Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sea remembers.

It does not forgive.

It does not mourn.

But it remembers.

Poseidon stood alone on the ocean’s edge—not the place where ordinary mortals dared to walk, where land touched water and waves lapped softly at tired feet—but at a threshold known only to gods and ancient powers. A liminal space where memory folded into tide, where the sky, heavy and bruised with twilight, bowed low enough to kiss the horizon, blurring the line between sea and sky until they were one vast, endless expanse.

Around him, the sea moved in slow, deliberate spirals—circles within circles—each wave a whisper of forgotten eons. The water’s surface shimmered with a faint phosphorescence, as if the ocean itself breathed and pulsed with life older than the myths whispered on Olympus. There was no storm here, no tumultuous roar—only the quiet, infinite power of the deep, the kind of power that had shaped worlds and swallowed kingdoms whole.

He did not come by summons. No heralds, no cries from his siblings, no royal decree. No throne awaited him at this meeting of elements. There was only silence—thick, salted, and endless. Silence so profound it pressed against his chest like a tidal wave, heavy and impossible to push back.

And within that silence, a truth simmered beneath the surface, raw and undeniable:

His son lived.

Perseus.

The name burned in his chest like a fresh brand, scorching and relentless. A name that carried the weight of rebellion, of broken promises and fragile hope. The boy should not have existed.

Poseidon had sworn the Oath. They all had. All three of them—brothers bound by war and blood and bitter regret. After the War, after the shattering destruction that had nearly torn the very fabric of the world, after the suffocating silence that followed the clash of mortal and gods, they had stood together in solemn council. Their words had woven a new divine law, a vow etched into the cosmos itself:

No more mortal children.

Not while the Mist thinned and grew fragile like cracking glass.
Not while the world spun faster than ever, too loud, too wild, too dangerous for the fragile half-bloods to survive in peace.

They had believed in that law with every fiber of their being. It was a promise to protect their kind, to shield the innocent from the cruelties of fate and the chaos of gods’ meddling.

And yet…

Here he was, standing on the edge of eternity, confronted with the undeniable truth that the currents of fate were not so easily controlled.

The sea, ever patient and eternal, had kept its secret.

His son had survived.

And somewhere, in the swirling depths or perhaps even in the world above—Perseus was out there, breathing, living, carrying a legacy that should have been buried in the ashes of war.

Poseidon’s heart clenched, torn between the storm of pride and fear, between the hope of redemption and the dread of inevitable reckoning.

The sea remembers. And it was calling him home.

Poseidon had broken the oath.

Not out of arrogance, not even out of desire. Not truly. Not at first.

It had been a stormy summer—wasn’t it always?—and the tides had roared with epithets like crashing thunder, each one a fragment of his vast and fractured self calling out in desperation.

He had been Ennosigaios, the Earth-shaker of the seas, when a fleet of ships fought for their lives against the merciless depths, their cries swallowed by salt and spray.

He had been Hippios, the horse-tamer, summoned by a lone fisherman who knelt on rocky shore, whispering prayers for his dying steed beneath the grey sky.

He had been Phytalmios, the nurturer of all things that grow in the deep, when an oil spill blackened sacred kelp beds, suffocating life with its oily fingers and silencing the whispers of ancient marine spirits.

He had been Asphalios, the guardian, when a temple on Santorini groaned and cracked beneath a sudden quake, and its priests raised their voices to him, their chants a desperate shield against destruction.

And in that fracturing of selves, that cacophony of divine names and mortal need, Poseidon had walked among men and women—not as a distant god, but as a presence both terrifying and tender.

He had been splintered.

Scattered like salt on the wind.

And then, somehow, unexpectedly, he had been seen.

Sally Jackson had looked upon him without fear—not as a god, not as a monster, but as a man.

A man burdened by the weight of oceans and storms, by the promise and the curse of immortality.

And in that fleeting moment between heartbeats, the sea itself had folded inwards, a quiet, unfathomable turning of tides.

And a boy had begun to take shape.

A boy conceived in a storm of names and powers, born not from one singular face of Poseidon, but from all of them—each aspect of the god woven into his soul like strands of a tempestuous braid.

The calm and the wrathful, