she'd inherited her own talent for deception from.

 Before she could respond, Damian appeared.

"Father requires your presence," he said curtly, but his hand on her arm was almost protective as he led her away.

"Thanks," she muttered.

"Don't." His voice was cold. "I simply couldn't allow unknown parties to compromise family security. Though you seem to know more about these people than you're saying."

The accusation in his tone hit like a punch to the gut. Did she even qualify as family anymore?

As the night wore on, Annabeth noticed more owls - in jewelry, on cufflinks, worked into the patterns of expensive dresses but when she double-takes they transformed into a floral design or something equally as abstract. Coincidence? Or was she finally cracking under the pressure?

"You seem tense," Tim appeared at her elbow, offering a glass of apple cider. "Worried about something?"

"Just tired," she said, but her eyes tracked another guest wearing an owl pendant. "All these people..."

"Yes," Tim's voice was carefully neutral. "Lots of Gotham's oldest families here tonight. They’re quite interesting, don't you think? Almost as interesting as what I saw in San Francisco."

Before she could process that loaded comment, a commotion near the entrance drew their attention. Rachel Dare stood in the doorway, her dress now sporting fresh paint stains, looking around the room with an expression of someone seeing things no one else could.

"Fascinating," Tim murmured with a strange type clinical interest that made Annabeth want to warn the redhead despite their previous altercation "She sees something too, doesn't she?"

Annabeth's carefully constructed world began to feel like it was teetering on the edge of chaos

As Rachel disappeared into the crowd, Annabeth found herself gripping her water glass too tightly. The redhead's effortless nonconformity felt like a personal attack on everything Annabeth had spent the evening trying to be.

"Careful," Tim said. "That's Waterford crystal."

She loosened her grip, forcing another practiced smile as an elderly woman approached. This time she was sure. She wore a pearl necklace with tiny owl charms dangling between each pearl.

"Miss Wayne," the woman's voice was honey-sweet but her eyes were sharp as talons. "I'm Margaret Crowley. I knew your grandmother, Martha, quite well. We were both part of certain...social circles."

"How lovely," Annabeth managed, fighting the urge to step back. There was something predatory in the way Mrs. Crowley stood, like she was assessing prey.

"Your grandmother had such wisdom," Mrs. Crowley continued. "Such vision for Gotham's future. We'd love to share that vision with you, dear. Perhaps over tea next week?"

Before Annabeth could respond, Barbara wheeled between them. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Crowley, but Annabeth's schedule is quite full with her Gotham Academy preparations."

Mrs. Crowley's smile tightened. "Another time, then." She glided away, but Annabeth could feel her watching.

"Thanks," she whispered to Barbara.

"No problem. Though you might want to work on your poker face. You looked ready to bolt."

"I'm fine," Annabeth insisted, but her eyes kept tracking the owls in the room. They seemed to be multiplying – or was she just getting paranoid?

"Miss Wayne?" A young man appeared, offering his hand. "James Court." His cufflinks were tiny silver owls with diamond eyes that seemed to wink in the chandelier light. "Would you care to dance?"

She wanted to refuse, but Alfred's voice echoed in her head: "A lady never shows discourtesy to a guest."

"Of course," she said, taking his hand.

As they moved across the dance floor, James leaned closer than strictly necessary. "You know, we've been watching your career with great interest."

"My career?" Annabeth kept her voice light, though her skin crawled. "I wasn't aware I had one yet."

"Oh, but you do. Your... achievements have not gone unnoticed." His grip tightened slightly. "We have associates across the country. Even in...San Francisco."

Annabeth missed a step, her heart pounding. Mount Tam. He couldn't know about that. Could he? 

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," she said carefully.

"Don't you?" His smile reminded her of Luke's before everything went wrong. "We value wisdom above all else, Miss Wayne."

The word hit like a knife to the gut. Wisdom . Did these mortals even know what that truly meant? Before she could respond, Dick cut in smoothly. "Mind if I steal my sister for a dance?"

James bowed, his smile never wavering. "Of course. We'll talk again soon, Miss Wayne."

As Dick led her away, Annabeth fought to keep her composure. "I need some air."

"The terrace is crawling with photographers," Dick warned, but steered her toward a quieter corner of the ballroom. "Want to tell me what that was about?"

"Nothing," she said automatically. "Just...overwhelmed."

His eyes narrowed involuntarily, but before he could press further, Bruce appeared. "Everything alright?"

"Fine," Annabeth said quickly. Too quickly, judging by the look Bruce and Dick exchanged.

Across the room, Rachel Dare was watching her with unsettling intensity. Next to her, Mrs. Crowley and James Court were deep in conversation, occasionally glancing her way.

"Actually," Annabeth amended, "I think I need to use the powder room."

She escaped down a side corridor, her heels clicking against marble. The sounds of the party faded, replaced by blessed silence. She leaned against a wall, closing her eyes.

"Rough night?"

Annabeth jumped. Rachel Dare stood near the mirror, her paint-splattered dress incongruous against the manor's elegant wallpaper.

"What do you want?" Annabeth didn't bother hiding her irritation.

"To warn you." Rachel's green eyes were eerily bright. "There are shadows gathering. Old shadows, wise shadows. They're watching you."

"I don't need cryptic warnings from-"

"The owls are not what they seem," Rachel interrupted. "And neither are you, Annabeth Chase. Or is it Wayne now?"

Annabeth's blood ran cold. "How did you-"

But Rachel was already walking away, humming something that sounded disturbingly like a funeral dirge.

Annabeth stayed frozen for a moment, mind racing. First Gotham aristocrats with their pointed comments about San Francisco, now Rachel. It was too much of a coincidence. She stepped out of the dimly lit room and pulled out a drachma, fingers  slowly circling its beautiful decorated exterior. Who would she call? Percy? And what would she say? That she was being paranoid about owls? That her past was catching up with her in ways she didn't understand?

"Annabeth?" Damian's voice made her jump again. "Father's looking for you. It's time for the photos."

She straightened, smoothing her dress. "Right. Of course."

As she followed Damian back to the party, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a window. She looked perfect, polished, proper – everything a Wayne heiress should be.

But in the dark glass, just for a moment, she could have sworn she saw owl wings shadowing her shoulders.

The camera flashes felt like Greek fire, burning away her defenses one snapshot at a time. Annabeth stood between Bruce and Damian, maintaining her careful smile as reporters shouted questions.

"Miss Wayne, where exactly were you during your absence?" "Any comment on the rumors about your mother?" "Will you be taking a position at Wayne Enterprises?"

Bruce fielded most of them with practiced ease, his hand steady on her shoulder. But Annabeth could feel Damian's tension beside her, his posture rigid with suspicion.

"Just a few more," Bruce murmured, steering her toward the next group of photographers.

That's when she saw it – an owl, perched in the shadows of the balcony above. A real one, its eyes gleaming gold in the darkness. It shouldn't be there. Couldn't be there.

"Annabeth?" Bruce's voice seemed distant.

The owl tilted its head, and for a moment, she could have sworn its eyes glowed with intelligence. With wisdom.

"Miss Wayne?" One of the reporters pressed closer. "You seem distracted. Is everything-"

"She's fine," Tim cut in smoothly, appearing at her other side. "Just overwhelmed by all the attention. If you'll excuse us..."

He guided her away from the cameras, his grip on her elbow both supportive and questioning. "You saw something."

It wasn't a question.

"No," she said automatically, then caught herself. "I mean…it was nothing."

"Like the 'nothing' I saw in San Francisco?" His voice was barely a whisper. "The things that didn't make sense through the fog?"

Annabeth's heart skipped. The Mist. He was talking about the Mist.

Before she could respond, Alfred appeared with impeccable timing. "Master Bruce requests your presence in the east drawing room, Miss Annabeth. A few of the board members wish to discuss your future involvement with the company."

Tim's eyes narrowed at the interruption, but he released her arm. "We'll finish this conversation later."

The east drawing room was darker than the main hall, lit primarily by antique wall sconces. A group of elderly men in expensive suits turned as she entered. Each one, she noticed with growing unease, wore some form of owl insignia.

"Ah, Miss Wayne," one stepped forward, his owl tie pin glinting. "I'm Harold Court, James's father. We've been reviewing potential positions for you in the company."

Annabeth's diplomatic smile stayed fixed in place, though something in his tone made her skin prickle.

"Our research division might interest you," another board member added. "We're currently studying some fascinating ancient architectural principles. The old masters had secrets we're still trying to understand."

"I'm afraid I don't have much experience in that area," she said carefully.

"Oh, but you have...natural aptitude, shall we say?" Harold Court smiled. "Our organization values wisdom passed down through generations. There are patterns, Miss Wayne, that repeat throughout history. Cycles that turn again and again."

Something about the way he said 'cycles' made her think of prophecies, of the Great Prophecy, but that was impossible. They couldn't know.

"I believe," Bruce's voice cut through the tension as he entered, "that's enough business talk for one evening. This is a celebration, after all."

The men exchanged looks and there was something about the way the elites descended on her, only for to get interrupted the moment they dropped anything worthwhile made her nauseous. The way it seemed that some being up above was divinely interfering… 

Harold Court bowed slightly, "Of course "But do consider our offer, Miss Wayne. Wayne Enterprises' oldest divisions have...fascinating histories. I’m sure your grandmother would have appreciated our dedication to preserving ancient knowledge."

The repeated mention of her grandmother felt probing once again. Before Annabeth could respond, could demand if they were ignorant or if it was her that had everything backward— they were already filing out.

As they left, Annabeth caught a glimpse of Rachel in the hallway, her face pale as she stared at something only she could see. Their eyes met for a moment, and Rachel's expression was pure terror.

"Annabeth," Bruce's voice was carefully neutral. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

She looked up at her father – her mortal father, who had taken her in when she was left at her doorstep, lost her at seven, and found her again on a mountain shrouded in mist and monsters. Who still didn't know the full truth of what he'd seen that day.

"I..." she started, but movement caught her eye. Through the window, a line of owls perched on the garden wall, their heads turning in perfect unison to stare at her.

"I don't know," she finished quietly.

Rachel's sketchbook lay abandoned on a nearby table, open to a rough drawing of an owl-crowned figure standing atop what looked disturbingly like Mount Olympus.

Chapter Text

Tim jerked awake to a pillow smacking his face with unnecessary force. His laptop slid precariously from his chest as he flailed, barely catching it before it hit the ground. The Manor's living room came into focus, along with Damian's scowling face.

"Eloquent as always, Drake," Damian said, watching Tim struggle to sit up. "I see your investigative prowess extends to drooling on case files."

"Some of us actually work through the night and value our sleep," Tim muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. His neck protested the awkward angle he'd fallen asleep in. The table before him was strewn with papers - surveillance photos, background checks, incident reports. All centered around one person.

Tim Drake was used to puzzles. He prided himself on being able to see patterns where others saw chaos. But lately, the pieces weren't just refusing to fit - they seemed to be actively changing shape every time he looked at them. They'd both been dancing around the subject of Anne Elizabeth Wayne for weeks now and he was obsessing again and given what happened the last time he had gotten this invested in a mystery, it wasn't looking all too good.  

"Clearly," Damian's voice dripped sarcasm. He moved through the room with his characteristic predatory grace as he analyzed his notes. "And what groundbreaking discoveries have you made between your narcoleptic episodes?"

Tim rubbed his eyes, but the text on his screen continued to squirm and shift. He had made an attempt to locate the boy he saw in Bruce’s office before it had all gone down and he was oddly enough the only one from that group whom he could find. Perseus Jackson. But every time he tried to focus on the details about him, the text seemed to rearrange itself. Just like everything else connected to their prodigal sister. 

His school records were a digital nightmare - every time he thought he had something concrete, the details would blur and transform. Still, patterns emerged through the static. 

"Yancy Academy, expelled. Manhattan Middle School, expelled. Meriweather Prep..." Tim muttered, taking another swig of his now-cold coffee. "Every single school. Some kind of incident. Property damage. Missing students. And always with witnesses reporting impossible things."

He pulled up a news article from 2020: "NATIONWIDE MANHUNT FOR 12-YEAR-OLD SUSPECT IN GREYHOUND BUS EXPLOSION." The image was grainy, but he recognized those sea-green eyes. The same eerie ones he'd seen in San Francisco.

"Get this," Tim called to Damian, who was methodically sharpening his blade across the room. "Percy Jackson allegedly blew up the St. Louis Arch. Witnesses claimed he was thrown from the top - nearly 600 feet up - but somehow survived. Police found him in the Mississippi River."

"Suicide attempt?"

"No. He was completely unharmed." Tim's fingers flew across the keyboard. "And that's not all. Bridge collapse in Long Island. Explosion at his school Multiple school gymnasiums destroyed. This kid leaves more property damage in his wake than the Joker."

"Perhaps he's meta-human," Damian suggested, but his tone suggested he didn't believe it.

"Maybe. But look at this pattern." Tim projected his findings onto the wall. "Every incident, there are reports of strange lights. Impossible creatures. Details that don't add up. Just like-"

"Just like San Francisco," Damian finished, already fed up with its repeated mention."Something's wrong with this whole situation," Tim said, pulling up the footage from San Francisco from the jet. "Look at this again. Bruce's private jet goes down, but Batman emerges. Those teenagers had escape routes planned. They knew exactly what they were doing."

"Your point?"

"My point is that she was with them. Working with them. And now suddenly she's back home playing dollhouse?" Tim ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "Since when does Bruce just accept someone back without question? He background checks the background checkers, but with her..."

"Father is already investigating-"

"Is he?" Tim swiveled in his chair to face Damian fully. "Or is he deliberately keeping us away from this case? Have you noticed how he changes the subject whenever we bring up anything related to these disappearances? Or how Annabeth seems to recognize things she shouldn't?"

Damian's jaw clenched. "She knows something, and he's compromised. Emotionally invested. Just like with Todd."

"They both do." Tim ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "And whatever it is, it's big enough that Batman - Batman - is trying to protect us from it."

"No one protects me," Damian snapped, but there was uncertainty in his voice. "I am my father's true heir-"

"Yeah? Then why did your mother warn you about her?"

Damian went very still. "How did you-"

"Please." Tim rolled his eyes. "You've been radiating anxiety since she arrived. The great Damian Wayne doesn't get nervous unless Talia's involved somehow."

For a moment, Tim thought Damian might attack him. Instead, the younger boy seemed to deflate slightly. "Mother... she used to speak of her. Of how the Wayne blood carries power we don't understand."

"Power," Tim repeated slowly, thinking of the impossible things he'd seen in San Francisco. "Like how my brain keeps glitching whenever I try to focus on certain things around her?"

"You experience it too?" Damian moved closer to the screens. "I thought...I assumed it was some League training affecting my perception."

"Nope. Whatever this is, it's bigger than the League." Tim pulled up another file - security footage from the gala. "Watch how she moves through the crowd. Every person who approached her? Old money. Gotham aristocracy. She's expecting them." 

Damian leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he watched the way certain guests seemed to gravitate toward Annabeth throughout the night. "Like pre-arranged meetings."

"The same night three prominent researchers go missing." Tim's voice had an edge to it now, the kind that made criminals rethink their life choices. "All specialists in their fields. All considered brilliant. All last seen near Wayne properties."

"You think she's involved in the case." It wasn't a question.

"I think we're idiots if we don't consider it." Tim stood, pacing now.

"Mother warned me about her," Damian said quietly. "About the Wayne blood carrying power. About her claim preceding mine." His hand drifted to his katana hilt.

"She shows up right when people start disappearing?" Tim shook his head. "Bruce isn't seeing it because he doesn't want to. But look at the pattern - she has connections to some group powerful enough to make my eyes blur when I try to focus on them. She vanished for years, then suddenly returns when the Court becomes active again?"

"And she conveniently returns now?" Damian's scowl deepened. "With her...connections?"

"Exactly." Tim pulled up the Manor's security feeds. "Watch her at night. She never sleeps. Just paces, making calls in some language I can't identify. And look at this-" He highlighted a figure scaling the Manor walls. "Her friend from San Francisco. Perseus Jackson in the flesh. The one with the weird sword. Visiting at 3 AM."

"Father allows this?"

"Bruce doesn't know. Or doesn't want to know." Tim's voice was bitter. "He's so happy to have her back, he's missing what's right in front of him. Just like with Jason."

Tim zoomed in on another report. "Jackson was also connected to multiple missing person cases. Including his own mother, who vanished for a week before mysteriously reappearing. Witnesses reported seeing..." He squinted at the text, which seemed to actively resist being read. "...a man with one eye? That can't be right."

"And look! Guess who shows up in security footage near every major incident?" Tim pulled up a blurred image. "Anne Elizabeth Wayne. Always in the background, always just out of focus. Like reality itself is trying to hide her."

"A twelve-year-old survives a fall that would kill anyone else. Impossible creatures. Reality distortion." Damian stood, moving to examine the projected files. "And now she returns with a friend who has a habit of destroying national monuments," Tim added grimly. "Bruce is so focused on having her back, he's missing what's right in front of him. Whatever Jackson is, whatever group they're working with..."

"She’s much more dangerous than Father realizes," Damian finished.

Tim stared at the corrupted files, his detective's mind racing. Jackson's record read like a supernatural crime spree, and Annabeth had been there for all of it. Now they were both connected to disappearances in Gotham. 

And their sister was right in the middle of it all.

"We need to move faster," Tim said, already reaching for his comm unit. "Before Bruce's blind spot gets us all killed."

The text on his screen flickered one last time before dissolving into complete nonsense. But Tim had seen enough. Whatever game Annabeth and her friend were playing, it went deeper than any of them had imagined.

Damian was quiet for a moment, fingering his katana hilt. "What do you propose?"

"We investigate. Quietly." Tim started gathering his files. "Bruce is compromised, but we're not. Whatever she's planning- we find out. And if necessary..."

"We stop her," Damian finished, and for once, there was no antagonism between them. Just shared purpose.

"We need to track down that Jackson kid," Tim said, already plotting. "He was there in San Francisco. He knows something. And his records keep...changing. Like reality itself is being rewritten."

Then Damian faultured as if he just realized what he said. "You want us to... cooperate ?" he said the word like it tasted bad.

"Unless you'd rather stay in the dark while Bruce and Annabeth handle whatever this is themselves?"

That did it. Tim could practically see Damian's pride warring with his curiosity. Finally, the younger Wayne gave a sharp nod.

"Very well. But we do this my way."

"Half your way," Tim countered. "And no stabbing anyone unless absolutely necessary."

"Tt. You take all the fun out of investigation, Drake. I have League contacts who specialize in alternative interrogation."

"No stabbing," Tim repeated automatically, then paused. "At least, not yet. We need to be smart about this. If she really is working part of a larger conspiracy"

"Then she's a threat to everything Father has built." Damian's voice was cold. 

Tim nodded grimly. He'd seen what happened when Bruce's children turned against him. Never again. Whatever game Annabeth was playing, whatever power she was afterr - they would stop it.

Even if it meant losing their sister all over again.

"Get some rest," Damian said, turning to leave. "You're useless when sleep-deprived."

"Was that actual concern, Demon Spawn?"

"Tt. Merely practical strategy." But Damian paused at the door. "Drake? If we're right about this..."

"I know." Tim's voice was hard. "But Bruce took us in. Trained us. We protect our own."

Even from itself.

And he was going to figure it out, even if it meant accepting the impossible. Assuming, of course, they didn't kill each other first.

₊⁺⋆⁺₊

Annabeth's first month back in Gotham passed in a blur of obligation and carefully maintained appearances. She attended galas and banquets, searching for that strange redhead with paint-stained hands and too-knowing eyes. She should’ve recognized her intelligence before and kept her close. She then hosted a benefit herself, but Rachel Elizabeth Dare was a sprite that would only appear on her own terms. Each time Annabeth thought she caught a glimpse of wild red curls, they would dissolve into the crowd like Mist.

Instead, she found herself cornered by Gotham's elite, their words dripping with honey-sweet implications of inner circles and ancient traditions. Just enough information to spark curiosity, never enough to satisfy it. They wore their secrets like their designer clothes – expertly tailored to reveal nothing while suggesting everything.

The manor felt different too. Her ASL lessons with Cassandra and Barbara continued, but there was a new tension in Barbara's shoulders when she corrected Annabeth's form lingering under her strict professionalism. Dick, Tim, and Damian vanished for weeks at a time with their teams, leaving empty chairs at family dinners. Even Bruce got called away on some space mission, and the manor's shadows seemed to deepen in his absence.

She spent a week with Jason to make up for lost time, their sharp edges clashing until they both needed space. It got old fast as it was painfully obvious everyone walked around eggshells when dealing with him, something Annabeth refused to do and they got into petty arguments all the fucking time. She liked that they were on even ground, but he was annoying and immature like all brothers were. Percy would have said something sarcastic about Jason being one of those kids you know weren't hit enough as a child, but he wasn't here to say it. Though he did manage to sneak in through her window one night, bringing the scent of ocean air and normalcy with him. She was pretty sure Alfred knew – the freshly baked cookies they made and left in front of his door  the next morning were definitely a message. That was her highlight of the month. 

Between tutoring sessions and Academy prep, Annabeth found herself drawn to Robinson Park. Spring painted Gotham in unexpectedly gentle colors, softening the city's Gothic edges with cherry blossoms and new leaves. But there was something else about the park that tugged at her – something in the way the paths curved through ancient trees, forming patterns that almost reminded her of...something. Not Greek letters, but similar. Older maybe, or just different.

She noticed other things too. A woman feeding pigeons while wearing gold bands shaped like coiled snakes. A street vendor selling coffee from a cart decorated with eye symbols that made her think of her mother's owls, but weren't quite right. 

The owls were still there, watching from their perches, but they seemed...uncertain now. Like they were sharing their territory with something else. Something equally ancient but fundamentally different.

It all came to a head one misty morning when she found a note slipped under her door. The paper was thick, expensive, with a watermark she couldn't quite make out. The message was simple:

Knowledge seeks its own. The Court extends an invitation.

Below was an address in the old quarter, and a time: midnight.

Annabeth traced the strange symbols embossed in the corner – not Greek, but somehow familiar. Like something she'd seen in the park, or maybe in a dream. They seemed to shift under her fingers, rearranging themselves when she wasn't looking directly at them.

She should tell Bruce. Or Alfred. Or literally anyone.

Instead, she found herself reaching for her knife, the familiar bronze catching the morning light. Whatever was happening in Gotham went deeper than secret societies and wealthy elites. There were too many patterns emerging, too many ancient things stirring.

Time to find out what the Court really was – and why they seemed so interested in a daughter who'd just found her way home. Did they know her heritage or were they just mortals playing a God’s game with things they didn't truly understand. She really hoped it was the latter. This was all supposed to be an escape from the mythological world.

And so she decided to escape in the middle of the night, like so many times before, to take the scenic route in order to evade all the city cameras. 

—

The park was different at night.

Annabeth walked the winding paths, her knife a reassuring weight against her leg. The evening mist had rolled in from the bay, turning the Victorian lamp posts into glowing orbs that barely penetrated the darkness. Spring's gentle facade had faded, revealing something older beneath the manicured lawns and careful plantings.

She was early for the Court's meeting, deliberately so. Better to scope out the territory first – a lesson learned from too many ambushes. But as she rounded the path near the old fountain, she realized she wasn't alone.

The Kanes stood near a cluster of ancient oaks, their professional attire oddly formal for a midnight stroll. After the odd encounter at the gala, she did some research about Julius the famous Egyptologist and his wife Ruby whose family line could be traced back eons. Ruby Kane's gold jewelry caught the lamplight strangely, seeming to shift and move of its own accord. Julius held what looked like an ivory walking stick, though something about its shape made Annabeth's eyes want to slide away from it.

"Miss Wayne," Ruby's voice was urgent but controlled. "You shouldn't be here."

"I have a meeting," Annabeth said carefully, noting how they positioned themselves between her and the deeper shadows of the park.

"No," Julius said firmly. "You have a trap. The Court...they're not what you think. They deal in knowledge, yes, but not the kind you know."

"And what kind would that be?" Annabeth challenged, tired of cryptic warnings.

Ruby stepped closer, her necklace gleaming with symbols that reminded Annabeth of the ones from the invitation – but these seemed more...alive somehow. "There are different paths to wisdom," she said softly. "Different ways of knowing. The Court claims one tradition but serves another. They've forgotten their original purpose, twisted it into something dangerous."

"You sound like you know them well," Annabeth observed.

"We know enough to recognize when powers are being misused," Julius said. His walking stick tapped against the ground, and for a moment Annabeth could have sworn symbols flared in the dirt. "There are barriers breaking down. Old boundaries becoming...permeable. The Court senses it, but they don't understand what they're dealing with."

“We tried to protect you, my dear. Tried to shift you onto an easier path when we noticed the Court had its eyes on you. Come to Brooklyn with us. Our power is severely limited here. You may be the first but you can still escape their claws if you are willing to learn the things we teach.”

A night bird called – not an owl, but something else. Something that made Ruby's hand tighten on her husband's arm.

"We can't stay or our cover will be compromised," she said quickly. "But listen carefully: don't trust their offers of knowledge. Some wisdom comes at too high a price. And some traditions weren't meant to mix."

"What traditions?" Annabeth demanded, tired of everyone’s half-truths, "What's really happening in Gotham?"

But the Kanes were already moving away, their steps unnaturally quiet on the gravel path. Just before they disappeared into the mist, Ruby turned back.

"Find out what is happening behind Gotham itself and the things that are being concealed," she called softly. "And remember – not all birds serve the same master."

They vanished into the darkness, leaving Annabeth with more questions than answers. The night seemed deeper now, the shadows more alive. Somewhere in the distance, a clock began to strike midnight.

Time to meet the Court. But as she headed deeper into the park, Annabeth couldn't shake the feeling that she was walking a path much older than Gotham's carefully planned gardens. And somewhere above, watching from the trees, she could sense two very different kinds of eyes – some belonging to owls, and others to something far more ancient.

The old quarter was all sharp angles and deeper shadows, Gothic architecture reaching toward a moonless sky. Annabeth approached the address – an aging brownstone with elaborate moldings that, in the darkness, resembled watching eyes.

Her instincts screamed danger, but a different kind than she was used to. Not the sharp immediacy of monsters, but something older. More patient.

The door opened before she could knock.

"Welcome, Miss Wayne." The figure wore an elegant white mask shaped like an owl's face, Victorian formal wear making them seem like they'd stepped out of Gotham's past. She thought of the men in the library and how they looked so similar but different. "We're so pleased you accepted our invitation."

The interior was all old money and older secrets – mahogany panels, Persian rugs, oil paintings of Gotham's glory days. But something made her skin prickle, a presence in the shadows that set her demigod senses humming. Not divine, but not quite mortal either.

More masked figures waited in what must have been a ballroom once. They stood in a loose circle, their owl faces catching the light from antique chandeliers. One stepped forward – female, judging by the voice.

"We've watched your progress with great interest," she said warmly. "Your academic achievements, your architectural insight. You have a gift for seeing patterns others miss."

"Most people would call that stalking," Annabeth said dryly, though her pulse quickened. How much did they know?

A low chuckle. "We prefer to think of it as...recognition. Gotham's oldest families have always valued wisdom, understanding. We've preserved knowledge others would see lost to time."

"And what kind of knowledge is that?"

"The kind that shapes cities," another figure said. "The kind that built Gotham's foundations. Surely you've noticed the patterns in the architecture? The sacred geometry hidden in plain sight?"

Annabeth had – she'd spent weeks analyzing the city's strange designs, the way certain buildings seemed to hint at a larger picture, of something shadowy in broad daylight. But she wasn't about to admit that.

"We can show you more," the first woman said. "There are secrets in this city older than the Wayne fortune. Wisdom passed down through generations. Your own mother understood the value of such knowledge."

Something shifted in the shadows behind them. Annabeth's hand tightened on her concealed knife. Whatever was watching made her battle instincts sing – a predator, perfectly still but ready to strike.

"You seem to know a lot about my mother," she said carefully.

"We know those who seek wisdom," another masked figure replied. "Those who understand that knowledge is power, and power must be...guided. Protected. Preserved."

"By people like you?"

"By people like us," the woman corrected. "You have a place here, Anne Elizabeth. A birthright beyond the Wayne name. We can help you understand it."

The shadows moved again. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Think about it," the woman continued. "We'll be in touch. After all, wisdom takes time to ripen."

They led her out with perfect courtesy, but Annabeth could feel the weight of invisible eyes following her every step. The thing in the shadows – whatever it was – tracked her movement with inhuman precision.

Only when she was blocks away did she let herself shake. Their words echoed in her head, hitting pressure points she didn't know she had. Knowledge. Wisdom. Patterns. A birthright beyond the Wayne name.

But underneath their honeyed offers, she'd sensed something else. Something that reminded her of Luke's promises before everything went wrong. Of power twisted just enough to look like truth.

The Kanes' warning rang in her ears.

She needed to find out what was going on with Wayne Enterprises. And maybe, just maybe, why the Court's promises of ancient knowledge made her think of her mother's worst aspects – pride and hunger for power – twisted into something almost unrecognizable.

But first, she needed to figure out what that presence in the shadows had been. Because whatever was hunting through Gotham's nights wasn't fully human anymore.

And she had a terrible feeling it knew exactly what she was.

Chapter Text

I brought waffles," Stephanie announced, dropping into the seat across from Annabeth at the Gotham Public Library. "Babs said you've been haunting the archives, and Alfred's worried."

Annabeth glanced up from her stack of historical records, momentarily surprised. After their rooftop conversation weeks ago, she hadn't expected Stephanie to actually follow through on the waffle offer. "How did you—"

"There are only so many places to do research on creepy old buildings in Gotham." Stephanie pushed the takeout container across the table. "Also, you look like you haven't slept in days."

"I'm not researching creepy old buildings," Annabeth protested automatically. Then looked down at the 1891 architectural survey spread out before her. "Okay, maybe I am."

Stephanie stole a piece of waffle. "Want to tell me why? And don't say 'it's complicated' again. Everything in Gotham is complicated."

Annabeth poked at the waffle, considering. The lack of sleep was making her thoughts blur together – architectural patterns mixing with memories of another maze, another world : Clarisse calling about finding Chris Rodriguez babbling about string in the desert heat right outside her house and Chrion informing her about the growing tensions in Olympian politics and Deldous’s maze stirring for the first time at such unprecedented level in centuries... 

She shook her head, trying to focus.

"Look at the original Wayne Tower plans," she said finally, pushing the blueprints across the table. "The foundation goes way deeper than it needs to, and these support structures...they don't make sense."

"Bad architecture?" Stephanie suggested, peering at the faded documents.

"No, it's..." Annabeth chewed her lip. "It's like they were built around something. Or over it. And it's not just Wayne Tower." She spread out more blueprints. "The old quarter, the financial district – they're all wrong. Like the whole city was designed to... to..." She trailed off, remembering Chris's ravings about string, about paths that shouldn't exist.

"Your architect brain tingling?"

"My everything brain." Annabeth rubbed her temples. The Court's words kept echoing: sacred geometry hidden in plain sight . But what did that mean? And why did the Kanes warn her about different traditions? 

"Have you noticed anything strange about the old quarter's layout?" she asked carefully. "Besides the general Gothic horror movie vibe?"

"Like how none of the streets run straight?" Stephanie frowned. "I always figured that was just old city planning. You know, before people figured out grids were a thing."

"That's what everyone assumes. But look—" Annabeth pulled out a map she'd marked up. "The curves all center around specific buildings. Buildings that keep showing up in historical records as sites of 'unexplained phenomena.'"

"Okay, that is weird." Stephanie leaned closer. "Have you shown Bruce?"

"Not yet. I need more evidence first. But a lot of the papers I need were lost in the Condiment King’s attack" Annabeth hesitated. "The Court invited me to a meeting."

"Court as in Court of Owls? The nursery rhyme guys?" Stephanie's eyes widened. "Bruce has files on them, but mostly dismissed them as urban legends. What happened?"

Annabeth stilled at the mention of owls. So she hadn't been crazy seeing them all over the city. “Nursery rhyme” she ended up voicing, shakily. 

“Well it's like Gotham’s urban legend. I forgot you didn't grow up here and the years you did you didn't get out much. It’s this thing parents like to tell their kids, like our very own boogeyman, to get us to behave, but Bruce is so stuck up and doesn't even like entertaining that stuff.” 

She attempted a creepy voice,

“Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,

 ruling Gotham from a shadowy perch, behind granite and lime.

 They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed,

 speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send the Talon for your head.”

If the Court was real then so was the so-called Talon . Annabeth thought about what she felt a fortnite prior and the tingling of her monster senses. She turned back to Stephine. “They talked about knowledge, and power, and patterns in the city. And..." Annabeth trailed off, remembering the presence in the shadows. "Something felt wrong. Not just rich-people-in-masks wrong. Actually wrong."

"Wrong how?"

"Like..." Annabeth struggled to explain without mentioning her demigod senses. "You know how some places in Gotham just feel older than they should? Like there's something beneath the surface?"

"Like the sewers actually go down forever?" Stephanie nodded. "Yeah, I know that feeling. Found any connections?"

"Maybe." Annabeth spread out more documents. "I've been tracking property records. The Court – or people I’m assuming are connected to them – they've owned specific buildings for centuries. Always these buildings, arranged in these patterns. And look at the dates of 'unexplained phenomena' reports."

Stephanie studied the timeline Annabeth had constructed. "They spike every 27 years?"

"Like clockwork. And always centered around these locations." Annabeth pulled out a modern map where she'd marked the sites. "Something's happening in these buildings. Something the Court is either causing or taking advantage of."

"But what? And why are they interested in you?"

"That's what I need to figure out." Annabeth didn't mention how they'd talked about her mother, about birthright. Like they knew something she didn’t but if it was really just about Athena, why weren't they being straightforward? "The Kanes – these researchers I met – they warned me about 'different traditions' in Gotham. Like there's more than one group working behind the scenes."

Stephanie was quiet for a moment, examining the patterns. Then her eyes widened. "Wait a second." She pulled out her phone, bringing up an old city planning document. "Look at this. My mom used to work for the historical society – they had this theory about old power lines running under the city, but not normal power lines. They called them..."

"Ley lines?" Annabeth's heart skipped. She'd read about them in some of Daedalus's notes, but never made the connection. As a self-proclaimed expert on the Labyrinth, a subject that had fascinated her for years, she had done extensive research about it. Ley Lines were very ancient in origin, possibly dating back to the Neolithic but certainly the pre-Greek times. Daedalus often referenced them in the small diary Chiron had in which he said that he designed the Labyrinth to follow Earth's natural magical lines which maintained the structure using Gaia's energy however the entirety of its origin wasn't strictly tied to Greek beliefs.

"Yeah! They mapped them out but could never prove anything." Stephanie overlaid the digital map with Annabeth's marked locations. "Holy...they match perfectly. The buildings, the phenomena dates – they're all at intersection points."

Annabeth stared at the combined maps, her mind racing. Ley lines. Ancient paths of power. The kind of thing that could maybe, possibly, connect to other kinds of paths...

"But what does this have to do with the Court?" Stephanie asked. 

"I don't know yet." Annabeth thought of the Labyrinth, of paths that twisted between worlds. But she couldn't tell Stephanie that part. Not yet. "But it's a start."

"Well, you're not figuring it out alone anymore." Stephanie stole another waffle. "I know someone who can get us into the City Hall archives. Records going back to Gotham's founding. Most of its restricted, but..."

"Us?"

"Hey, you're not the only one who likes a good mystery. Besides," Stephanie grinned, "someone needs to make sure you actually eat and sleep while playing junior detective."

Annabeth felt something in her chest loosen slightly. She'd gotten so used to handling everything alone since coming to Gotham, careful not to show too much of what she was or what she knew. But maybe that could change. "The records are probably dusty," she finally said. "We'll need more waffles."

Above them, something shifted in the shadows of the library's vaulted ceiling. Neither of them looked up. Neither of them had to.

The Court was watching. But now they were watching back. And maybe, between Stephanie's local knowledge and Annabeth's...unique perspective, they'd figure out what the Court was really after – and why they seemed so interested in Annabeth's mother's legacy.

She just hoped they'd solve the puzzle before the Court decided they were too dangerous to leave alone. And before whatever power ran through those ley lines attracted something worse than masked socialites.

After all, Annabeth knew better than most how dangerous underground mazes could be.

 ₊⁺⋆⁺₊

The candy shop was exactly where they found Percy Jackson - a tiny place called "Sweet on America" tucked away in Grand Central Station. Tim had insisted on civilian clothes despite Damian's protests. ("We're trying to be subtle, remember?")

"There," Tim muttered, nodding toward a gangly teenager behind the counter. "That's him."

Percy Jackson looked...ordinary. Messy black hair, worn jeans, a blue employee apron that had clearly seen better days. Nothing about him screamed "national security threat" or "supernatural conspiracy." But Tim had learned long ago that the most dangerous people often looked the most harmless.

"I still say we should have brought weapons," Damian grumbled, eyeing the street exits.

"We did. They're just concealed," Tim replied, adjusting his jacket. "Remember the plan - casual conversation first. We need to-"

"Can I help you guys?"

They both startled. Percy had materialized in front of their table, somehow moving without either of them noticing. Up close, his sea-green eyes had an unsettling quality - like when looking at it you could fully encapsulate the depth of the ocean.  

"Two bags of your top sellers," Tim recovered smoothly. "And...we'd actually like to talk to you about Annabeth Chase."

Percy's expression didn't change, but something in the air seemed to shift. The temperature dropped several degrees. "Sorry, who?"

"Don't play dumb, Jackson," Damian snapped. "We know about San Francisco. About the explosions. About-"

"Oh!" Percy's face lit up with recognition. "You must be the angry gremlin child she mentioned. And you're...Tim, right? The one who doesn't sleep or is it that you sleep a little too much?"

Tim felt his eye twitch. Beside him, Damian made a sound like an angry teakettle.

"That's not- we're here to-" Tim took a breath, centering himself. "We need answers about what happened in San Francisco. About what you and Annabeth are involved in."

"Man, you guys came all the way from Gotham just to ask about field trips?" Percy started absently wiping down their table. "That's dedication. Though I guess that runs in the family, huh? The whole intense dedication thing?"

The way he emphasized those last words made Tim's spine tingle. There was something knowing in his tone.

"We're not here to play games," Damian growled. "People are disappearing. Files are being corrupted. And every trail leads back to you and-"

"You know what's funny about New York?" Percy interrupted, still wiping the same spot on the table. "It's all about pressure. Eight million people, all that concrete and steel...everything pushing down. Sometimes things just..." He shrugged. "Break. Under pressure."

The water glass on their table vibrated slightly. Tim noticed their drinks seemed fuller than before.

"Is that a threat?" Damian demanded.

"What? Nah, just making conversation. You guys seem really interested in how things work. Breaking into sealed records, following paper trails..." Percy's smile was eerily calm. "Must be frustrating when things don't add up. When the evidence just...slips away."

Tim felt his mouth go dry. "How did you know about the files?"

"Same way I know you've got three different recording devices running right now. And that the angry one has at least two knives hidden in his jacket." Percy's eyes flickered to Damian. "Really? In a candy shop?"

"You were trained," Tim said slowly. "But not by any organization we know."

"Trained?" Percy laughed, but there was an edge to it. "I'm just an about-to-be-high schooler with a part-time job. Speaking of which..." He glanced at their untouched coffees that they had grabbed from a local cafe down the street. "You might want to drink those before they get cold. Or overflow."

The liquid in their cups was definitely higher now, nearly at the rim.

"We're not leaving until-"

"Percy!" A woman's voice called from behind the counter. "Break time!"

"Coming, Mom!" Percy called back. He gave them another bright smile. "Well, this has been fun. Say hi to Annabeth for me. Tell her..." His expression softened slightly. "Tell her I get why she left, but also why she came back. Family's complicated like that."

He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and you might want to check your phones. Electronics act weird around water sometimes. Static electricity or something, you know?"

Tim pulled out his phone just as the screen flickered and went dark. When he looked up, Percy was gone.

"He didn't even move!" Damian hissed. "How did he-"

"Master Timothy," Alfred's voice crackled through their suddenly staticky comms he forgot he pressured Damian to put on in the case they split up, "Master Bruce will be back on Earth soon. Can I expect your attendance for dinner?”

Tim and Damian exchanged looks.

"We'll...be home soon, Alfred," Tim managed.

"Very good, sir. Though perhaps next time, a simple phone call would suffice instead of cross-country surveillance?"

The comm clicked off. Their coffees were somehow back to their original state as if it had all been his imagination.

"That child is playing with us," Damian growled.

"Yeah," Tim agreed, staring at his dead phone. "But he's also trying to tell us something. Did you notice how he emphasized family? And pressure?"

"A warning?"

"Maybe." Tim pulled out his notebook - analog, thankfully. "But I think it was also a message for Annabeth. He knows why she left Gotham..."

"And why she returned," Damian finished, scowling. "But that doesn't explain the disappearances, or the corrupted files, or-"

"Actually," Tim said slowly, "it might. Think about it - what if she's not the only one with secrets? What if there's a whole group of them, hiding in plain sight? And they have some way to...manipulate what people see. What they remember."

"That's improbable."

"At the very least it gives us a theory to work on so we can finally uncover the truth once and for all.”

Their coffees rippled innocently in their cups.

"We need to regroup," Tim decided. "Come at this from a different angle. Whatever's going on, direct confrontation isn't going to work."

"Tt. Fine. But I still say we should have stabbed him."

"Pretty sure he knew that too," Tim muttered, gathering his things. As they left, he could have sworn he heard laughter from somewhere behind the counter - like waves against a shore.

 ₊⁺⋆⁺₊

Barbara Gordon stared at her monitors, surrounded by the soft hum of servers in her clocktower sanctuary. The attack on the library kept replaying in her mind, but something wasn't adding up. The Condiment King's usual M.O. was chaos and attention-seeking, not the surgical precision she'd witnessed today.

She pulled up the library's digital catalog, focusing on the damaged sections. Her digitization project had been making steady progress, converting ancient texts and historical records into searchable databases. Now, cross-referencing the destruction pattern with her records, a disturbing pattern emerged.

"Every damaged text was on my priority list," she murmured, fingers flying across the keyboard. "But why these specifically?"

The annotations referenced something called "ley lines" and "convergence points" – coinciding perfectly with Gotham's oldest buildings. Buildings owned by the same families for generations. 

"Found something interesting?" Dick's voice came through her comm as he was about to leave for patrol. He was the once to tell her to keep an eye on Annabeth and she didn't have to be told twice. 

"You could say that." Barbara pulled up the library's check-out records. "Remember how I mentioned Annabeth's been practically living in the archives? She's been systematically working through texts about Gotham's founding families. Specifically ones with..." She paused, double-checking the pattern. "Owl imagery in their heraldry."

"That's...specific.

"It gets better. Steph’s been helping her – they've been cross-referencing architectural records with historical 'incidents.' And their research overlaps perfectly with the sections that got hit during the Condiment King attack."

She wheeled closer to her main screen, pulling up security footage. The attack had seemed random at first – typical Gotham chaos. But watching it again...

"The spray pattern wasn't meant to hurt anyone," she murmured. "It was crowd control. Herding people away from specific shelves. And look at the masked figures – they're checking catalog numbers."

"Since when does Condiment King have that kind of precision? He’s barely a villian." Dick asked.

"Exactly." Barbara accessed her digitization project files. She'd been working to make Gotham's historical records publicly accessible online. The old families had fought it, citing "preservation concerns," but Bruce's lawyers had backed her play. "They destroyed the physical copies, but I'd already scanned most of them."

She opened one of the saved files – a fragile manuscript that had been hidden behind newer books. Most of it was in Latin, but one passage stood out:

"Where serpent paths weave wisdom's fall..."

"Babs?" Dick's voice softened. "You okay? You went quiet."

"Just..." She stared at the prophecy, thinking about wisdom and knowledge and who got to control both. "Remember when we were kids? All those stories about the Court of Owls? It isn't just an urban legend, is it? "

"Bruce always said they were real  But he could never prove it and ended up dismissing it…"

"Maybe they still are." She pulled up Annabeth's library record again. "Or someone doesn't want this information public. The attack destroyed the physical copies, but...

She smiled grimly, pulling up her secure backup servers. The Court, if it really was them, had underestimated her paranoia. She had almost everything – the prophecy, the maps, the historical records – safely preserved in multiple locations.

“I don’t know Dick. These texts... they're mixing mythologies. Greek, Egyptian. Like they're all connected somehow. 

“Like Annabeth's connections? 

“Maybe. But there's something bigger here. The timing, the patterns...it's like the city itself is building to something.Dick, I need you to check on something. The Court – if they're real – they'd need somewhere to meet. Somewhere old."

"The kind of places Annabeth's been researching?"

"Exactly." Barbara started typing, mind racing. "Bruce is off-world, and we've got a teenage girl digging into secrets that’s gotten people killed. And while we can’t be for certain, I’d tie down the odd disappearances to them. I don't like those odds."

"You think she's in danger?"

Barbara thought about another teenage girl, one who'd refused to let trauma define her. Who'd turned knowledge into power and secrets into strength.

"I think she's already caught in something bigger than she knows. And I think..." She opened another file – architectural plans showing impossible depths beneath Gotham's oldest buildings. "I think it's time we helped her dig deeper."

After all, oracles weren't just supposed to find knowledge. They were supposed to share it. Even – especially – when ancient powers wanted it kept in the dark.

Dick sighed, “Think it's time to tell Bruce? 

“Not yet. First, I need to know why they're so interested in this prophecy. And why they're watching Annabeth.”

“Be careful, Babs.”

 “Always am. But Dick? Whatever's coming... I don't think we can stop it. We can only prepare.”

She turned back to her screens, expanding her search parameters. If the Court wanted to play games, fine. But they'd forgotten something crucial: knowledge, once digitized, became very hard to contain.

Somewhere in her servers, ancient secrets waited to be uncovered. Barbara just hoped they'd crack the code before whatever was prophesied came to pass.

After all, in her experience, prophecies had a nasty habit of coming true in the worst possible ways. 

The bitter irony wasn't lost on Barbara Gordon that she'd chosen Oracle as her codename years before apparently discovering actual prophecies hidden in Gotham's history. She'd picked it because oracles were supposed to be sources of knowledge and wisdom – exactly what she'd dedicated herself to becoming after the Joker took her legs but couldn't take her mind.

"Keep Stephanie close to her," Barbara decided in finality. "And Dick? Be careful, too. I have a feeling this is just the beginning."

Above her screens, an owl perched on the Clocktower's ledge. Barbara met its gaze through the window, wondering if she was imagining the intelligence in its eyes.

Knowledge was power. But in Gotham, it could also be a death sentence.

Chapter Text

Once Stephine mentioned Barbara digitization project and they had access to the old primary documents present at Gotham’s creation, their research started going a lot smoother. They had quickly catalogued the founding families of Gotham as potential Court of Owl members and noted upon their properties.

"I think I found something," Annabeth told Stephanie, hunched over her laptop in a corner of the library's rare book room. She'd been cross-referencing Daedalus's notes about the Labyrinth with what they'd discovered about Gotham's architecture. "Look at these quotes from early explorers of Gotham's underground."

Stephanie leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the scanned documents. "'Passages that seem to shift and change,'" she read. "'Tunnels that cannot be mapped, leading to chambers that should not exist beneath the city.' Okay, that's creepy even for Gotham."

"But look at the dates," Annabeth pointed to her timeline. "These reports start around the time when the first people crossed England and settled in Gotham. But even then, several wealthy families quickly buyed up the surrounding land and it has been privatized for centuries.”

Annabeth spread out another map, this one showing Gotham's underground. "These tunnels – they're not just maintenance corridors. They form patterns too precise to be natural. Like a maze."

"Or a labyrinth," Stephanie said quietly.

Annabeth's head snapped up. "What did you say?"

"Just thinking out loud. But you mentioned Greek connections, and mazes, and..." Stephanie shrugged. "Wasn't there some famous labyrinth?"

"Daedalus's Labyrinth," Annabeth whispered, her face solemn. "It shouldn't be possible, but..." She pulled out her phone, showing Stephanie footage from Wayne Enterprises security cameras. "Look at these energy readings from the sub-basements. They spike at regular intervals, like something's drawing power, but not from any known source."

"And the missing persons cases cluster around these areas," Stephanie added, pulling up her own research. "Always near these old buildings, these...nodes on your ley line map."

The pieces were starting to align, forming a picture that made Annabeth's blood run cold. The Court's obsession with owls – her mother's sacred bird. Their twisted pursuit of knowledge. The labyrinth beneath their feet, humming with stolen power.

"They're harvesting something," she said slowly. "Using technology to tap into...other sources of power. But they don't fully understand what they're dealing with." She thought of the presence she'd sensed in the shadows at the Court's meeting. "Or what they've created."

She pulled up her digital notes about the Labyrinth, carefully edited to look like general research on ancient mazes. "The Labyrinth was supposed to be confined to Greece, but there are accounts of it reaching impossible places, following paths of power through the earth."

"Woah, we’re taking Labyrinth’s seriously? This suddenly just got more complicated. Maybe we need to hit up Wonder Woman!" At her confused face she elaborated, “An Amazon that left Themyscira and is now a SuperHero.”

“We could”, Annbeth said carefully, “but we don’t want to risk alerting the Court. And look how the Labyrinth twists and turns.”

"Like the ley lines?" Stephanie asked.

"Exactly. But here's where it gets interesting." Annabeth opened another document – an archaeological report from the 1920s. "They found an ancient chamber under what's now Wayne Tower. The report was buried in private records, but look at the photographs."

The black and white images showed walls covered in a mix of familiar symbols. Greek letters intertwined with what looked like hieroglyphs, forming patterns that made Annabeth's eyes want to slide away from them.

"That's not just Greek," she said slowly, remembering the strange symbols the Kanes had used. "Those hieroglyphs – they're Egyptian. Really ancient Egyptian. And they're not just decorative. They're woven into the Greek patterns like they're meant to work together."

"So the Court was mixing Greek and Egyptian stuff?" Stephanie frowned. "Is that significant?"

Annabeth's mind raced through her knowledge of ancient history. "Greece and Egypt had extensive contact in the ancient world. There was even a Greek dynasty that ruled Egypt – the Ptolemaic dynasty, Greek kings who presented themselves as Egyptian pharaohs. Traders and scholars moved between the two cultures, sharing knowledge..." She trailed off, remembering the Kanes' warning about different traditions.

"But?" Stephanie prompted.

"But their magic – their beliefs – were supposed to be separate. Distinct." Annabeth caught herself. "I mean, their architectural and religious practices. They influenced each other but never truly merged." She stared at the photographs. "Except somehow, here in Gotham, someone tried to combine them."

She pulled up the ley line map again, but now she was looking at it with new eyes. The patterns weren't just Greek. The way they flowed, intersected, spiraled – it was like someone had tried to overlay two different systems of power. 

"The Labyrinth follows paths of power through the earth," she murmured, half to herself. "What if it found something here? Something older than Greek influence?"

"Like Egyptian power lines?" Stephanie suggested.

"Maybe." Annabeth thought of the Kanes' strange amulets, the way their jewelry had seemed to move. "The Court talks about preserved knowledge, about wisdom and power. But what if they're working with fragments of two different traditions? Pieces they don't fully understand?"

She opened one final document – a page from Martha Wayne's journal that Stephanie had helped her access. On it, Martha had sketched symbols that looked like a fusion of Greek and Egyptian characters, with notes in the margin: "Paths intersect. Different sources, same destination? Warning - traditions not meant to mix. But potential if properly balanced..."

Maybe Daedalus had the right idea to use ancient energy to power the Labyrinth but he was definitely wrong about it being Greek. Or fully Greek, at least. And someone or certain someones had noticed it was a bridge of pantheons and continued to abuse it for their own twisted agenda. There was no saying what would happen in the face of such a combination. But what really confused her was that it seemed to be ignorant mortals playing with things far greater than what they could comprehend. If the wrong person got a hold of this, the entire mythological world would face devastation. 

"Your grandmother was researching this too," Stephanie said quietly. 

"And somebody tried to warn her." Annabeth remembered Ruby's urgent tone in the park. "Just like they tried to warn me."

Stephanie was quiet for a long moment. "So what's our next move?"

"We follow the ley lines." Annabeth started gathering maps. "The Court's been watching me because they think I have some kind of birthright. Time to find out what they mean by that."

Above them, an owl called from somewhere in the library's rafters. But the sound was wrong somehow – too hollow, too deliberate. Like something pretending to be an owl. She shivered at the uncanny feeling.

"We need to find out what's in that chamber under Wayne Tower," Annabeth decided. "And we need to figure out what the Court is really trying to do with these combined symbols."

Because if the Labyrinth had found its way to Egyptian paths of power..if someone was trying to merge two ancient traditions…

She remembered how the shadows had moved at the Court's meeting, like something caught between different kinds of darkness.

The Court wasn't just working with fragments of Greek knowledge. They were playing with forces they didn't understand, trying to tap power from two different divine sources.

And Annabeth had a feeling that her unique position – her heritage, her connection to the divine – was exactly why they were so interested in her. Above them, something shifted in the shadows of the library's vaulted ceiling. Neither of them looked up. Neither of them had to.

She just hoped she could figure out what they were planning before they realized exactly what she was. Because if they discovered they had a real connection to Greek divinity in their midst...

Well, she'd rather not find out what they'd do with that knowledge.

The phone rang and they both jumped.

Stephanie grabbed the phone and pulled it close to her ear. “It’s Alfred. Bruce is back from space and we’re expected to be present at dinner.”

“Gods, Stephanie, you really scared me!”

“Oh please, at the very least call me Steph .”

—

The Wayne Manor dining room felt both familiar and foreign as Annabeth took her seat. The mahogany table could seat twenty, but tonight only nine places were set - a sort of intimate family dinner to welcome Bruce home. She caught herself counting exits - an old habit from both her time as a demigod and as a child in this very room, always preparing for flight. Seven years hadn't changed the weight of expectations that seemed to press down with the chandelier's crystal light.

The dining room had always felt too large to Annabeth. Alfred had outdone himself as usual, the aroma of roasted duck and fresh herbs filling the air. But underneath the domestic facade, tensions crackled like static electricity. Tonight, the space between them seemed to stretch like chasms, filled with unspoken words and careful glances and the familiar comfort food did little to ease the tension.

Percy's words from that one  morning call echoed in her mind, something about family and bravery. Easy for him to say - he had Sally, who made everything better with blue cookies and unconditional love. Annabeth had...well, she had a table full of vigilantes trying very hard not to interrogate her.

Jason sat beside her, radiating his usual mix of defensive anger and fierce protectiveness. Their week of catching up had been a storm of clashing personalities and shared trauma, but somehow they'd emerged with something like understanding. He'd been the only one who hadn't tiptoed around her return, meeting her sharp edges with his own until they'd found a rhythm. Even now, he was deliberately taking up more space than necessary, as if daring anyone to comment on either of their presence at the "family" dinner.

She fought back a bitter smile at that word - family. How many versions of family had she cycled through? The Waynes, Luke and Thalia, Camp Half-Blood...each one had shaped her, changed her, left her both stronger and more scarred. And now here she was, back at the beginning, trying to bridge the gap between who she was then and who she is now.

Across the table, Tim and Damian maintained an unlikely alliance, their usual antagonism suspended in favor of what they probably thought were subtle surveillance glances. She recognized the tactical positioning - how many times had she done the same at Camp Half-Blood, watching new arrivals for signs of threat or weakness? Duke had claimed the neutral territory between them, occasionally shooting her sympathetic looks. His straightforward nature had been a welcome surprise in navigating the manor's complex dynamics.

Cassandra sat quietly at Bruce's right hand, her expression unreadable but her eyes missing nothing. Sometimes Annabeth envied her ability to read body language - it would make deciphering this family's layers of secrets so much easier. Though perhaps ignorance was better in this case. After all, wasn't that what Percy had said about feelings? You just got to feel them and let it all wash over you. As if feelings were ever that simple.

Barbara had positioned her wheelchair at the strategic midpoint of the table, while Dick maintained his practiced casualness beside her. And Stephanie...dear, complicated Steph , who'd thrown herself into their research with enthusiastic determination, kept trying to catch Annabeth's eye with encouraging smiles. 

At the head of the table sat Bruce, looking remarkably composed for someone who'd just returned from an off-world Justice League mission. His presence filled the room in that uniquely Bruce way, demanding attention without saying a word. He'd greeted her earlier with careful warmth, like she was a spooked animal that might bolt at any sudden movement.

He's not entirely wrong , Annabeth thought, pushing her food around her plate. Every bite felt like ash in her mouth as she pushed food around her plate, hyper-aware of the careful glances being exchanged across the table. Seven years of demigod training had honed her battle instincts, and right now every one of them was screaming that she was surrounded. Not by enemies - which would be simpler - but by family, which was infinitely more complicated. The urge to run thrummed beneath her skin - a well-worn instinct from years of divine quests and mortal abandonment.

Jason’s presence next to her served as both a comfort and a reminder of all her past failures. But even that felt temporary - after all, hadn't Luke taught her how quickly understanding could turn to betrayal? The thought of Luke made her grip her fork tighter. He'd been the first person to really see her, to choose her for herself rather than what she represented. Just like Jason had, and look how both those stories had ended - with death and betrayal and guilt that ate at her bones. Any thought of family automatically got corrupted by her brain immediately thinking of him . No wonder she kept everyone at arm's length now, building walls with half-truths and careful deflections.

But every time Bruce looked at her with that careful concern, every time Dick tried to reach across the chasm of years with gentle words, every time Tim and Damian exchanged those pointed looks that spoke volumes about their suspicion, Annabeth felt the old fears rise up. Because Luke had taught her another lesson too - sometimes the people who claim to love you most are the ones who hurt you worst.

"The duck is excellent, Alfred," Bruce said, breaking the silence.

"Indeed, sir. Though I notice Miss Annabeth has barely touched hers."

Annabeth startled slightly, realizing she'd been pushing food around her plate while lost in thought. "Sorry, Alfred. It's delicious, really. I'm just..." She trailed off, acutely aware of everyone's attention.

Just trying to figure out how to tell my adoptive father that my birth mother is an ancient Greek goddess, and oh by the way, there's an immortal cult in his city that might have connections to her.

But understanding wasn't what Annabeth feared. It was rejection. Again.

"You seem distracted lately," Bruce observed, his tone carefully neutral. "The library incident?"

"Among other things."

"We're worried about you," Dick said softly. "The research you've been doing, the places you've been investigating..."

"The company you keep," Tim added, his voice sharp enough to cut.

"If you're referring to Percy," Annabeth said evenly, "he's a friend. A good one."

"A friend who visits at 3 AM?" Damian's hand tightened on his fork. 

Bruce's eyebrows rose slightly and Jason coughed loudly. 

"It's not what you think," Annabeth said quickly, then realized how defensive that sounded. "I mean...it's complicated ."

Tim seemed tired of that answer and made a sarcastic face. It was her word of the year. There was an awkward pause again except for the sound of silverware screeching on porcelain plates. 

"The sauce is different," Bruce commented, breaking the silence. "Jason's influence?"

"The cardamom was his idea," Alfred confirmed. "Though perhaps a touch heavy-handed."

"It's perfect," Jason muttered defensively.

"It's definitely...present," Tim said, earning a glare from Jason.

"I like it," Duke offered diplomatically. "Though maybe some orange zest next time?"

Annabeth caught his eye, sharing a small smile at their inside joke. It was strange how their brief kitchen conversation had done more to make her feel welcome than any of the careful reunions or emotional confrontations.

"Speaking of cooking," Bruce said carefully, "Alfred mentioned you've been baking at odd hours, Annabeth."

And the receiving late-night visitors went unspoken. She was glad he was being nice and didn’t ask her directly. She could feel Tim and Damian's attention sharpen.

"Trouble sleeping," she said shortly. An understatement - her demigod dreams had been getting worse, filled with shadowy warnings and glimpses of Gotham's hidden depths. Something she was having trouble figuring out how to explain.

"We're all worried-" Dick began.

"Don't." Jason's voice cut through the air like a knife. "She doesn't need another intervention."

"Jason," Bruce warned.

"No, he's right." Barbara's voice was calm but firm. "We all cope differently. God knows this family has enough trauma to go around."

Stephanie choked slightly on her water at Barbara's bluntness. Cassandra patted her back without taking her eyes off Annabeth.

The silence that followed was deafening. Annabeth could feel the weight of unspoken questions pressing down - about her disappearance, about San Francisco, about Percy's late-night visits and her mysterious research. About why she'd really come back to Gotham.

Bruce's eyes met hers across the table - midnight blue to storm gray. In that moment, she saw all the pain and love and fear that defined their relationship. He had taken her in even though he had no obligation to, given her a home when she thought she'd ruined everything. And now...

"Bruce," she said quietly, "after dinner, I need to talk to you. Alone."

The table went still. Even Jason paused in his aggressive food stabbing.

Bruce studied her for a long moment, then nodded once. "My study?"

"Yes." Annabeth took a deep breath, steadying herself. After years of running from both her divine and mortal heritage, it was time to bridge the gap. Percy’s words echoed in her mind - about family, and trust, and the strength it takes to be vulnerable.

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of careful small talk and loaded glances. Finally, as Alfred began clearing plates, Bruce stood.

"Shall we?" he asked, extending an invitation rather than a command.

Annabeth rose, ignoring the mixture of concern and suspicion on her siblings' faces. As she followed Bruce from the dining room, she caught Jason's eye. He gave her a slight nod - understanding without needing words.

Whatever came next, there would be no more running. It was time to tell Bruce everything - about her mother, about Camp Half-Blood, about who and what she really was.

She just hoped the truth wouldn't cost her another family.

—

The words I need to talk to you felt like pebbles dropping into a still pond, ripples of tension spreading across the table. But she'd made her decision. She couldn't keep running from both sides of herself. She would tell Bruce about Athena, about being a demigod. But the Court of Owls, her mother's possible connection to them, the darker secrets of Gotham's supernatural underworld - those could wait. She'd learned the hard way not to put all her trust in one place, not to make herself completely vulnerable to anyone, even family.

Especially family.

Because for all that she wanted to believe in Bruce's love, in this family they'd cobbled together from broken pieces, Annabeth knew better than anyone how quickly love could turn to abandonment, how promises could sharpen into weapons. She'd held up the sky for Luke once, believing in his love even as it destroyed her. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

So she would tell Bruce enough truth to bridge the gap, but keep enough hidden to ensure her survival. Because that's what she'd learned in her years away - sometimes family meant knowing when to hold back, when to protect yourself even as you reached out to others.

Percy had shown her it was possible to be both mortal and divine, to honor both sides of herself without losing either. But Luke had taught her that trust, like family, had to be built carefully, brick by careful brick. And this time, Annabeth would make sure the foundation was strong enough to last.

Bruce's study hadn't changed in seven years - still the same leather-bound books, the same heavy mahogany desk, the same faint scent of Earl Grey that seemed embedded in the walls. Annabeth stood by the window, watching the sun set over the manor grounds while Bruce closed the door behind them. The click of the latch felt impossibly loud.

"You've been looking into Helena," Bruce said quietly. Not a question. Of course he'd noticed - he was Batman after all.

Annabeth turned to face him, steeling herself. "You told me - told everyone - she was a university lecturer. That's the official story, isn't it? Helena Sage, brilliant academic who caught Bruce Wayne's eye during his travels." She kept her voice steady, watching his reaction. "But that's not the whole truth."

Bruce's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. "No," he admitted after a long moment. "It's not."

"Tell me about her. The real her. The one who taught you during your training." The words came out more demanding than she'd intended, but she couldn't soften them now. Seven years of questions pressed against her teeth.

Bruce moved to his desk, running a finger along its edge as if gathering his thoughts. "She was...extraordinary. Brilliant in ways that seemed impossible. Every martial art, every field of study - she had mastered them all. Her eyes..." He looked up at Annabeth. "They were just like yours. Grey as storm clouds, filled with centuries of knowledge."

"Millennia," Annabeth corrected softly. "Not centuries."

Bruce went very still. In the growing darkness, his silhouette reminded her of the shadow that used to check on her at night - always watching, never quite reaching. "You know who she is."

"I know what she is," Annabeth said. Her hand went to her camp necklace, hidden under her collar. "The same thing I am, partially at least. Though Wonder Woman is different - she's Amazonian. I'm..." She took a deep breath. "Mom isn't just Helena Sage. She's Athena. Goddess of wisdom and strategic warfare. And I'm her daughter."

The silence that followed felt heavy enough to crush her. She could see Bruce processing, his brilliant mind probably cataloging every unexplainable incident, every strange coincidence. "The spiders," he said finally. "They were real."

"Arachne's children," Annabeth confirmed, her voice barely a whisper. "They've hated children of Athena since...well, that's a long story. But yes, they were real. Are real. It's why I had to leave. That, and Jason..." Her voice cracked. "I couldn't save him. And then the dreams started, and my destiny was calling, and I just...I couldn't stay here watching another family fall apart while monsters hunted me and put everyone in danger."

"Annie..." Bruce stepped forward, and for a moment she saw past Batman, past the billionaire, to the father who'd given a lonely child a home. "I failed you. I was so caught up in the impossibility of your existence, in protecting you from external threats, that I didn't protect you from my own distance. I'm sorry."

The words hit her like a physical blow. She'd imagined this conversation a thousand times, but she'd never expected…

"I left without saying goodbye," she whispered eventually. "I let you think I was dead."

"You were seven and a half," Bruce said, gentle in a way she'd forgotten he could be. "And dealing with things no child should have to face alone."

"I wasn't alone," Annabeth admitted. "I found...others. Other demigods. Camp Half-Blood - it's a place for people like me. And Percy, he..." She trailed off, not ready to explain that particular relationship.

Bruce nodded slowly. "The late-night visitor Tim's been so suspicious of."

"He's like me. A demigod. Son of Poseidon." She managed a small smile. "He's been helping me figure out how to have both worlds. How to be both mortal and divine without losing either."

"And have you? Figured it out?"

Annabeth thought about Percy's words that morning, about facing the people who love you. About letting yourself be loved. "I'm trying," she said honestly. "That's why I came back. Why I'm telling you this now. But..." She hesitated.

"But there are things you're not ready to share," Bruce finished. When she looked at him in surprise, he smiled slightly. "I do know something about keeping secrets to protect family."

Relief flooded through her. He understood - not everything, not yet, but enough. Enough to start rebuilding. "Thank you," she whispered.

Bruce crossed the room slowly, telegraphing his movements like he would with a spooked animal. When he reached her, he gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear - an echo of a gesture from her childhood. "Welcome home, my little girl."

And for the first time since she'd returned to Wayne Manor, Annabeth felt like maybe, just maybe, she really was home.

—

Annabeth fell asleep without a pressing weight on her shoulders. She had told her dad the truth. Most of it, and it was liberating. She thought she should ease into the next part; take care of the Court of Owls herself and tell him her final victory. Well, not by herself. She had Steph who was there since day one and sweet gentle Cassandra and even Barabra giving her indirect help. And Jason and Duke and Alfred and Dick and—that’s to say a lot of people around her putting in the effort to make her feel welcome. Even with Damian and Tim, she could at least understand why they were being annoying. 

This life, she couldn't have imagined anything like it when she was seven and the world was very cold and alone. This time, she went back to her childhood bed, pink plaster walls and everything, and told herself she was going to sleep here and sleep well. 

When she opened her eyes, nothing made sense.

She stood in a vast twilight realm that seemed to exist in layers, like looking through sheets of colored glass. The ground beneath her feet was sometimes sand, sometimes stone, sometimes nothing at all. Ghostly architecture rose and fell in the distance – pyramids, temples, modern skyscrapers, all overlapping and shifting like mirages. The air itself felt thick with whispers in languages she couldn't quite grasp.

"Try not to panic," a familiar voice said behind her. "The Duat can be overwhelming at first."

Annabeth spun to find Julius and Ruby Kane standing there, but they looked different now. Their business attire had been replaced by linen robes covered in moving hieroglyphs. Julius held a curved wand in one hand and what looked like a shepherd's crook in the other. Ruby's jewelry seemed alive, golden snakes and scarabs shifting positions as if dancing across her neck and wrists.

"The what?" Annabeth tried to keep her voice steady. "Where am I? This isn't—You're not... you're not Greek."

"No," Julius smiled slightly. "We walk a different path. But all paths of power intersect eventually. Especially in places like Gotham."

The Duat – the Egyptian realm of magic and spirits," Ruby explained gently. "We're magicians of the House of Life, an ancient order that maintains the balance between the mortal world and the divine. We've been watching you, trying to understand how a Greek demigod came to be so entangled with Gotham's mysteries."

"You know what I am?" Annabeth's hand instinctively went for her knife, but it wasn't there. She wasn’t there. Her body was almost corporeal yet more physical present than her usual demigod dreams. 

"We suspected," Julius said. "But we weren't certain until now. The Duat reveals true natures. And yours..." He gestured, and suddenly Annabeth could see a faint gray owl-shaped aura surrounding her, shot through with threads of blue light. "You bridge two worlds in a way we've never seen before."

"The tunnels under Gotham" Annabeth said suddenly, waiting for the confirmation she was sure was coming. "They're not just tunnels, are they? They're part of the Labyrinth the Court has been using to maintain its power.”

Ruby's eyes widened. "You've sensed it too? Yes. We discovered that the Court of Owls began as servants of Athena who betrayed her. They tried to switch pantheons, attempting to gain power from Egyptian magic, but were cast out of the House of Life. They used the Labyrinth's ability to manifest new passages to escape and eventually build their power base in Gotham."

"The never-ending tunnels under the pyramids are places where the Labyrinth merged with the Duat itself," Julius added. "A dangerous convergence of Greek and Egyptian magic that should never have happened. And now the Court is pushing those boundaries even further, combining corrupted divine power with modern technology to create their Talons."

Ruby stepped closer, her voice dropping. "The Court believes they're preserving ancient knowledge, continuing Athena's work. But they've twisted it, corrupted it. They're using divine wisdom to control mortal power – politics, wealth, influence. And now they're targeting anyone they see as a threat to that control."

"The missing people," Annabeth breathed. "The philosophers, the doctors..."

"Anyone who might challenge their monopoly on knowledge," Julius nodded. "But they're growing bolder. They've sensed something coming – a shift in power. And now they've noticed you."

"Because of my mother?" Annabeth asked, though she already suspected the answer.

"Partly," Ruby's expression was grave. "But also because of what you represent. A convergence. Greek blood in a Gotham bloodline. They think you're the key to something. A prophecy but that's just the beginning. Something darker is happening. When I try to see the future..." She waved her hand, and images formed in the air – but they were blurred, distorted, as if something was deliberately obscuring them. "There's a presence in Gotham, ancient and cold, blocking my vision."

"We can help you understand your connection to Egyptian magic," Julius offered. "Come to Brooklyn. The House of Life has a strong presence there, away from whatever is twisting the power in Gotham."

"Your heritage makes you unique," Ruby added. "The ability to understand both Greek and Egyptian magic... we originally thought you might be a godling – a magician hosting an Egyptian god. But you're something entirely new."

"We've traced your lineage – the Wayne line specifically. It's far older than anyone realizes”,  Julius said, his expression growing more intense as he studied the shifting aura around her. 

Ruby stepped forward, her golden jewelry catching the strange light of the Duat. "The Waynes have been connected to Egyptian magic for generations, though most of them never knew it. Your bloodline can be traced back to one of the most powerful magical families in ancient Egypt."

"You mean..." Annabeth struggled to process this new information. "I'm not just a demigod?"

"No," Julius confirmed. "You're also a born magician. The Wayne blood carries the potential for powerful Egyptian magic. It's why you've been able to sense things others can't, why you've felt drawn to certain ancient symbols. Your Greek heritage from Athena combined with the Wayne's magical lineage...it makes you uniquely powerful."

"And potentially dangerous," Ruby added softly. "Such a combination hasn't existed before. It's part of why we were watching you so closely. We needed to be sure you weren't a threat. But now we understand – you might be exactly what we need to face what's coming."

The revelation settled over Annabeth like a physical weight. It explained so much – her instinctive understanding of the Court's corrupted symbols, her ability to sense the true nature of Gotham's tunnels…

"That's why you want me to come to Brooklyn," she realized. "Not just to learn magic, but to learn how to control both sides of my heritage."

"Yes," Julius nodded. "Your Greek abilities combined with trained Egyptian magic could be formidable. And given what's stirring in Gotham's shadows...you'll need every advantage you can get."

The edges of the Duat began to blur, reality trying to reassert itself. Annabeth felt the pull of waking.

"Remember," Ruby called, her voice growing distant. "The shadows in Gotham...they remind me of something...of him..."

Annabeth jerked awake into her room, feeling sunlight hitting her squarely on her face. There, on the windowsill, was a small card. Upon her further inspection, it was a business card with the date in week time and the words we await your decision sprawled. 

Annabeth didn’t have to even guess who it was from. Time was running out and it was time to go to Brooklyn .  

—

Barbara's screens cast a pale glow across her face as the ancient text finally yielded its secrets. After days of cross-referencing Greek, Latin, and Egyptian texts, the prophecy emerged with crystal clarity:

Where serpent paths weave wisdom's fall,

Ancient birds shall break their thralls.

Two houses fall by blood's design—

What rises next devours divine.

Her chosen codename felt heavy now. Like the Pythia of Delphi, she sat amid modern technology instead of temple ruins, wrestling with cryptic verses that could shape Gotham's fate and the fate of those she loved. The parallel wasn't lost on her – those ancient oracles had also served as intermediaries between hidden knowledge and a world that might not be ready for it.

Immediately she thought of Gotham's winding streets, built atop even older roads, the Court of Owls that had always been there, watching and waiting. The entire thing sent a chill down her spine. 

She saved the translation to her most secure server. Whatever was coming, Gotham would need its Oracle ready.

Through her window, that same owl watched and waited patiently. 

Chapter Text

The Memorial Chapel stood on private grounds at the edge of Gotham's oldest cemetery, its Gothic spires reaching into the night sky like grasping fingers. Unlike the city's decaying cathedrals, its marble still gleamed, maintained by old money that preferred their devotion remain exclusive. Perfect for secret societies with more wealth than sense, as Drake had put it.

"Your parents actually came here?" Damian asked, studying the ornate iron gates. Despite culminating wealth for generations, they were new money by Gotham standards, but the Court had apparently seen something worth cultivating in Drake's father. His hands fumbled around a heavy lock.

"Sometimes." Drake’s voice held that carefully neutral tone he used when discussing his family. "They'd dress up for 'evening prayer' in their finest clothes, even though there were never any actual services. Caught them sneaking out once when I was nine." He gave a bitter laugh. "Thought I'd discovered some big conspiracy. The Court of Owls was real. I thought the Talon would find me and—well, it turned out to be exactly what you'd expect –wealthy idiots playing dress-up, pretending they controlled Gotham from the shadows. At least, that's what I thought-”

"And now?"

"Now Bruce’s daughter knows things she shouldn't, and people are disappearing." Tim pulled out his phone, checking something. "And every trail leads back to places like this."

The lock yielded easily to Drake’s skilled fingers. The grounds were immaculate even in darkness – perfectly trimmed hedges, marble statues of angels keeping their eternal watch. Everything screamed old money and older secrets.

"The main chapel's too obvious," Drake whispered as they moved through the shadows. "But there's a private meditation room in the east wing. More security than the rest of the building combined."

Damian noticed it immediately – subtle cameras disguised as architectural details, modern security seamlessly integrated into century-old stonework. Someone had spent considerable resources ensuring their privacy.

"Your investigation was thorough," he admitted grudgingly.

"I was a lonely kid with too much time and money." Drake’s attempt at humor fell flat. "Besides, you're not the only detective in the family."

They reached the east wing entrance. Drake made quick work of the electronic lock while Damian kept watch. The night was too quiet – no birds, no insects. Even Gotham's ever-present traffic sounds seemed muffled here.

The meditation room was a study in understated wealth. Brazilian rosewood panels lined the walls, their deep burgundy almost black in the darkness. Ancient prayer books bound in leather sat untouched on gilded shelves. Everything perfectly arranged, perfectly maintained, and perfectly wrong.

"Fascinating," Drake drawled, running his fingers along the carved symbols on the desk. "The placement suggests some kind of ritual configuration, but the patterns are-"

"If you're quite done playing professor," Damian cut in, "perhaps we could focus on actual investigation?" He couldn't help but notice how Drake's analytical rambling mimicked Annabeth's architectural observations. Another unwelcome reminder of his supposed sister's influence.

"Sorry, am I not detecting properly enough for you?" Drake shot back, that insufferable smirk playing at his lips. "Please, enlighten me on the correct way to investigate. Should I be scowling more? Making dismissive noises?"

"Tt. At least I'm not the one who fell asleep drooling over case files."

"That was one time!” A snort “And I've managed the perfect schedule of taking naps throughout the day so I don’t have to waste all night sleeping-"

"Exactly how Father would want his supposed protégé to conduct himself, I'm sure."

Tim's eyes narrowed. "Rich coming from the kid who tried to stab me the first time we met."

"An error in judgment. I should have succeeded."

"You're just mad because I figured out the Court connection before you did."

"Please. Your wealthy parents' social climbing hardly counts as-"

The temperature drop was their only warning. Years of training had Damian's sword half-drawn before his conscious mind registered the threat, but even his League-honed reflexes weren't quite fast enough. The figure dropped from the shadows above, moving with impossible speed. Damian barely got his sword up in time to block the strike, the impact sending vibrations through his arms. He caught a glimpse of their attacker and felt his blood freeze.

It was the Talon that materialized from the shadows like a nightmare given form, its first strike nearly taking Drake’s head off. His head was that of an owl – not a mask, but flesh and feather merged with human form in ways that defied natural law. Ancient symbols glowed faintly along its arms, reminiscent of the markings Annabeth had recognized at the theater. But these were wrong somehow, twisted versions of something older.

Something about the Talon's fluid grace combined with its owl face stirred a memory in Damian's mind – ancient Egyptian scrolls he'd studied during his League training. The way the creature moved, its perfect human form crowned by an animal head, reminded him of how the old texts depicted their gods: Horus with his falcon head, Anubis bearing a jackal's visage, Thoth with his ibis features. But where those ancient images held a divine symmetry, the Talon's form seemed like a twisted attempt at recreation, as if someone had studied those same scrolls and tried to forge their own dark divinity through cruder means. The thought made his skin crawl.

"Well," Drake said, his tone carrying that particular brand of inappropriate humor he used when truly unnerved, "guess they upgraded from playing dress-up."

Damian's blade met the Talon's in a shower of sparks, buying Drake precious seconds to recover. His mind raced, analyzing their opponent's movement patterns. The fluidity was wrong – too smooth, too inhuman. 

"You know," Drake panted, falling into position at Damian's back, "we'd have better coverage if you'd let me lead through some of these entrances."

"And leave our survival to your sleep-deprived judgment?" Damian deflected another impossibly fast strike. "I think not."

The Talon pressed forward, its masked face reflecting moonlight in ways that defied physics. Damian recognized the base forms of its attacks – League training, mixed with something older, something that made his combat-trained mind scream in protest.

They fought in sync despite their bickering, years of reluctant partnership showing through. Damian took the aggressive lead, his sword work keeping the Talon's attention while Drake looked for openings. It should have worked. Against any normal opponent, it would have.

But the Talon moved like water through smoke, shrugging off hits that should have been devastating. A strike that would have crippled a normal fighter barely seemed to register. The strange symbols on its armor pulsed with each regeneration, reminding Damian of his mother's warnings about power in the Wayne blood.

"The energy signature," Drake called out, narrowly avoiding a blade to the throat, "it's similar to what I couldn't process in San Francisco. My brain keeps trying to look away from-"

"Less analysis, more fighting!" Damian snapped, but his own mind was racing. The way reality seemed to bend around their opponent, the impossible recoveries – it was like fighting a living blind spot. But when he forced his focus past the initial impression, past the layer of wrongness that made his eyes want to slide away, he could almost see...something ancient beneath the surface. The golden hieroglyphs that pulsed along its arms weren't just twisted versions of divine script – they were actually shifting, rearranging themselves like living text. Its movements carried that same impossible grace he'd seen depicted in temple paintings of Horus and Thoth, that fluid transition between human and divine that shouldn't exist in the modern world. He tried to focus harder, to pierce through whatever was clouding his perception of these divine properties, but Drake's shout of warning forced him to dodge a blade that would have taken his head off.

Their synchronized defense began to falter as fatigue set in. Drake took a hit that should have put him down, but somehow stayed up, that insufferable determination keeping him in the fight. "Your mother warned you about this, didn't she?" he gasped between strikes. "About power in the Wayne blood?"

"This is hardly the time-" Damian started, but had to dive into a roll as the Talon's blade whistled through where his head had been. The creature's movements were becoming more fluid, more wrong with each passing moment.

"It's exactly the time," Drake insisted, that particular brand of obsessive focus taking over. "The corrupted files, the disappearances, Annabeth's connection to it all-"

The Talon's blade caught him across the chest, drawing blood. Drake stumbled back with a curse that would have made Alfred wince. Damian moved to cover him, his sword meeting the creature's weapon in a clash that sent vibrations up his arm.

"Your persistent need to solve everything will get us killed, Drake!" But even as he said it, Damian's mind was cataloging the similarities – the way reality seemed to warp around both the Talon and his supposed sister, the ancient symbols that made his eyes want to slide away.

They were losing ground, being driven back toward the antique desk. Damian could hear Drake’s breathing becoming labored, could feel his own arms beginning to shake from the inhuman force of the Talon's blows. Pride warred with pragmatism in his chest as he remembered his mother's words: The Wayne blood is too strong to stay hidden forever.

"We need to retreat," he ground out, hating every word.

"Did the great Damian Wayne just suggest running away?" Drake;s attempt at snark was somewhat undermined by the pain in his voice. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"I can still leave you behind, Drake."

"Aw, you do care."

The Talon lunged forward with impossible speed, and Damian knew they wouldn't be fast enough to dodge. But then a familiar blade protruded from the creature's shoulder, and his mother's cry cut through the chaos like a steel blade.

There stood Talia al Ghul, her expression cold and calculating.

"Mother?" Damian's surprise nearly cost him as the Talon twisted, impossibly still moving despite its wound.

"Go," His mother commanded, already engaging the creature. "This opponent is beyond your current capabilities."

"We don't need your-" Damian started, but Drake grabbed his arm.

"She's right," Drake said urgently. "Look at how it moves – it's not just stronger than us, it's operating on different rules entirely. We need to regroup, figure out what we're actually dealing with."

The Talon's unvarying face caught the moonlight streaming through stained glass, its empty eyes somehow holding an unnatural gleam. The sight was enough to silence Damian's protests. This wasn't about pride anymore. This was something else entirely.

"I will find you when it's safe," Talia said, her blade dancing in patterns Damian recognized from his earliest training.

They ran, the sounds of combat echoing behind them. As they emerged into the Gotham night, Damian caught one last glimpse through the windows – his mother, warrior princess of the League of Assassins, facing down something that defied explanation, while strange symbols pulsed with stolen power.

"Well," Drake said as they grappled to a nearby rooftop, his attempt at humor somewhat undermined by his labored breathing, "I guess this rules out 'rich people playing pretend' as our working theory."

"Tt. Your talent for understatement remains unmatched, Drake." But Damian's mind was already racing ahead. If the Court had found a way to tap into forbidden magic, however imperfectly...what did that mean for Annabeth? For all of them?

An owl's cry echoed across Gotham, too loud, too wrong. Whatever game their sister was playing, whatever power she was hiding – the stakes had just gotten much higher.

And somewhere in the city, ancient magic stirred in modern shadows, while secrets older than Gotham itself waited to be uncovered.

₊⁺⋆⁺₊

Annabeth stares at her reflection in the Gotham International Airport bathroom mirror, feeling grateful the luxury bathroom is empty. Her hand trembles slightly as she pulls out a prism from her bag and positions it in the morning sunlight streaming through the high window. A spray bottle of water completes her makeshift rainbow-maker.

"O Iris, goddess of the rainbow, accept my offering." She tosses a golden drachma into the shimming light. "Show me Chiron at Camp Half-Blood."

The mist shivers, and suddenly she's looking at Chiron on the Big House porch. Behind him, she catches glimpses of campers running past with armor and weapons – another war game, probably. Or preparation for something worse.

"My dear?" Chiron turns away from whatever report he's reading. "Is everything alright?"

"I need to know more about the House of Life," Annabeth says, keeping her voice low despite the empty bathroom. Through the walls, she can hear the drone of flight announcements. "Before I get on this plane."

Chiron's tail flicks anxiously – never a good sign. "The House of Life," Chiron finally said, his voice grave. "I haven't heard that name spoken in centuries. They keep to themselves these days, as do we. It's...safer that way."

"But what does it mean?" Annabeth pressed. She told him about the Court of Owls, the twisted tunnels beneath Gotham, and finally, hesitantly, about her dream of the Kanes and the House of Life. With each word, the silence on the other end grew heavier.

Finally he responded. "The House of Life is as old as civilization itself. They were powerful even when Greece was young – magicians who channel the power of the Egyptian gods through hieroglyphic spells and divine words of power. They once ruled all of Egypt's nomes – magical territories that spanned the ancient world."

Annabeth adjusts her Yankees cap in her carry-on, trying to process this. "But they're different from us?"

"Very," Chiron nods, his expression grave. "Their gods don't have children the way ours do. Instead, they choose hosts – mortal magicians who can channel their power. The strongest bloodlines can trace their magic back to the pharaohs themselves." He pauses, and she can see him choosing his next words carefully. "If the Kanes are right about the Wayne bloodline..."

Annabeth studies her gray eyes in the mirror beside the Iris message. Her mother's eyes. But now she wonders what else might be lurking in her DNA, what ancient Egyptian power might be woven through the Wayne family tree.

"They said something about my bloodline – about the Waynes being connected to Egyptian magic. And if my mother is Athena..." She trailed off, the unspoken question hanging between them.

"Such a combination would be unprecedented," Chiron said slowly. "The Egyptian gods work differently than ours, Annabeth. The House has...rules. Strict ones, about mixing different kinds of magic. There's a reason the pantheons stay separate.. The last time someone tried to combine Greek and Egyptian power..." He trails off, and no amount of prodding can get him to finish that thought. To be both...It could be dangerous.”

"Like Chris," Annabeth said quietly, thinking of Clarisse's latest Iris message. "The Labyrinth drove him mad."

"Yes," Chiron agreed. "And that's what concerns me. The Labyrinth is stirring, Annabeth, more than it has in centuries. We've lost three more campers trying to map it this week alone. If what you say is true – if it's somehow connected to these Egyptian tunnels beneath Gotham..."

"Then whatever's coming is bigger than just the Court of Owls," Annabeth finished. She thought of Ruby Kane's words about shadows in Gotham, about something ancient and cold blocking her vision. "Chiron, what should I do?"

"Be careful," he said immediately. "The Labyrinth feeds on confusion, on the mixing of worlds that shouldn't mix. And if the Court of Owls has found a way to corrupt both Greek and Egyptian power..." He paused again. "Perhaps that's why Daedalus's maze is awakening now. It senses the disturbance."

The bathroom's fluorescent lights hum overhead as she pulls out the business card again. The Court of Owls’s invitation seems to shimmer slightly, the ink moving like liquid gold for just a moment before settling back into ordinary print. Maybe she's just tired. Or maybe, like everything else lately, it's more than it appears.

The airport speakers crackle to life, announcing priority boarding for her flight. "I have to go," Annabeth says, shouldering her bag and double-checking that her celestial bronze knife is safely concealed in its magically-cloaked sheath. "But Chiron...if something goes wrong..."

"I know," Chiron's voice was gentle. "The thing about Egyptian magic," Chiron says, glancing over his shoulder as something crashes in the background, "is that it's all about transformation. Words that become reality. Symbols that hold power. Mortals who can host gods. Even their afterlife was about becoming something new." His voice grows distant, remembering. "But transformation always comes at a price Just remember  – the Labyrinth exists to deceive, to twist. Even Daedalus himself couldn't fully control it in the end. Whatever you find in Brooklyn...don't let it make you forget who you are."

As if on cue, something crashed in the background at camp, followed by panicked yelling. Chiron sighed. "I have to go, too, but Annabeth? Be careful who you trust. Even the wisest can be led astray in a maze."

The call ended, leaving Annabeth alone with her cold waffle and colder thoughts. She glanced out the window, where dawn was painting Gotham's towers in shades of gold and shadow. Somewhere in those shadows, ancient powers were stirring, converging. And she was caught in the middle – Greek and Egyptian, Wayne and demigod, standing at the crossroads of worlds that were never meant to meet.

The Iris message dissolves just as an announcement calls for final boarding. As she heads for her gate, she can't help but think about what Ruby Kane had said about convergences. Greek blood in a Gotham bloodline. The Labyrinth merging with Egyptian tunnels. Ancient powers stirring in modern shadows. Everything is coming together, intersecting in ways that haven't happened for millennia.

And she's walking right into the middle of it all.

At least, she thinks with a grim smile as she hands over her boarding pass, she has some experience with mazes. Even if this one might be more dangerous than Daedalus's creation.

The gate agent waves her through, and Annabeth takes her first step toward Brooklyn, toward the House of Life, toward whatever transformation awaits. Behind her, Gotham's shadows stretch long in the morning light, as if reaching after her, reluctant to let her go.

–

They found Talia in an abandoned cathedral three blocks from the Memorial Chapel. She sat in the shadows of a broken confessional, one hand pressed against her side. Even injured, she maintained that dangerous grace that had made her legendary within the League.

"Mother," Damian moved forward, but Tim caught his arm.

"Your concern is touching," Talia's voice carried its usual sardonic edge, though strain showed through. "But perhaps unnecessary. The creature was...inconvenient, not lethal."

"What happened after we left?" Tim asked, keeping a careful distance. He'd learned the hard way never to fully trust an al Ghul, even an injured one.

"It pursued, as such things do." Talia's smile was sharp as a blade. "But it was more interested in protecting its secrets than eliminating witnesses. Curious, don't you think?"

"The Court has always preferred shadows to direct confrontation," Tim said.

"The Court." Talia laughed, though it ended in a grimace. "Such a simple name for something so ancient. Did you know your grandfather once sought alliance with them, Damian? Before he discovered the Lazarus Pits, Ra's believed their tunnels might hold similar power."

Tim's eyes narrowed recalling the hushed whispers when his parents thought he was asleep and the diaries he’d gotten into and the nonsense words scrawled around the house like they were patients at a psychiatric hospital. "The ley lines. That's what he was really after."

"Very good, Detective." Talia shifted, revealing a deep gash along her ribs that seemed to resist healing. "The Court guards ancient confluences of power. Places where reality wears thin. It's why they chose Gotham – the city sits atop a nexus of such lines."

"And the Lazarus Pits?" Damian pressed.

"Similar source, different manifestation of that power. Your grandfather was wise enough to recognize the difference. The Court..." She shook her head. "They're blinded by their obsession. The rejection of their patron drove them to seek power through cruder means. Egyptian magic, corrupted and twisted to serve their revenge."

"That's why you've been watching," Tim realized. "Not just Damian – you've been monitoring the Court's activities."

"A mother's duty extends beyond one child." Talia's gaze fixed on Damian. "Especially when that child carries power in his blood that others might seek to exploit."

Damian went very still. "What do you mean?"

"The Wayne bloodline is old, habibi . Older than Gotham itself. It carries traces of ancient Egyptian magic – power I took great care to suppress in you. To protect you from those who might seek to use it. Your grandfather. The Court. Others."

"And Anne Elizabeth?" Tim asked quietly.

Talia's expression darkened. "She carries that same power, unleashed and combined with things I know not. A perfect vessel for their ambitions." She pressed a hand to her wound, which seemed to pulse with an unnatural light. "I've seen how she moves through their sacred spaces. How reality bends around her. She's everything they've worked centuries to achieve. Even more formidable from their beloved Talon."

"Father trusts her," Damian said, but uncertainty colored his voice.

"Your father sees what he wishes to see." Talia's tone was almost gentle. "A lost daughter returned. He never could resist a broken bird to mend. The Court has played that weakness masterfully."

Tim paced, his detective's mind racing. "The disappearances. The corrupted files. The way she seemed to know things about Gotham's oldest buildings..."

"She's been working with them all along," Damian concluded, his hand tightening on his sword hilt.

"Perhaps." Talia pushed herself to her feet, moving with careful precision. "Or perhaps she's merely a piece in a larger game. Either way, the Court believes they've found their key to claiming divine power. And they've chosen their moment well – your father is compromised, his judgment clouded by sentiment."

"Then we stop them," Damian said firmly. "All of them."

Talia smiled, proud and predatory. "Together, then. For the good of Gotham, of course."

"Of course," Tim echoed, but his mind was already spinning contingencies. The Court, Annabeth, ancient magic – it was all connected in ways that made his tactical brain scream warnings.

They had their answers now. But somehow, Tim suspected they'd only begun to understand the true scope of what they faced.

Above them, stained glass caught the moonlight, casting shadows that seemed to move with impossible purpose across the ancient stones.

₊⁺⋆⁺₊

The mansion shimmers into existence as Annabeth climbs the steps of the Brooklyn penthouse, just like the Kanes described. One moment there's nothing but industrial decay, the next she's staring at a five-story mansion topped with a massive hieroglyph-covered obelisk.

She's quickly introduced to the exotic animals. 

Philip of Macedonia , the albino crocodile, watches her from his pool on the terrace, snapping up floating basketballs. Khufu the baboon sits nearby in his Lakers jersey, methodically peeling a bag of Doritos. It should feel strange, but after years at Camp Half-Blood, Annabeth finds the scene almost comfortingly familiar.

"You came!" Ruby Kane emerges from the Great Room, her golden jewelry still dancing with magical symbols. Behind her, two children peek out – Carter, his dark curls wild and eyes serious beyond his seven years, and little Sadie with her caramel hair and mischievous grin.

"Another guest for Dad's boring research?" Sadie asks, rolling her eyes. "Is this about those dusty old artifacts again?"

"Now, Sadie," Ruby says gently, "why don't you and Carter go help Amos in the kitchen? I think he’s making cookies."

"Come on," Carter tugs his sister's arm. "Race you!" They dash off, their footsteps echoing down the hall. Annabeth notices how carefully Ruby waits until they're out of earshot before speaking again.

"They don't know yet," Ruby says softly. "About any of this. We're trying to give them a normal childhood for as long as possible. Although my brother-in-law’s home is anything but subtle." There's a sadness in her eyes that makes Annabeth wonder what she's seeing in those blocked visions of the future.

Julius appears, carrying what looks like a wooden walking stick and a curved ivory wand. "Best if we train in the lower levels," he says. "Away from curious eyes."

When they're alone, Julius begins, “First, we need to determine your path. Every magician follows the path of a particular god, whether they know it or not."

The training begins that afternoon in a vast underground room lined with hieroglyph-covered walls. They start with basic symbols, which come surprisingly easily to Annabeth. The marks resonate with something deep in her blood, different from Ancient Greek but somehow familiar. When she draws the symbol for "protect" in the air with her new wand, it blazes blue-white and forms a shimmering shield.

Days blur together. Mornings are spent in the library, studying papyrus scrolls about the paths of the gods. Afternoons are for practical magic – learning to channel power through her staff (cedar wood with a core of ivory, chosen by her rather than the other way around, according to Julius). Evenings are for combat training, mixing Greek knife techniques with Egyptian magic.

Sometimes she hears the children playing upstairs, their laughter drifting down to the training rooms. Carter reading his history books, Sadie trying to convince Khufu to play tea party. They live in a house full of magic without knowing it, protected by their parents' careful silence. Amos appears here and there but he mainly keeps to the kids. 

She discovers her specialty almost by accident. During a practice duel with Julius, she instinctively combines a Greek defensive maneuver with an Egyptian word of power. The resulting blast of force knocks everyone off their feet.

"Combat magic," Ruby says, helping her up. "With a focus on protective spells and strategic warfare. The path of Horus, I think, though there's something else there too. Something older."

Philip of Macedonia lets out an approving rumble from his pool. Even Khufu looks up from his Doritos, giving her a solemn nod.

It's liberating, having magic she can actively use. No more waiting for her mother's strategic wisdom to kick in – now she can create shields, throw force blasts, even manipulate the Duat itself to store weapons and supplies.

"You're different from other magicians," little Sadie tells her one evening, watching Annabeth practice combining knife-work with spells. "You feel like two things at once."

"Is that bad?" Annabeth asks, lowering her staff.

"No," Ruby answers from the doorway. "It's necessary. Something's coming, Annabeth. Something that will require both kinds of power to face."

That night, practicing alone in the underground chamber, Annabeth finally feels it click. The Greek strategic mind of Athena's daughter combined with the raw power of Egyptian magic. She traces a hieroglyph in the air – the symbol for "path" – and watches it shimmer with both blue Egyptian magic and the gray light she associates with her mother's power.

She's not just a demigod anymore, and not just a magician. She's something new, standing at the crossroads of ancient powers. And for the first time since learning about the Court of Owls, about the twisted Labyrinth beneath Gotham, she feels ready.

Let them come. She has more than just wisdom now. She has power.

But as she traces another symbol in the darkening sky, she remembers Chiron's warning about transformation coming at a price. And she wonders what price she'll have to pay for straddling these two ancient worlds.

In the distance, Brooklyn's lights twinkle like stars fallen to earth. Somewhere out there, Gotham waits with its shadows and its secrets. Soon, she'll have to go back. Soon, she'll have to face whatever's stirring in those depths.

But for now, she draws another hieroglyph, watches it blaze against the night sky, and lets herself feel the pure joy of finally, finally having power of her own.

From upstairs comes the muffled sound of Sadie's laughter, of Carter patiently explaining some historical fact to his sister. Annabeth thinks of the future that awaits them, of the power sleeping in their blood. She hopes they get to keep their innocence a little longer.

—

Annabeth's dreams take her somewhere between worlds – not quite the Duat, but not the normal realm of demigod visions either. She stands in what appears to be an ancient library, its ceiling lost in shadows above. Books from every age line the endless shelves: papyrus scrolls, leather-bound tomes, modern volumes, and things that don't look like books at all but rather captured thoughts made manifest.

Her mother materializes between the stacks, and Annabeth's breath catches. Athena wears classical Greek battle armor, her body held imposingly tall with her scepter and shield threateningly in hand. Her gray eyes are storms of calculated fury.

"Mother," Annabeth says carefully. The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

"My daughter." Athena's voice is precise, controlled, but there's something beneath it that makes Annabeth's skin prickle. "You've been dabbling in Egyptian magic."

It's not a question. Annabeth straightens her spine. "Yes. I need every advantage I can get against the Court of Owls."

"The Court." Athena's lip curls in disgust. "My own servants once, who dared to think they could become the embodiment of wisdom itself. Pitiful, unintellectual creatures, scrabbling in the dark for power they could never truly comprehend." She walks to a shelf, running her fingers along ancient bindings. "They couldn't even look at me in my true form without burning. Yet they presumed to steal my dominion and tried to mark their claim on my sacred animals."

"They're hurting people," Annabeth says. "Using both Greek and Egyptian magic to—"

"To play at being gods." Athena turns sharply, and for a moment her form flickers – something more ancient and terrible showing through. "Just as they played at being wise. They must be destroyed, Annabeth. You must destroy them."

Annabeth thinks of the vote on Olympus, after the quest to save Artemis. "Like you voted to destroy Percy?"

Something softens fractionally in Athena's expression. "That was a strategic necessity. This is about vengeance. About pride. About showing what happens to those who betray wisdom herself." Her voice turns cold again. "They must learn their place."

"And Bruce? The Waynes?" Annabeth watches her mother carefully. "They're part of this too."

For just a moment, Athena's fierce expression is gentle. "Bruce...he has potential. True wisdom, even if he doesn't yet understand its source. But he too must learn to respect the proper order of things." She fixes Annabeth with her stormy gaze. "You are my pride, Annabeth. My favorite daughter. You must avenge this slight against me, or everything you hold dear will be forfeit."

The threat hangs in the air between them. "Is that a warning or a promise?" Annabeth asks quietly.

"It is prophecy," Athena says, her form beginning to fade. "The Egyptians are not the only ones who can see what's coming. The Court believes they can merge Greek and Egyptian power? Let them learn what true divine wrath means."

"Mother—"

"You feel it too, don't you?" Athena's voice grows distant. "Something stirring in the shadows. Something coming for those you've grown to care about. The Kanes..." She smiles, cold and terrible. "Remember whose daughter you are, Annabeth. Remember whose pride you carry."

The dream dissolves, and Annabeth wakes gasping in her room at Brooklyn House. Down the hall, she can hear Sadie's quiet snoring, Carter mumbling about hieroglyphs in his sleep. Somewhere below, Philip of Macedonia makes his nightly rounds in his pool.

Everything seems peaceful, normal. But her mother's words echo in her mind, and she can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. That somewhere in Gotham's shadows, wheels are turning, plans are forming.

She gets up and goes to the window, looking out over Brooklyn's nighttime skyline toward Gotham in the distance. Her mother's warning – or was it a threat? – rings in her ears. Everything you hold dear will be forfeit.

Annabeth grips the windowsill, feeling Egyptian magic pulse under her fingers even as her Greek powers hum through her blood. She is her mother's daughter, yes. But she's something else too now. Something new.

She just hopes that will be enough to save everyone when whatever's coming finally arrives.

Chapter Text

Annabeth woke to the sound of children's laughter echoing through Brooklyn House. For a moment, she let herself drift in that peaceful space between sleep and waking, where her mother's warnings felt distant and the weight of prophecy lighter. Then reality crashed back, and she sat up with a jolt, her hand automatically reaching for her celestial bronze knife.

Something felt wrong.

It wasn't anything obvious at first – just the way the morning light streaming through her window seemed too sharp, the shadows in the corners too deep. She'd learned to trust these instincts – they'd saved her life more times than she could count. But this feeling was different, more insidious, like the wrongness was woven into the fabric of reality itself.

She found the children in the Great Room, and for a moment, the scene was so perfectly normal it made her chest ache. Sadie had convinced Khufu to wear a tiny party hat while Carter tried to teach him the proper way to hold a crayon. The baboon was having none of it, methodically peeling and eating the blue crayon instead.

"Where are your parents?" Annabeth asked, trying to keep her voice light despite the growing knot in her stomach.

The children turned to her with eerily synchronized movements. "Gone," they said in unison, their voices hollow in a way that made the hair on the back of Annabeth's neck stand up.

Then Sadie sneezed, getting crayon wax on her nose, and the moment shattered. "Daddy and Mum said they had to check something about the owl people," she added cheerfully, her British accent making it sound almost whimsical. "Khufu, that's not even a food that ends in 'o'!"

"The owl people," Carter echoed more seriously, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Dad said something about when he thought I was asleep...what was it? The Duat being tangled?"

Annabeth's hand went instinctively to her celestial bronze knife. The Court's invitation burned in her pocket – less than two days now. She thought of her mother's warning, of divine pride and vengeance. Everything you hold dear will be forfeit.

"Annabeth" A deep voice rumbled through the chamber. Philip of Macedonia had surfaced in his pool, his albino scales gleaming unnaturally bright. "It's happening."

Amos Kane emerged from the shadows as if he'd been formed from them, his usually immaculate suit replaced by battle armor that seemed to be woven from solidified light. Golden hieroglyphs danced across the surface, but they looked agitated, distressed. His expression was grave, but there was something else there – a barely contained fury that reminded Annabeth of storm clouds gathering.

She'd barely spoken to Julius's brother since arriving, but something in his tone made her blood run cold. He led her to his study, a room that seemed to exist partially in the Duat itself, the walls shifting between physical reality and something else entirely. The kids stayed in eyesight. 

"I was really hoping to be wrong about this," he said, his rich voice tight with controlled emotion. He held out a piece of papyrus that seemed to exist partially in another dimension, its edges bleeding into something that hurt Annabeth's eyes to look at.

The Court's owl symbol was drawn on it in what looked disturbingly like dried blood, but it had been twisted, corrupted. Egyptian hieroglyphs were woven through it in patterns that made Annabeth's demigod senses recoil. Power radiated from it – wrong power, like someone had taken two pure sources and forced them together into something that should never exist.

"They've been captured," Amos said quietly, his eyes fixed on the children. Sadie was now trying to convince Khufu that crayons counted as food that ended in 'o' if you spelled it 'crayon-o'. "Julius and Ruby...they're two of our most powerful magicians. For the Court to take them..."

"How?" Annabeth's mind was already racing through strategies, but this was outside her experience. She knew Greek monsters, Greek gods, Greek threats. This was something else entirely.

"They've found a way to corrupt the barriers between pantheons," Amos said, his voice dropping even lower. "They're using the Labyrinth as a conduit, drawing power from both Greek and Egyptian sources. But somehow they’ve got their claws into Duat, causing a scene in the Twenty-First Nome. It's... unprecedented." He looked at her sharply. "And dangerous beyond measure."

A crash from the other room made them both jump. "Sorry!" Sadie called out. "Khufu was just showing us how basketball works in the Duat!"

Amos's expression softened for a moment, looking at his niece and nephew. Then it hardened again. "We need help. Someone who understands how to walk between different kinds of power." He adjusted his coat, and Annabeth noticed amulets gleaming at his throat – but unlike the usual Egyptian symbols she'd seen, these looked almost...occult. "I know a man in Liverpool. John Constantine. He's...well, he's an asshole, if I'm being honest, but he knows things. Things about how different magics interact."

"Liverpool?" Annabeth thought of the distance, of the Court's deadline drawing closer. "How would we even—"

Amos smiled grimly. "One advantage of Egyptian magic – distance is more of a suggestion than a rule." He turned to the children. "Right then, my dears. Who's up for a little trip?"

"Adventure!" Sadie squealed, while Carter looked immediately suspicious.

"Where are Mum and Dad, really?" he asked, and Annabeth saw a flash of the powerful magician he would become one day.

"We're going to help them," Amos said, and Annabeth admired how he made it sound like an exciting expedition rather than a desperate rescue mission. "But first we need to visit an old friend of mine. He lives in a very special house."

"More special than this one?" Sadie asked, gesturing at the mansion that existed in multiple dimensions at once.

"Oh yes," Amos said, and there was something in his tone that made Annabeth's skin prickle. "The House of Mystery has been around longer than Egyptian magic itself. It...collects things. Knowledge. Power. Debts." He looked at Annabeth. "Bring your Greek weapons. Where we're going, we'll need every kind of power we can get."

He didn’t have to tell her twice, her dagger was already in the waistband of her shorts. Still, she decided to bring her New York Yankee Hat, just in case. 

Minutes later, they stood ready. Amos had Sadie perched on his hip, the little girl already chattering about their "adventure." Carter held Annabeth's hand, and she could feel him trembling slightly but trying to hide it. Brave kid.

Amos raised his staff, drawing a doorway in the air with Egyptian symbols that blazed with golden light. But there was something else there too – other kinds of power weaving through the spell. Annabeth thought of the corrupted owl symbol and wondered just how many different types of magic were really out there.

The doorway opened onto a rain-slicked street in Liverpool, where a Victorian mansion loomed impossibly tall against steel-gray clouds. The architecture made Annabeth's head hurt – it seemed to exist in multiple configurations at once, like the Labyrinth but more...deliberate. More alive.

As they approached the front door, Annabeth felt power radiating from the house – but not Greek or Egyptian. This was something older, wilder. Magic from before the world was divided into neat mythological categories.

"Fair warning," Amos said, adjusting his grip on Sadie, "John can be a bit...intense. Try not to make any deals with him. And whatever you do, don't let him offer you a cigarette."

He raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles could touch the wood, the door swung open on its own. Warm light spilled out, along with the smell of something burning that definitely wasn't tobacco.

"Amos bloody Kane," came a rough British voice from inside. "What poor lost soul are you dragging to my doorstep this time?"

The house seemed to lean forward slightly, like a curious animal examining new prey. Annabeth gripped her knife tighter, thinking of Chiron's warnings about transformation and prices.

She just hoped whatever price Constantine demanded would be worth it to save the Kanes. Because looking at that doorway, at the impossible angles of the House around it, she had a feeling they were about to step into something even the Court of Owls hadn't bargained for.

Behind them, Brooklyn House's doorway sealed shut with a sound like fate laughing.

–

John Constantine stood in the doorway like a rumpled prophecy of doom, cigarette dangling from his lips despite the rain. His trenchcoat had seen better decades, and his tie looked like it had been knotted in the dark. But his eyes – those eyes had seen things that would make the gods themselves think twice.

"Brought the ankle-biters, did you?" He took a long drag, eyeing Sadie and Carter. "Bit desperate, even for you, Kane."

"Adventure!" Sadie declared again, completely immune to Constantine's doom-and-gloom aura. She was now wearing what appeared to be a makeshift Egyptian headdress fashioned from notebook paper, slightly askew on her caramel curls.

"The Court of Owls has Julius and Ruby," Amos said quietly, and something flickered across Constantine's face – concern, maybe, or calculation.

"Bloody hell." He threw his cigarette into a puddle where it sizzled unnaturally purple. "The same lot that got kicked out of the House of Life for trying to turn gods into batteries? Those pretentious owl-botherers?"

Annabeth's head snapped up. This was new information – different from what she'd learned about their betrayal of Athena.

"The very same," Amos confirmed. "They've found a way to corrupt the barriers between pantheons. Using the Labyrinth as a conduit wasn't enough for them – now they're trying to merge different kinds of divine power."

"Always did have more ambition than sense, that bunch." Constantine stepped aside, gesturing them in. "Right then. Better come in before whatever's following you catches up."

"Following us?" Carter asked, his glasses fogging up in the sudden warmth of the house.

"Oh yes," Constantine said cheerfully. "Nasty bit of work too. Some sort of owl-shaped shadow that's not quite Greek, not quite Egyptian, and altogether too interested in your lot."

The House seemed to shift around them, rooms rearranging themselves like a puzzle box. Sadie squealed in delight as a chandelier morphed into a spiral staircase, while Carter watched with scholarly fascination.

"Love what you've done with the dimensional instability," Amos commented dryly, steering the children away from what looked like a portal to somewhere with too many teeth.

"Place decorates itself these days. Got tired of arguing with it about the wallpaper." Constantine led them to a library that seemed to exist in at least five different times at once. Ancient scrolls shared shelf space with computer printouts that hadn't been invented yet. "So. The Court's finally made their move."

"They want to capture a goddess," Annabeth said quietly, thinking of her mother's warning. "Use her power somehow."

"Worse than that, love." Constantine pulled a book from the air itself. "They want to become gods. Tried it back in Egypt – thought they could improve on the whole 'divine host' business. House of Life told them to sod off, but..." He gestured at the book's pages, which showed familiar owl symbols twisted with Egyptian hieroglyphs. "Some ideas don't die easy."

"Can we help Mum and Dad?" Carter asked suddenly, his young voice cutting through the heavy discussion. He was trying so hard to be brave, but Annabeth could see his hands shaking.

Constantine's expression softened fractionally. "Course we can, mate. Your parents are tough as they come. But first..." He turned to Annabeth, and his gaze felt like it was seeing straight through to her soul. "We need to talk about what you are, love. Because you're not just a demigod anymore, are you? And you're not just a magician either."

The House creaked ominously around them, and somewhere in the distance, an owl cried. But this wasn't the hollow sound of the Court's corrupted creatures. This was something older, purer – and somehow, even more terrifying.

Sadie, completely oblivious to the tension, had discovered a deck of tarot cards that kept rearranging themselves into impossible shapes. "Look!" she exclaimed. "They're doing magic tricks!"

"Put those down before they do tricks with you," Constantine muttered, but Annabeth noticed how he positioned himself between the children and the deeper shadows of the House. Whatever was coming, at least they had allies who understood what they were really facing.

She just hoped she would be enough.

"You've got Egyptian magic in your blood from the Waynes," Constantine continued, pulling another book from seemingly nowhere. "And divine Greek power from your mum. But it's more than that, innit?" He flipped through pages that seemed to be written in light itself. "The Court's been trying for centuries to merge those powers. But you – you're doing it naturally. Living proof it can be done."

"Is that why they want her?" Carter asked, his scholarly curiosity momentarily overriding his worry. He'd found a comfortable spot in an armchair that looked Victorian from one angle and Ancient Roman from another.

"Part of it," Amos said grimly. "But there's something else. Something older stirring in Gotham's shadows."

"Look, Mr. Constantinople!" Sadie interrupted, holding up the tarot cards. "This one keeps turning into a butterfly!" Indeed, the Death card in her hand was folding itself into an origami moth, its wings traced with gleaming hieroglyphs.

"Bloody hell," Constantine muttered, snatching the card away before it could complete its transformation. "Those aren't toys, love. They're...well, best not to explain what they are with young ears about."

The House groaned around them, its architecture shifting like uneasy thoughts. Annabeth felt something brush against her magical senses – a presence vast and cold, watching from somewhere beyond normal space.

"They're using Shezmu's power," Constantine said suddenly, lighting another cigarette despite Amos's disapproving look. "The Court. I’ve just only put the pieces together. They’re trying to channel the Demon of the Wine Press through their Talons. Bloody stupid idea if you ask me – mixing an Egyptian demon of slaughter with Greek divine energy."

"Shezmu?" Annabeth asked, the name sending chills down her spine.

"Egyptian god of blood and wine," Carter supplied helpfully, then blushed when everyone looked at him. "What, Dad's been teaching me."

"Smart lad," Constantine nodded. "But he's more than that. Shezmu's one of the oldest – a power from before the gods took their familiar forms. The Court thinks they can use him to capture and contain a goddess's power. To become what they've always wanted to be."

"The embodiment of wisdom itself," Annabeth whispered, remembering her mother's fury.

"The owls are pretty!" Sadie declared, pointing at shadows that were definitely not cast by anything in the room. They moved like liquid darkness, taking shapes that made Annabeth's eyes hurt.

"Those aren't owls, love." Constantine's voice had gone hard. He snapped his fingers and the shadows retreated, hissing. "And they're not alone. Something else is using the Court – pushing them toward this insanity. Something that knows exactly what breaking the barriers between pantheons would do."

A chill ran down Annabeth's spine as she remembered a presence she'd sensed in the deepest shadows, colder and more ancient than even the Court's corrupted power. A presence that had felt familiar somehow...

The House shuddered around them, its rooms rearranging like it was trying to solve a puzzle. Or maybe hide from something.

"We need to move quickly," Amos said, gathering Sadie into his arms. The little girl was starting to yawn, the excitement finally catching up to her. "Julius and Ruby won't last long in the Court's hands, especially if they're channeling Shezmu's power."

"Right then." Constantine stubbed out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray that might have been a Ming vase. "I know a way into their tunnels – the old paths, from before they corrupted the Labyrinth. But..." He looked at Annabeth with those too-knowing eyes. "You'll have to lead. You're the only one who can walk both sides of the power they're playing with."

Carter had fallen asleep in his impossible chair, his glasses slightly askew. Looking at him and Sadie, Annabeth felt the weight of what they were facing. These children might lose their parents to the Court's twisted ambitions. Just like she had lost her mother's approval by straying into Egyptian magic.

The House creaked again, and this time Annabeth was sure she heard something laughing in its depths – something that sounded disturbingly like grating metal and falling sand.

"Time to go," Constantine said sharply. "Something's noticed us. Something big."

"The Court?" Amos asked, shifting Sadie to his other hip.

"Worse." Constantine's expression was grim. "Something's pushing them, remember? Something that wants the pantheons to crash together. And I think it's finally spotted its key."

He looked at Annabeth, and in his eyes she saw reflected horrors yet to come. "Ready to find out what you really are, love? Because whatever's coming... it's been waiting a very long time for someone exactly like you."

The shadows moved again, and this time they took the shape of a sundial – but the time it showed was impossible, counting down to something that should never arrive.

 ₊⁺⋆⁺₊

Jason had been watching from the shadows since the night Tim and Damian encountered Talia. Not out of any particular loyalty to her – he'd had enough run-ins with their assassins to last several lifetimes. No, what caught his attention was how Bruce's other sons were skulking around the newly-discovered daughter.

The past week had been...educational.

He'd tracked Tim's investigation pattern across Gotham's oldest districts, noting how the kid's usual methodical approach had become almost obsessive. The way he'd spend hours analyzing architectural plans, muttering about impossible angles and spaces that shouldn't exist. How he'd started wearing those weird protective amulets that Zatanna sometimes used.

Damian was worse – all coiled tension and barely-concealed hostility whenever Annabeth entered a room. But there was something else there too, something that made the kid's hand twitch toward weapons he wasn't carrying whenever strange shadows moved across manor walls.

"Your sister's been researching something big," he'd told Stephanie and Cass three nights ago, dropping unannounced into the Gotham Public Library's restricted section. They'd been surrounded by ancient architectural texts and historical documents – the same kinds of records Tim had been obsessing over.

"Nice of you to join the party," Stephanie said without looking up from a particularly dense volume, while Cass merely shifted her posture slightly – acknowledgment and warning in one subtle motion. "We're helping Annabeth remotely. She's got some...interesting theories about Gotham's architecture."

"Yeah? And what's so interesting that has her requesting blueprints of Gotham's oldest buildings all the way from Brooklyn?" He'd settled into a chair, noting the familiar patterns in the architectural drawings. "Same buildings where my contacts report seeing things that shouldn't exist."

"She sees patterns," Cass said simply, her focus never leaving the documents.

Stephanie nodded, pushing a stack of notes across the table. "Like these. She asked us to check something specific about load-bearing walls that...shouldn't be load-bearing. Buildings that don't follow normal rules."

"Normal rules like physics?" Jason picked up one of Annabeth's detailed sketches, recognizing the precision in her architectural notes. "Or normal rules like reality?"

"Both," Cass answered, while Stephanie bit her lip, clearly wrestling with something.

"Look," Stephanie finally said, "we know Tim and Damian are investigating her. But they're looking at this all wrong. She's not working against us – she's trying to understand something. Something big."

"Something old," Cass added, her expression troubled. "Wrong old."

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of." He'd stood, preparing to leave. "Keep digging, but be careful. And whatever you find – remember she's family now. Even if some of our brothers are being paranoid little shits about it."

Stephanie's snort of laughter couldn't quite hide her concern. "Says the guy who used to try to kill them."

"Exactly. Which means I know paranoid shit when I see it."

The next few days had been a blur of surveillance and growing unease. He'd traced the connections between Annabeth's research requests and the buildings Tim and Damian were investigating. Caught glimpses of strange symbols that made his head hurt just looking at them. Watched as Stephanie and Cass methodically compiled information to send to Brooklyn, their own concern evident in the intensity of their focus.

Which was why Jason found himself in that cathedral with Tim and Damian, listening to Talia's warnings about ancient power and divine vessels. Not because he believed all the mystical bullshit (though he'd seen enough in his second life to keep an open mind), but because family was family. Even the ones who might be involved with ancient conspiracies.

He dropped from the rafters, and Tim had his bo staff half-extended before recognizing Jason's distinctive silhouette. "Waiting for what?" Jason asked, his helmet reflecting the moonlight streaming through stained glass. "Because I've been tracking some weird shit lately, and it all leads back to your little family drama."

"Todd." Damian's hand stayed on his sword hilt. "This doesn't concern you."

"No?" Jason's laugh held a sharp edge. "Strange energy signatures all over Gotham's oldest buildings. People disappearing without a trace. And now Baby Bird and the Demon Spawn are running around with Talia, investigating ancient Egyptian magic?" He crossed his arms. "Plus, Bruce is acting weird about his long-lost kid. So yeah, I'd say it concerns me."

Tim studied him carefully. Probably recognizing his good instincts – and more importantly, he knew Gotham's darker corners in ways the rest of them didn't. "What have you seen?"

"Energy readings off the charts in places that shouldn't have any power. Strange symbols appearing and disappearing from walls. And the homeless population..." Jason's voice tightened. "They're avoiding certain areas completely. Say they see owls with human faces watching them. Things moving in ways things shouldn't move."

"The Court grows bolder," Talia observed. "Or perhaps more desperate."

"There's something else." Jason pulled up a holographic display from his wrist computer. "Been mapping the disappearances. They form a pattern – like they're drawing something across Gotham. Something big."

Tim's eyes widened as the pattern emerged. "Those aren't random points. They're following the ley lines you mentioned, Talia. But they're...changing them somehow."

"And every site has traces of those symbols," Jason added. "The ones that make your eyes want to slide away. Like the ones on our little owl friend back there."

Damian made a contemplative sound. "Annabeth knew about those symbols. She recognized them at the theater, but claimed they were 'corrupted' somehow."

"Convenient," Tim drawled. "Just like it's convenient how she always seems to be somewhere else when weird shit goes down. Or how Bruce can't seem to think straight around her."

"The Wayne blood carries power," Talia reminded them. "Power that responds to certain...influences. The Court has spent centuries studying how to tap into it. And now they have a perfect vessel – one with a direct claim to Bruce's legacy."

"So what's the play?" Jason asked. "Because if something big is coming, we need to move."

The cathedral's shadows deepened impossibly, and Jason felt that familiar sensation of his mind trying to look away from something it couldn't process.

"They're marking their territory," Talia said softly. "Drawing boundaries in preparation for something larger. The question is...are they the ones truly in control of what they're unleashing?"

"Great," Jason muttered. "Ancient Egyptian magic, family drama, AND potentially world-ending ritual shit. Just another Tuesday in Gotham."

But Tim noticed how Jason's hand stayed near his weapons, how his posture shifted to keep all the exits in view. Whatever was coming, they'd need every ally they could get. Even the ones who preferred to work alone.

"We need to track these energy signatures," Tim said. "Figure out what they're building toward. And we need to do it without tipping our hand – to the Court or to Bruce."

"And we'll need a way in," Tim continued, already planning the infiltration to a meeting he had found, one with all the major members. "Something that won't trigger their security or...whatever else they've got down there."

Jason thought about shadow-filled corridors and impossible architectures, about a sister who moved through them like she'd been born to it. "I might have an angle they won't expect. But you've got to promise me something first."

Damian's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Whatever we find down there – whatever she's involved in – we try to help her first. She's still family."

"The Court-" Damian started, but Jason cut him off.

"Is probably using her just like they try to use everyone. But she's a Wayne. That means something, even if some of us forgot it while playing detective."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken tension. Finally, Tim nodded. "We help her if we can. But if she's willingly working with them..."

"Then we deal with it as family," Jason finished. "Not as vigilantes."

And how Jason found himself perched on a gargoyle overlooking the old Gotham Merchants' Exchange, watching his newly-returned sister approach the building with purpose in her stride. The moonlight caught her blonde hair in a way that made it look almost silver – too silver, like it was catching light that wasn't quite natural.

His comm crackled. "Target is moving," Tim's voice, all business. "East entrance."

"She has a name, Replacement," Jason growled. "And she's not a target."

"She's walking into the Court's stronghold," Damian cut in. "Alone. At midnight. During what Mother confirms is a significant astronomical alignment."

Jason watched Annabeth pause at the entrance, her hand trailing over symbols carved into the stone – symbols his eyes kept trying to slide away from. She'd returned from Brooklyn yesterday, carrying more books and speaking in that clipped, precise tone she used when trying to hide concern. Now here she was, approaching one of the buildings they'd identified as a Court nexus point.

"This isn't what you think," he said, even as his tactical mind cataloged all the ways this looked bad. "She's been researching these buildings. Maybe she found something-"

"Or perhaps," Talia's voice smooth as silk over the comm, "she found exactly what they wanted her to find."

Below, Annabeth produced a key that seemed to bend light around it. The door opened with a sound that made Jason's teeth ache.

"We move in," Tim decided. "Carefully. If she's being coerced-"

"If anyone's harmed her," Jason interrupted, "they won't live long enough to regret it."

He caught Damian's slight nod of approval. For all their differences, they understood family.

They followed her progress through the building, staying to the shadows. Jason couldn't shake the feeling that the shadows were watching back. The architecture seemed to shift when viewed from different angles, spaces expanding and contracting in ways that defied physics.

"The energy readings are off the charts," Tim whispered, his sensors glowing an angry red. "Whatever they're planning-"

"Look." Damian's voice held an edge of tension.

Annabeth had stopped in what should have been an ordinary conference room. But the moonlight streaming through the windows cast impossible shadows, and the walls seemed to pulse with symbols that made Jason's head hurt.

"Is that..." Tim started.

"An initiation chamber," Talia confirmed. "The Court uses them to bind new members to their cause. But this is...different. Older."

Jason watched as Annabeth approached what looked like an owl statue, but something about its proportions was wrong. It seemed to occupy more space than it should, its eyes reflecting light that wasn't there.

"We need to stop this," Damian said, his hand moving to his sword. But Jason caught his arm.

"Wait." He studied Annabeth's posture – not fearful or coerced, but cautious. Prepared. "Look at how she's moving. She knows exactly what she's doing."

"That's what concerns me," Talia murmured.

The symbols on the walls began to pulse faster, casting strange reflections that seemed to bend around Annabeth's form. She reached out toward the statue-

"Now or never," Tim said urgently. "Whatever this is-"

"We help her first," Jason insisted, preparing to move. "Whatever's happening, whatever she's involved in – she's family. We help her first."

The owl's eyes began to glow with an impossible light, and reality seemed to twist around its edges. As they prepared to intervene, Jason couldn't shake the feeling that they were all pieces in a much larger game – one whose true player remained hidden in shadows older than civilization itself.

But family was family. And in Gotham, that meant something – even if that something was about to collide with forces none of them truly understood.

 ₊⁺⋆⁺₊

So before she begins, Annabeth would like to explain how she got here, walking straight towards a magnificent trap. The Court of Owls' main entrance looked deceptively ordinary - just another historic Gotham building with too many shadows and not enough straight lines. But she could feel the power radiating from it, a corrupted mixture of Greek and Egyptian magic that made her celestial bronze dagger hum against her hip.

Hours earlier, she'd stood in the Batcave, spreading out maps that seemed to shift when you weren't looking directly at them. Bruce, Cassandra, and Stephanie had listened intently as she finally shared what she'd learned about the Court's true nature - former servants of Athena who'd fallen from grace, now twisted by centuries of bitter ambition.

"They're planning something," she'd explained, "Something that involves both Greek and Egyptian power in ways that were never meant to be combined. The Court isn't just trying to capture my mother. They're attempting something that was forbidden even in ancient time"

Stephanie let out a soft curse. "That's why they've been watching you since you returned to Gotham."

Cassandra moved closer to the maps, her eyes tracking patterns others might miss. "You have plan," she stated simply.

"Yes." Annabeth pulled out the corrupted owl symbol she'd taken from Constantine's house. "The Court thinks they're the masters of manipulation, but they've gotten arrogant. They're so focused on their grand design that they've missed something crucial - something that Constantine helped me see."

She explained about John Constantine and Amos Kane, about the House of Mystery and the children they needed to protect. About how the Court's tampering with the barriers between pantheons had created vulnerabilities they didn't understand.

"They're going to try to pull me into their ritual chamber," Annabeth continued. "They'll think they're luring me in, but..." A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "Well, let's just say they're not the only ones who know how to lay a trap."

"You're going to let them think they've won," Bruce said, understanding dawning in his eyes.

"Constantine's found a way to use their own corrupted passages against them. While they're focused on their ritual, he and Amos will be using the Labyrinth's connection to the Duat to-"

A shadow passed over the cave entrance - too large, too silent to be natural. The computers flickered, ancient symbols bleeding across their screens.

"Bloody hell, you could've just called," came a familiar British voice from the darkness. John Constantine emerged from shadows that shouldn't have been able to hold him, cigarette already lit. "Though I suppose dramatic entrances are a bit of a requirement in this cave."

Bruce's expression didn't change, but something almost like amusement flickered in his eyes. "John."

"Bruce." Constantine nodded, then glanced around the cave. "Still keeping the place as cheerful as ever, I see. Though you've added more computers since last time. Finally entering the digital age?"

There was a grunt from Batman suggesting a shared history of demon and city patrols.

"That was one time," Constantine protested, reading Bruce's expression. "And I did replace that Babylonian ward stone."

"With a Beatles album cover."

"Worked better, didn't it?"

Annabeth cleared her throat, though she had to admit watching Batman and John Constantine bicker like old frenemies was oddly entertaining. "The Court?"

"Right." Constantine's expression sobered. "They're moving faster than we thought. Whatever's pushing them..." He glanced at Bruce. "You remember that thing in Prague? The one with the time-eating shadows?"

"This is worse," Bruce stated.

"Much worse." Constantine took a long drag of his cigarette. "They're messing with forces that could tear reality apart, and they're too blind with ambition to see it."

The cave's lights flickered again, and this time they stayed out. In the darkness, shadows seemed to move with impossible grace.

“The Court thinks they understand power, but they've forgotten something essential about wisdom."

"What's that?" Stephanie asked, already reaching for her equipment.

"True wisdom," Annabeth said softly, "knows its own limits. The Court's hunger for power has blinded them to the forces they're really dealing with.”

"Showtime," Annabeth whispered, and stepped forward to meet her destiny - trusting that somewhere in Liverpool, Amos Kane was keeping two children safe while preparing magics older than cities themselves.

The real question was whether they could pull it off before whatever was truly orchestrating events revealed its hand. Because looking at those shadows, Annabeth had a feeling the Court's grand plans were just one piece of a much larger, darker game.

Above them, the moon rose over Gotham like a silver eye, watching and waiting.

Chapter Text

Annabeth walked into the Court's chamber with measured steps, letting them believe she was falling for their manipulations. The grand hall was filled with figures in owl masks, their silhouettes casting long shadows across marble floors inlaid with ancient patterns. Candlelight flickered across the polished stone, making the masked figures seem to shift and dance in the darkness.

"Welcome, seeker of wisdom," the Grandmaster (she supposed) intoned, his mask more elaborate and grandiose than the others. "You who have seen through the gods' deceptions, who understands that true wisdom cannot be hoarded by distant deities."

Annabeth played her part perfectly, inclining her head with just the right mixture of reverence and ambition, keeping herself doy-eyed and docile. Personally, she felt her blonde hair really sold the ditzy persona. "The gods have lost their way," she said, repeating their own propaganda back to them. "True wisdom belongs to those with the courage to claim it."

The Court members nodded approvingly, not realizing she was letting them see exactly what they wanted to see. They didn't suspect she was Athena's daughter – their own hubris had convinced them she was just another follower of wisdom, one they could mold to their purposes. And, they weren't very smart for a cult based in knowledge.

The chamber's architecture seemed to shift and breathe as Annabeth stood before the assembled Court members, their owl masks gleaming in the strange light. Something felt wrong – Constantine should have appeared by now, should have interrupted whatever they were planning. But there was only silence from the shadows where he should have emerged. Like so many others before him, he wasn't there when she needed him most. She could still feel the thrum of the Labyrinth coiling beneath the granite floors with ancient power she still didn't understand. She recalled Kane's claim of it being slowly infiltrated by the Duat and she could believe it after visiting that unsettling place in her dreams. The Labyrinth was something she had revered for so long, and aside from the Court's fixation on Athena she felt a need to expulse all the wrongness and restore what she considered the pinnacle of human engineering to its former glory.

And so she held it out, fingers twitchy for the knife at her side – Luke's knife, a reminder of another promise broken – and her cap that hung from its strap on the belt loop of her jean shorts. And how could she forget her new magic wand-staff. Besides, she had her people waiting for her, poised to strike even if a single scratch appeared. Or, that's what she told herself, trying to ignore how familiar this feeling of standing alone was.

"The vessel is prepared," one Court member said, her voice carrying an edge of barely contained excitement. Another stepped forward, holding what looked like bandages covered in strange hieroglyphs, stranger than anything she had encountered in Brooklyn and it made her eyes hurt trying to decipher them.

"This is a great honor," a third member assured her, but his tone held something predatory that was hard to ignore. She made an effort to not make a face. "To be the channel through which true wisdom will finally be claimed."

The wrongness intensified as they began their chant. Annabeth tried to step back, to brandish her dagger, to do anything —but her legs wouldn't move. The ritual wasn't what she'd expected – she could feel it taking hold, ancient magics wrapping around her like bandages, beginning to mummify her while she was still conscious. Her thoughts became sluggish, confused. This wasn't supposed to happen. Where was Constantine? Where was Bru–her father? 

Why did everyone who was supposed to protect her always leave her to face the darkness alone?

Immediately she called upon her newfound power, her hand shooting forward as she tried to speak the Divine Words she'd practiced with Ruby - "Ha-di" for destroy, "Ha-tep" for release - but the hieroglyphs sputtered and died in her throat like dying fireflies. Her wand-staff trembled in her grip as she attempted to trace the protective ankh in the air, the way Julius had shown her dozens of times, but the ancient magic surrounding her seemed to twist and distort her own, turning her carefully practiced symbols into useless smoke. The harder she pushed against the binding ritual, the more her thoughts scattered like puzzle pieces across marble floors. Even her innate demigod powers felt distant— if you could even call it that —as if the strange strips of cloth were severing her connection to both her Greek and Egyptian heritage.

"The binding is beginning," someone whispered with reverence. "See how the essences merge?"

In the shadows near the chamber's entrance, Bruce noticed something was wrong first. The way his daughter’s stance had changed, the unnatural stillness of her form. "Move," he commanded, already launching forward, but Tim and Damian dropped down from somewhere up above, blocking his path with their weapons. He didn’t have time to reason with him his daughter was hurt —

"Wait," Tim insisted, his bo staff raised. "We don't know what she's really-"

"Look at her!" Stephanie shouted, seeing the horror of what was happening and taking out his left eardrum in the process, "They're killing her!"

"Or she's part of their plan," Damian countered, though uncertainty crept into his voice. He looked around for his mother but she was nowhere to be found. 

Damn you, Talia , Tim almost said out loud but he had made his stance and he had to defend it and somehow explain all the things he had gathered without B taking off his head with that razor-sharp batarang of his, poised and ready.

Jason stood between them, his helmet reflecting the sickly light of the ritual. "We had a deal about family," he growled at Tim and Damian, guns already out and blazing.

The air grew thick with power as bandages began wrapping themselves around Annabeth's form, hieroglyphs blazing with corrupt light. She tried to scream but her voice wouldn't work. The Court members circled her, their masks reflecting impossible colors.

She almost went limp from shock as Athena's essence poured into her like molten bronze, divine power warring with mortal flesh. She could feel her mother's consciousness forcibly merging with her own, their thoughts tangling together in impossible ways. The bandages grew tighter, hieroglyphs burning against her skin as her blood began to flow into ceremonial vessels.

"Mother," she gasped, unsure if she spoke aloud or only in her mind. "I can't-"

We must resist, Athena's voice echoed through her, an invasive and unsettling experience.  This perversion of wisdom cannot-

"The vessel accepts the binding," one said in triumph, cutting through her conscience.

"No, she fights it still," another observed with clinical interest. "But that will pass."

Cass moved like a shadow, trying to reach Annabeth from another angle, but the very foundation of the room seemed to twist to block her path. The Court had prepared well, corrupting the very space around them. They flocked around with concern with the revelation that Gotham’s finest had made it to stop their ritual. But the Grandmaster perked up as if noticing something beyond their perception and the rest of them settled down with what felt like glee. 

The ground beneath them shuddered. Ancient stones groaned like awakening giants, and the air grew heavy with the scent of dust and forgotten places. The ceremonial circles carved into the floor began to crack, their carefully etched symbols splitting apart as something far older than the Court's magic stirred below.

Then the Labyrinth’s entrance erupted.

It wasn't the clean opening they'd planned for Constantine's arrival. Instead, the wall tore like tissue paper, revealing a darkness that writhed with ancient malice. The sound it made was like stone screaming.

A figure emerged, human in shape but fundamentally wrong, like a reflection in rippling water that refused to settle. Crowned in gold that wept rivulets of something too thick to be wine, too bright to be blood. His vulture's head tilted at an impossible angle, the hooked beak gleaming wetly in the dark. He moved with the languid grace of spilled wine, each step sending ripples through reality itself as though the very air recoiled from his touch.

But it was his scent that truly betrayed his otherworldliness – an intoxicating sweetness that filled the lungs like incense, growing heavier and heavier until thinking became difficult. Like fermented honey and crushed flowers and something metallic underneath, a scent that made her mind swim and her knees weak. He towered impossibly tall, his proportions stretching and contracting as though he couldn't quite decide which laws of physics to obey, the shadows beneath his robes writhing like living things.

His presence felt like standing too close to the edge of a great height – that terrible, compelling urge to step forward into the abyss. The wine-maker, the blood-letter, the one who turns men's heads into wine – every movement a terrible poetry of impending violence barely contained within that not-quite-human form. A form the Talon had tried and failed in replicating. 

In his grip was Constantine's limp form, the occultist's trademark trenchcoat soaked through with crimson stains that spread across the tan fabric like spilled ink.

It was Shezmu and they were in deep shit. 

The air itself seemed to crack like shattered glass, revealing glimpses of impossible geometries between the fragments. The Court's ritual circle flared with sickly light, Egyptian hieroglyphs warping and merging with Greek letters in ways that made Annabeth's eyes burn. She could feel the bandages tightening, drawing something vital from her with each passing second, her blood flowing into the waiting vessels in terrible rivulets.

She tried again to call upon Horus who hadn't failed her yet but the fact a Greek deity was literally within her physical form, trapped and raging against her mortal vessel, made any attempt at Egyptian magic feel like trying to pour water into an already overflowing cup. Athena's divine essence was too overwhelming, too ancient and powerful to allow room for another pantheon's magic to take hold.

These inferior magics, Athena's voice rang with cold contempt in their shared consciousness, even as Annabeth felt herself being hollowed out from within. They dare to think they can bind ME? That they can merge what was never meant to be joined? That they can take over my authority over wisdom? Her divine rage felt like frost forming inside Annabeth's skull, sharp and brittle and absolute.

Shezmu turned his vulture head toward them, that cruel beak somehow forming what might have been a smile. The intoxicating scent grew stronger, making the world swim. "The goddess of wisdom," his voice scraped like stone on bone. "How far you've fallen, to be caught in such a simple trap."

Simple? Athena's essence burned hotter, and Annabeth could feel her mother's ancient pride turning razor-sharp even as her own life force slowly drained away. These pretenders know nothing of true wisdom. Nothing of true power. They play with forces beyond their comprehension, like children wielding their parents' weapons.

The corrupted bandages pulled tighter, each moment stealing another piece of her existence. Her blood flowed through elaborate crystal channels, turning to wine that the Court members caught in ancient chalices. With each sip, their owl masks seemed to become more real, more alive. Parts of Annabeth began to fade – memories of Camp Half-Blood grew distant, the weight of her promised dagger felt less certain in her mind.

'Mother,' Annabeth whispered, her voice growing as insubstantial as morning mist, 'we need to work together—'

I need no assistance to deal with these INSECTS, Athena snarled, but her voice was weakening too, divine consciousness fragmenting as it was siphoned away. These false owls who dare to steal my symbols, who think they can contain wisdom itself—

The Court members drank deeply from their chalices, their masks beginning to glow with stolen divinity. But even as Annabeth felt herself dissolving, becoming less real with each passing moment, she could feel something wrong in the equations, some terrible calculation coming to fruition. Shezmu raised his hands, wine-dark power flowing between his fingers, and the Court began their chant anew.

She wasn't just dying – she was being unmade, her very essence being used to feed something else. Something that was neither fully Greek nor Egyptian, but a horrible new amalgamation. The Court members grew stronger with each drop they consumed, their forms shifting subtly as they absorbed fragments of divine power never meant for mortal vessels.

They will suffer for this presumption, Athena's voice had gone terribly cold, even as Annabeth felt the last threads of her humanity slipping away. I will ensure their punishment lasts millennia—

Shezmu's laugh was like pottery breaking, like bones grinding to dust.

The chamber descended into chaos as the family's carefully laid plans shattered. Bruce, Steph, and Cass tried to reach Annabeth while Tim, Damian, and Jason argued about intervention, but it was already too late. The true horror was only beginning to unfold, and somewhere in the shadows, something else watched with patient, ancient hunger.

In her half-conscious state, bound by corrupted bandages and failing magic, Annabeth realized with terrible clarity that they had all miscalculated. Constantine had warned them so casually about 'some Egyptian wine god' getting involved, like it was just another supernatural nuisance he could banish with a wave of his hand and a muttered incantation. Even she had dismissed the threat, too focused on the Court's schemes, too confident in their combined abilities to handle whatever came their way.

But watching Shezmu move through their defenses like they were made of paper, watching him deal with their trump card, Constantine, as if it was child’s play…she understood now. As idiotic as the Court seemed, they had taken the extra step to not just channel the god but use the Labyrinth to make him literally appear in the mortal plane. They had treated a deity like a common threat, and that arrogance had doomed them all. The Court's carefully laid plans, her own cleverness, Constantine's magic – none of it mattered against something that had been ancient when the pyramids were young.

With casual grace, he waved one hand, and reality... shifted . 

The chamber's walls dissolved into the infinite spaces of the Duat. The Court members' triumphant expressions turned to horror as their carefully controlled ritual chamber became an endless expanse of Egyptian afterlife. The divine blood they had consumed turned to poison in their veins, their stolen power burning them from within. Talons appeared from nowhere, but much more formidable – transformed by Shezmu's power into creatures of wine and blood that moved like liquid mercury.

“No,” one of the Court members whispered, doubling over in agony. “This isn't- you promised us power!”

“The vessel,” another gasped, clutching their throat. “The blood was supposed to transform us-”

“Mortals,” Shezmu's voice dripped with ancient amusement. “You came crawling to me, begging for help to capture wisdom itself. Such a perfect opportunity to anchor myself to this realm.” His form rippled and fixed his gaze on Annabeth's struggling form. “But wisdom... wisdom is not meant to be carved up and distributed like meat at a feast. I have watched for millennia as mortals corrupted and twisted knowledge, diluting its purity. I once distilled the very souls of the blessed dead into divine vintage for Ra himself. Wisdom I will keep safe . In my wine press. Only through such perfect preservation can it remain untainted.”

Bruce launched himself forward, but a Talon caught him mid-leap – its form rippling between solid and liquid. Cass and Stephanie moved in perfect synchronization, but in the Duat, physical combat meant nothing. Their strikes passed through enemies that weren't quite there.

"The dimensional barriers," Constantine groaned, finally regaining consciousness. “He's corrupting them completely-”' His hands moved swiftly, tracing sigils in the air that blazed with golden fire as he spat out rapid-fire Latin incantations. The House of Mystery's protection wards manifested around them in burning circles, but Shezmu's presence turned them blood-red before they dissolved like wine stains. 

Constantine switched tactics, pulling out his lighter and a handful of herbs, attempting to cast a banishment spell that had once forced back a demon prince – but the flames twisted into serpentine streams of dark liquid that coiled back toward him. " Merciful heavens and bloody hell- " he started another incantation, this one in Enochian, only for Shezmu to wave his hand again, and Constantine's words turned to ruby droplets that fell like rain.

Jason fired his guns, but the bullets turned to liquid before reaching their target. Tim's bo staff struck nothing but shadow. Damian's sword passed through creatures that reformed like spilled wine.

“Each drop of knowledge,” Shezmu's voice deepened with the same kind of reverence present from the Owls, “each fragment of divine understanding must be preserved in its purest form. Like the finest wine, wisdom only grows more potent with age. And I...I shall be its eternal keeper.”

"The convergence point," Constantine shouted to Bruce. "If we can-"

"Your mortal weapons mean nothing here," he said, almost gentle. "Your plans, your strategies..." He gestured at the Court members, who were now choking on their own transformed blood. "Your petty ambitions."

A portal burst open and they almost sighed with relief– Amos Kane emerging with staff blazing, divine words of power rolling from his tongue. But even his mastery of Egyptian magic seemed muted here, in this space between spaces. She assumed he had used the distraction to secure Ruby and Julius but the grim look on his face betrayed nothing. 

"Shezmu," Amos commanded, trying to bind the deity with ancient words. "By the power of the House of Life-"

"The House of Life?" Shezmu's laugh was like breaking glass. "I am older than your precious order, magician. I danced in the first festivals. I pressed the first wine. I spilled the first blood." His form rippled. "And just like these mortals prefer now I will preserve wisdom as it should be preserved – in perfect, eternal stasis."

The blood draining from Annabeth's veins turned to wine in mid-air, swirling in impossible patterns. She could feel Athena fighting within her, their combined essence being pulled apart by forces older than civilization.

"We have to-" Constantine tried to stand, tried to reach for something in his coat, but reality kept shifting around him. "The symbols, if we can just-"

But it was too late. The Duat had become more real than reality itself, and in this realm of spirits and gods, Shezmu was almost omnipotent. The god of blood and wine and perfume played with them all like a child with toys, transforming their every effort into futile gestures.

"Anne Elizabeth," Tim shouted to Bruce, horror in his voice. "She's-"

Annabeth's form was becoming translucent, divine and mortal essence separating like oil and water. Athena's power blazed within her even as it was drawn out, but against this ancient Egyptian force, even the wisdom goddess's strength seemed insufficient.

Amos tried another binding, hieroglyphs blazing in the air, but Shezmu merely laughed – a cruel and horrible sound. "Your modern magic is nothing compared to the old ways," he said, almost sadly. "But don't worry. I'll keep her essence safe. Both of them.”

The Duat stretched endlessly around them, filled with the screams of dying Court members and the laughter of an ancient god who had transcended both good and evil. The air itself began to thicken, time moving like honey as ancient Greek power pressed against the Egyptian afterlife – a collision of pantheons that should never have been possible.

Reality fractured further as a familiar voice cut through the chaos of the Duat – time itself seeming to slow, then stop, then fragment like shattered glass. "Annabeth!" Luke materialized from golden light, his scarred face twisted with concern, but his eyes blazed like miniature suns with Kronos's power. Each step he took left echoes in reality, moments stretching and compressing as the Titan Lord of Time pushed against the very fabric of the Egyptian afterlife.

Through the searing pain of her essence being torn apart, she caught the genuine fear in his expression. But she wasn't naive anymore – whatever remnant of Luke that still cared about her wasn't enough to overcome Kronos's goals. He'd prove it again and again, showing just enough of that old protectiveness to make it hurt more when he ultimately choose power over her survival. As her consciousness began to fade, she wondered which was worse – that he might actually still care, or that he'd let her die anyway.

"The little hero seeks to protect his friend," Shezmu observed, amused. "But you're not alone in that form, are you, mortal vessel?"

Luke's expression shifted, becoming older, crueler. Kronos's voice emerged like grinding glass: "The Egyptian butcher god. You think to keep wisdom's power for yourself?"

Shezmu laughed, the sound making blood rain upward. It was quite a sight to see 6 '1 demigod-titan square up with the 10’ Egyptian God. "Titan of Time. Your Greek pantheon is young compared to my power. This vessel," he gestured at Annabeth, where she and Athena's essence were being painfully separated after being mixed with great effort, "will serve a greater purpose than your petty war with Olympus."

Bruce tried to reach Annabeth again, but time kept skipping around him – sometimes he was meters away, sometimes inches, never quite able to make contact. Cass moved like a shadow through the temporal distortions, but even her perfect reading of body language meant nothing when bodies themselves kept shifting between moments. Despite all logic and reason, Kronos had regained a lot of his former power in the Duat. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was banished in the Underworld and only in the abyss was he able to grasp some semblance of his former glory. 

"Bloody hell," Constantine muttered, attempting another spell only to have it age to dust before completion. "The dimensional barriers are completely-"

"Look out!" Stephanie tackled Tim as a wave of temporally-displaced blood swept through where he'd been standing. The Court members' corpses kept shifting between fresh deaths and ancient mummies, caught in the gods' power struggle.

Jason fired his guns at Luke/Kronos while Damian tried to flank Shezmu, but both deity and Titan barely noticed their attacks. Talia reappeared again, sensing the danger for her son, but her blade passed through moments where Knronous wasn't, while Shezmu’s counter-attack nearly dissolved her into wine before she could dodge.

"The girl is mine," Kronos declared. "Her wisdom will serve in breaking Olympus."

"Your ambitions are as limited as these mortals," Shezmu replied, echoing his previous statements. "Breaking Olympus? I will preserve wisdom in eternal fermentation, unchanging and pure."

Luke briefly resurfaced, fighting Kronos's control. "Annabeth, I'm trying to-" But the Titan suppressed him again.

Her essence still unraveling, Annabeth wanted to scream at the futility of it all. Luke was fighting Kronos's control, yes, but only to claim her power for a different kind of destruction. Even now, struggling against a Titan's dominion, he still couldn't choose her over his crusade against Olympus. It wasn't even about saving her anymore – just about who got to use her power as a weapon. The worst part was seeing those flashes of the real Luke beneath Kronos's control, knowing he was still in there somewhere, still capable of caring about her fate. But caring wasn't enough. It had never been enough.

Amos Kane attempted another binding spell, hieroglyphs blazing, but the magic kept aging and de-aging, caught in Kronos's temporal field while Shezmu's power corrupted its Egyptian nature. "The spells aren't holding!" he shouted to Constantine. "The conflicting divine energies are-"

A temporal wave hit Bruce mid-leap, aging his suit to dust then reversing it to new in microseconds. Cass pulled him back as Shezmu's blood-wine Talon's filled the space he'd occupied. Stephanie and Tim tried to coordinate an attack, but their movements kept desyncing through time.

"Enough games," Kronos growled. His scythe materialized, cutting through moments themselves. "Wisdom will serve time."

"Time is nothing to the executioner of Deities," Shezmu countered. The Duat wavered as their powers clashed, reality buckling under the strain.

Through it all, Annabeth felt herself being made and unmade. Athena's essence was being torn from her by Shezmu's power while Kronos tried to capture them both in temporal stasis. Their combined screams echoed across dimensions as Jason and Damian made another futile attempt to reach her.

"The barriers," Constantine gasped to Amos. "If they break completely-"

"All of reality goes with them," Amos confirmed grimly, watching as Kronos and Shezmu's battle threatened to unravel existence itself.

The mortals could only watch in growing despair as forces beyond comprehension fought over wisdom's essence, their own efforts as meaningless as insects trying to stop a hurricane. The Duat bled into normal space, time fractured and reformed.

Then, cutting through the chaos like a knife – the comms suddenly burst to life with crackling static energy. "Bruce!" Barbara's voice was sharp, urgent. "—found something in the Ptolemaic archives—bringing Zat—ancient ritual—Greek and Egyptian magic—used during Alexander's conquest—learned to harvest time itself—steal moments from gods—use their own temporal essence against them-"

The transmission cut off as another temporal wave hit, but even through her agony, Annabeth's mind raced. Stealing time from time itself. The ultimate hubris – using Kronos's own essence as a weapon while anchoring divine power through mortal blood. It was brilliant, dangerous, and exactly the kind of plan that would never occur to someone like Amos who worked purely within Egyptian traditions.

But even this hope felt distant as Kronos's temporal attacks kept the others at bay - Bruce's perfectly timed strikes aging to dust before landing, Cass's reading of movements meaning nothing when her opponents existed in multiple moments simultaneously. Tim and Damian tried to coordinate, but their attacks passed through moments where their targets weren't.

"The girl provides such sweet vintage," Shezmu taunted, his vulture head weaving as divine ichor mixed with mortal blood. "Perhaps I'll keep you conscious for the entire process, so you can appreciate the artistry."

Constantine and Amos attempted another binding, blood streaming from both their eyes now, but Kronos shattered it with a casual wave. "Your mortal magic is nothing," the Titan sneered through Luke's face. "Time itself bows to-"

A backwards-spoken incantation sliced through the Duat as Zatanna finally arrived with Dick and Duke. In her hand, she carried an ancient papyrus. “Someone needs my help”, she smirked, knowingly.

"Bit busy, love," Constantine gasped, trying to hold together fragments of space-time as Dick and Duke emerged behind her. "Though if you've got any ideas about handling angry gods..."

"The ritual," she reached for Constantine as reality buckled around them, "we can use his own temporal essence—steal his power while he's distracted with Shezmu—"

King Shark burst through reality's tears, but even his divine-touched strength couldn't reach Annabeth through the temporal storm Kronos had created. The Titan and Shezmu's battle was reaching reality-breaking proportions.

“Oh, come on!”, Constantine muttered, “all my exes had to gather here…”

"The binding ritual," Dick called out, dodging a wave of blood-wine. "Oracle found references in the Court's records - it needs four anchor points, each one stealing a different moment of Kronos's power—"

"Different pieces of his timeline," Constantine finished, understanding dawning despite his pain. "Past, present, future, and paradox. But the power required..."

"Would kill any mortals attempting it," Shezmu laughed, "Your efforts are amusing, but futile."

We cannot allow this , Athena's voice rang through Annabeth's fragmenting consciousness. The power required would-

"Burn through my mortality," Annabeth gasped, understanding clicking into place. "Leave only the divine essence." But the alternative would be much worse. 

Through the haze of pain, Annabeth remembered Chiron's warning about the price of transformation. If she did this, there would be no going back. She would become something new, something neither fully mortal nor fully divine.

Kronos's scythe carved through moments, trying to disrupt their positioning. "Foolish mortals. You cannot-"

"Watch us," Jason snarled, his guns blazing with bullets that curved through temporal distortions thanks to Barbara's rapid-fire calculations through their comms.

Zatanna was already moving, her magic weaving with Constantine's as they began establishing the first anchor point - stealing fragments of the past from Kronos's own timeline. Dick and Cass flowed like water, their movements so perfectly synchronized that even Kronos's time manipulation couldn't fully track them. Tim and Duke combined technical precision with raw power, Duke's meta-abilities actually helping him perceive the right moments to strike through the temporal chaos.

Stephanie and Jason fought with sheer stubborn determination, her quick thinking complementing his raw power. Damian and Talia moved with lethal grace, generations of League training letting them navigate the twisted spaces.

King Shark's divine heritage made him the perfect battering ram, disrupting Shezmu's blood-wine constructs while Amos chanted binding spells. The Egyptian magic kept failing, but each attempt forced Shezmu to divide his attention.

At the center of it all, Annabeth fought to hold herself together as Constantine and Zatanna began weaving the ritual's framework. 

"Even if you establish your pathetic bindings," Kronos snarled, his scythe cutting reality itself, "you cannot steal time from Time itself—"

Luke's consciousness surfaced briefly: "Annabeth! You can't - stealing time from a Titan - it'll burn through everything in you—" Before Kronos violently reasserted control, twisting Luke's features back into a sneer.

He was promptly ignored as the family moved into position, each anchor point corresponding to a different aspect of time. Bruce and Jason held the past - Bruce forever shaped by that night in the alley, Jason by his death and resurrection, their shared trauma letting them channel moments that had already happened. Stephanie and Dick anchored the present - Dick's ability to live fully in each moment, Stephanie's unwavering determination to make every second count, letting them hold steady against Kronos's temporal assault.

Tim and Duke commanded possible futures - Tim's analytical mind calculating every potential outcome while Duke's meta-abilities let him glimpse and navigate through approaching moments. Cass and Damian formed the paradox point - Cass's ability to read intentions before they formed and the complications of their legacies: Damian's existence as both heir to Batman and al Ghul legacies and her’s as an silent assassin bred by Lady Shiva and David Cain who became a hero, letting them exist between contradictions

But the center point - the point that would have to channel all these stolen moments and turn them back against both gods - needed someone who could comprehend it all without breaking. Someone already touched by divine wisdom but still anchored in mortality. The choice was obvious. 

"Now!" Constantine shouted as the pattern stabilized. "Feed him his own timeline!"

Annabeth screamed as stolen time flooded through her. Every moment Kronos had ever experienced - past victories, present battles, future defeats, paths not taken, paradoxes resolved - all of it crashed together inside her.  Mortal blood and divine ichor, Egyptian magic and Greek essence, the Labyrinth's twisted nature and the Duat's transformative power…she could feel her mortality straining as she became a lens, focusing all that temporal energy back against both gods. She tried to grasp onto her mortality, mortality that already felt nostalgic. She immediately recalled the breezy days at Camp Half-Blood - Luke's betrayal, sharp and painful. Thalia's complicated return. The way it was just the three of them before. Her siblings in her Cabin. Winning capture the flag. Quests with Percy and Grover that had forged her into who she was. The family she'd found, not by blood, but by choice. A home she'd fought for, bled for…and Wayne Manor too which had turned into something more than just her legacy. Memories anchoring her against the chaos of stolen time, a lifeline of belonging.

Stay with me, daughter, Athena's voice had grown almost gentle. We must endure this together.

Shezmu and Kronos realized too late what was happening. The ritual wasn't just binding them - it was using Kronos's own temporal essence against both of them, turning Time itself into a weapon. The anchor points weren't just containment, they were theft and transformation.

"No!" Kronos roared, Luke's voice bleeding through with genuine fear as he felt his own timeline being turned against him. "You dare steal from Time—"

"Everything has a price," Annabeth gasped as she channeled the full weight of stolen time through her being. "Even time itself."

The explosion of temporal energy threw everyone back. When reality stabilized, Annabeth stood transformed. Her eyes shifted between past and future, her form flickering between different moments of possibility. The stolen fragments of Kronos's timeline orbited her like a corona of broken hours, mixing with streams of blood-red light stolen from Shezmu's power.

But, she was still just Annabeth , daughter of Athena Parthenos and Bruce Wayne. 

But the victory came at terrible cost. Instead of her bearing the brunt of the damage, it laid shared amongst her family—each anchor point had burned its bearers with temporal scarring - Bruce and Jason were haunted by echoes of every possible past, Dick and Stephanie stuttered between too many presents, Tim's thoughts scattered across countless futures while Duke's powers pulled him through moments yet to come. Cass and Damian bore the marks of paradox, their very natures altered by holding contradictory states of being.

Constantine and Amos collapsed, their connection to magic fundamentally changed by channeling stolen time. Zatanna caught him, her own powers flickering uncertainly between moments. Even King Shark hadn't escaped unscathed, looking sickly and pale and losing his divine glow. 

Shezmu inclined his vulture head with something like respect. "Well played, wisdom-bearer. You've written yourself into Time's own story." His form began to fade. "But remember - stealing from Time marks you forever. Your moments will never flow quite right again."

Kronos snarled in rage but could maintain his hold no longer, his own stolen essence turned against him. Luke's form collapsed as the Titan's power dispersed, leaving him unconscious but freed from possession. But before anyone could react, the ground melted and swallowed him. 

They had won, but victory tasted of stolen time and broken moments. As the Duat receded and reality stabilized, Annabeth collapsed to her knees, her entire body trembling from channeling such vast temporal power. She could feel the fragments of stolen time still moving through her, changing how she perceived reality itself. The divine essence that had been forcibly merged with her own had mostly torn free, coalescing into a brilliant form that made everyone else shield their eyes.

Something felt wrong with her vision as she watched Athena manifest in her true divine form - not just her Greek aspect, but something more complex, layered with possibilities she couldn't quite grasp. The goddess seemed to exist in multiple states simultaneously, each one containing different fragments of wisdom. Annabeth blinked hard, trying to clear the dark spot that had appeared in the center of her sight, the way straight lines in the chamber's architecture now seemed to waver and distort.

"The ability to recognize patterns," Athena's voice echoed with ancient knowledge and she couldn't tell if it was wistful longing but some part of her sounded proud , "means sometimes glimpsing fragments of what's to come." Her expression was proud but heavy with foreknowledge. "You've chosen a terrible path, my daughter. Each of them-" she gestured to the others who had held the anchor points, each marked by their brush with powers they were never meant to channel, "-will need to be restored. And that burden falls to you."

Annabeth pushed herself up, unsteady but alive. The world looked different - she could see the flow of time itself, could read its currents like hieroglyphs, could sense how moments connected and fractured. Maybe as a consequence of such power, it all felt hazy. Not godly omniscience, but something new - as if channeling stolen time had rewritten her perception, leaving her mortal but forever changed. She clutched the wand-staff close, feeling more secure with its smooth surface in her hands. 

She rubbed her eyes, trying to focus on Barbara's voice through their comms: "Bruce...the temporal readings are stabilizing, but these signatures... they're like nothing I've ever seen." The words came through clearly, but time seemed to flow strangely around them, moments stretching and compressing unpredictably.

The chamber was silent except for their ragged breathing and the distant rumble of the Labyrinth settling. No one spoke about what they'd just survived, or what it meant to steal from Time itself. The price of victory was etched into each of them - Dick's fractured movements, Cass's overwhelming temporal sight, Tim's scattered thoughts, Duke's paradoxical powers, Jason and Stephanie's future-scars, Damian and Talia's impossible training. A reminder that some forces weren't meant to be stolen without consequence.

"The path to restoration will demand sacrifices greater than what you've already given," Athena warned, her form beginning to fade. "But remember - you chose this burden when you chose to save them all." There was something else in her tone, something about futures she couldn't speak of directly, about threats that would require this new understanding Annabeth had gained.

The goddess vanished, leaving them in a chamber that felt both ancient and newborn. Annabeth squinted at where her mother had been, trying to ignore how the spot where she'd stood seemed to blur and shift. She had gained new sight in some ways - patterns and possibilities previously invisible to her - but she could feel something fundamental changing in her mortal vision, a price extracted by powers that were never meant to mix. The clarity of the physical world was beginning to fade, like a photograph slowly losing its sharpness, and she knew instinctively that this was just the beginning.

—

The Labyrinth had changed since that day. Or maybe it was Annabeth's deteriorating vision that changed how she perceived it - the way the ancient corridors now hummed with mathematical precision she could feel rather than see, how the intersection of Greek and Egyptian magic left traces she could sense like static in the air. She ran her fingers along the wall as she walked, each worn stone telling her a story through touch that her increasingly unreliable eyes couldn't capture anymore.

Three months had passed since the battle that had transformed them all. Three months of watching her family fracture along temporal fault lines while carrying the crushing weight of responsibility for what she'd done. Dick's fractured movements, Cass's overwhelming temporal sight, Tim's scattered thoughts, Duke's paradoxical powers, Jason and Bruce's echoing pasts, Stephanie's shattered presents, Damian's contradictory existence. A reminder that some forces weren't meant to be stolen without consequence. And her own sight was slowly but surely fading, replaced by heightened senses that felt more like a curse than a gift - divine wisdom extracted its price in flesh and bone and memory.

But unlike before, she wasn't facing this alone anymore. Bruce had noticed her struggling with the training dummies last week, the way she'd miscalculated distances and missed strikes that should have been simple. Instead of the judgment she'd feared, he'd simply adjusted the session, teaching her to rely more on sound and air pressure to detect incoming attacks. Jason had started describing things in vivid detail during their patrols, painting pictures with words that helped her build mental maps of their surroundings. Even Damian, in his own gruff way, had begun leaving tactical diagrams with raised surfaces she could trace with her fingers. But she had noticed that this had all made them more prone to injuries on patrol and she feared the day that one of them didn’t come home because of her—because it was her who had selfishly returned to this place. 

The Golden Fleece had been her first hope for healing them all. Its divine healing properties seemed like the obvious solution with everything that happened with Thalia, but her research had revealed a cruel truth - the Fleece's power was too closely tied to the Greek pantheon. Using it might heal their wounds, but it could also strip away the Egyptian aspects of their transformations...along with their lives. The forced merger of pantheons had changed them on a fundamental level. They couldn't simply go back to what they were.

That's when Grover's theory about Pan had caught her attention. She'd found him in the strawberry fields one evening when she called, his reed pipes creating melodies that seemed to echo with ancient power.

"The old stories," he'd said, twirling a vine between his fingers, "they say Pan was different. Older than the Olympians. He taught Apollo prophecy, gave Artemis her hounds. The Egyptians..." He'd hesitated then, looking around as if worried about being overheard. "They said he was the most ancient of all gods. Connected to Min, their fertility deity. If anyone could understand what happens when pantheons merge, it would be him."

The pieces had started coming together after that. The way Kronos had been swallowed by the ground during the battle. The strange energies Grover kept sensing from the Labyrinth's deeper passages. Pan's connection to both Greek and Egyptian magic might make him uniquely suited to heal what had been broken.

Although, she remembered how different the Manor felt now compared to her first anxious days there—where once she'd seen only Bruce Wayne's imposing wealth and status, now she found comfort in the way Alfred's footsteps echoed precisely through the halls, how Barbara's wheelchair had a distinctive squeak she could recognize from three rooms away, how Tim's coffee maker gurgled at exactly 6:43 each morning. Even the grandfather clock that hid the Cave entrance had become a friend, its steady ticking helping her navigate when her vision blurred—it was hard to stomach that they had to change their entire lives because of her.

The guilt gnawed at her - every time she saw Dick freeze mid-motion, caught between moments, or heard Tim muttering about futures that hadn't happened yet. But her family refused to let her shoulder that burden alone. Stephanie had taken to announcing her presence with terrible puns, making light of their shared trauma while ensuring Annabeth always knew where she was. Duke would describe the timeline fragments he saw, helping her piece together their scattered moments into something that made sense.

But maybe she had not grown as much as she thought, returning to Camp the minute summer hit, mumbling some excuses and letting down practically everyone around her. Now she spent her nights in the camp library, fingers tracing ancient texts she could barely read anymore, piecing together Pan's possible location in the Labyrinth. Her days were spent avoiding concerned looks she couldn't quite see - from Chiron, from her siblings, from Percy. Percy, who stayed at Camp only for part of the short and fleeting summer and returned back to New York as school began to start up again. Percy, who still didn't know why she flinched in bright sunlight or why she'd been turning down his invitations to train together. Sweet Percy, who kept on asking her if it was something he did wrong and she tried to respond but the words were stuck in her throat. 

It was like that, her visiting back and forth, spending a fortune on transportation. Wasn't she rich anyway, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Percy echoed. Last week she had made some stops to the Brooklyn House to finally check up with the Kane’s and their kids who were holding up well. And then, Amos took her to the House of Mysteries where she messed around in that library with Constantine having to grab every other book from her hand because it was cursed or something.     

She had finally agreed to see a movie with Percy after his freshman orientation - "not a date," she'd insisted, even as her heart raced at the prospect. But the thought of sitting in a dark theater, pretending she could follow what was happening on screen...the same guilt that had kept her secret this long twisted in her stomach. How could she tell him that her homecoming had cost her not just her sight, but had marked everyone she loved? And Luke had been there too, a touchy topic that’s ended in arguments more times than not. 

Her enhanced hearing picked up footsteps approaching - Malcolm, based on the rhythm. She quickly gathered her notes on Pan, shoving them into her backpack. She wasn't hiding anymore, not really. But she needed time to find answers before she could face everyone's concern. The way they would look at her with pity, wondering how a disabled demigod could lead them in the coming war. How quick would they be to turn their backs the moment she lost her usefulness? And it was such a turbulent time too, as demigods became increasingly hostile, choosing sides and leaving Camp for Kronos’ manipulations. 

She slipped out the back entrance, navigating the familiar path to her cabin by memory and the subtle changes in air pressure against her skin. Tomorrow she would sit next to Percy in a dark theater, shoulder to shoulder, and maybe find the courage to tell him the truth. But for now, she had work to do. Her family was counting on her - not despite her disability, but because of who she was, scars and all. They had chosen to stand with her against Kronos and Shezmu, knowing the price they might pay. She owed them nothing less than her complete dedication to finding a way to heal what had been broken.

The world might be growing darker, but she could still make out patterns others missed. She just hoped she could decipher them in time to save everyone she'd hurt with her choices. And maybe, just maybe, learn to forgive herself along the way.

—

Annabeth heard Percy before she saw him - his running footsteps, his ragged breathing, the faint scent of smoke clinging to his clothes. Her other senses had been sharpening over the past few months, compensating for her increasingly unreliable vision. She caught him as he burst from the alley, her hands finding his shoulders with practiced ease despite the way the edges of her sight had begun to blur and fade. The contact sent a familiar jolt through her - comfort and guilt tangled together in a way that made her chest ache.

"Watch where you're going, Seaweed Brain," she said, managing a laugh that felt almost natural. Three months of pretending everything was fine had made her a better actor than she'd ever wanted to be. She still hadn't told Percy about the plan for the upcoming quest yet - couldn't bring herself to ruin the perfect day that she meticulously planned. 

The sound of more footsteps from the alley made her tense and it turns out Annabeth had miscalculated once again and she had a sinking feeling they weren’t going to watch a movie after all. There Rachel Elizabeth Dare emerged, and Annabeth's forced smile vanished. She remembered their last encounter at the Wayne gala, Rachel's unsettling predictions, the way she'd seemed to see right through Annabeth's carefully constructed facades. Rachel, who gave hints that she knew what lay in Annabeth’s future but decided to keep quiet, building up her growing paranoia and fear about the wrong enemy. Rachel who could have prevented it all. Now Rachel was covered in what Annabeth's enhanced senses identified as monster dust, and the redhead's presence made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

She tried to focus on Rachel's face, but it was like trying to see through fog - a growing problem that made her increasingly grateful for her other heightened senses. The smoke from the school building registered clearly though, along with the wailing fire alarms that made her wince with their newfound intensity.

"What did you do this time?" she asked Percy, her voice going cold even as guilt twisted in her stomach. She hated being short with him, but fear made her defensive. Every moment in public made her anxious now - her deteriorating eyesight made her feel vulnerable in ways she hadn't since she was a child running from monsters.

Percy's awkward introduction of Rachel and the mortal girl's insistence on knowing about half-bloods set Annabeth's teeth on edge. She had to physically bite back a retort. She watched through increasingly unreliable vision as Rachel wrote her phone number on Percy's hand like a little schoolgirl, fighting down the urge to snap at them both. It wasn't Rachel's fault, not that much at least. And it wasn't Percy's fault that he couldn't see how Annabeth was struggling. She'd gotten too good at hiding it.  

The taxi ride was worse. Close quarters meant she couldn't hide how she had to squint to make out Percy's features, how she relied more on his voice and presence than actual sight. She deflected his questions about Luke (whose betrayal felt distant compared to her current struggles), about her trips to Camp and her ancestral home (it was the perfect chance to spill her guts, but the moment passed and there was nothing she could do about it), about Nico (another problem she couldn't solve—or to be honest, one hadn’t bother to care about, already caught up in her own life; she felt bad, but what help would her feelings do to a boy who lost his entire world, trust her she knew from experience ) .

When they reached Camp, she was grateful for the familiar territory. Here she could navigate by memory and her enhanced hearing, didn't have to pretend she could see clearly. Peleus's scales felt rougher under her fingers than they used to, every ridge and texture vivid to her heightened touch. The tension in the air was palpable - or maybe that was just her guilt over avoiding everyone while she searched for answers.

She needed to talk to Clarisse about their research into Pan, but she she still couldn't bring herself to explain everything to Percy yet. Not about her slowly failing vision, not about her desperate plan to find the ancient god of the wild, not about how she spent her nights poring over texts she could barely read anymore, searching for ways to undo what the battle had done to her family. Hadn't this story played out already, poor paranoid Annabeth keeping secrets and everyone in the dark only for her to suffer in the end? She told herself to shut up. 

"I'll see you later," she told Percy, heading toward the archery field while using her other senses to stay on the path. She could feel his confusion and hurt at her distance, but it was better than seeing the look on his face when he learned what her quest for wisdom had really cost.

She would probably return to the library after stopping by the Big House where she knew Clarisse would be waiting, fingers tracing ancient texts she could barely read anymore, piecing together Pan's possible location in the Labyrinth. But for the moment, she walked uphill slowly, letting herself feel the afternoon sun on her skin, listened to the familiar sounds of camp life, and tried to believe that someday she would find the courage to let Percy see all of her - scars, disability, and everything else she'd been hiding.

The world might be growing darker, but she wasn't alone in the shadows anymore. She just had to learn how to let the light in.

She made her way to the Big House and Chiron stood in Clarrise’s spot.  His hooves made a distinctive pattern on the wooden porch - four beats that her enhanced hearing could pick up from yards away. He'd been one of the first to notice her vision problems, though he'd never confronted her directly about them. Instead, he'd started leaving scrolls with raised lettering in her cabin, ancient texts transcribed so she could read them by touch.

"Annabeth," he greeted her warmly. She could hear the concern in his voice, the way he shifted his weight to better observe her. "I trust your family is well?"

Family. The word still felt new on her tongue, but right. "They're... adapting," she said carefully. "Bruce has been helping me modify training protocols. Tim's working on some tech that might help with the temporal displacement. And Dick..." She swallowed hard. "Dick's getting better at controlling the time slips."

"And you?" Chiron asked gently. "How are you adapting?"

The question hit harder than she expected. For so long, she'd been focused on fixing everyone else, on finding solutions, on being the architect of restoration. But her own struggles...

"I'm managing," she said, the words feeling hollow. "The enhanced senses help compensate for..." She gestured vaguely at her eyes, not quite ready to say it out loud, even to Chiron.

"There's no shame in needing help," he reminded her, his voice carrying centuries of wisdom. "Your worth isn't measured by your sight, my dear."

She wanted to believe him. But with war looming and prophecies unfolding, how could she not feel like a liability? How could she lead anyone when she could barely see where she was going?

"Percy's going to find out eventually," Chiron continued softly. "As will the others at camp. They may surprise you with their understanding."

Annabeth's hands clenched into fists. "Understanding won't win battles. Understanding won't protect them when..." She trailed off, remembering how helpless she'd felt watching her family suffer for her choices. "I need to fix this first. Find Pan, heal what was broken."

"And if it can't be fixed?" Chiron's question was gentle but firm. "If this is your new normal?"

She hadn't let herself consider that possibility. Couldn't face it, not yet. Not when she had a lead on Pan, not when there was still hope...

Chiron's hand rested briefly on her shoulder. "You've grown wise beyond your years, child. But don't let that wisdom blind you to simpler truths.”

As if on cue, she heard Percy's footsteps approaching the Big House with Clarisse. Her heart rate picked up - she'd know that rhythm anywhere, even with her enhanced hearing and…well, Claisse’s heavy footing was easily detectable. For a moment, she considered running again, finding another excuse to avoid the conversation she knew was coming.

But she was tired of running. Tired of hiding. Maybe Chiron was right. Maybe it was time to let someone else help carry the weight.

Fin.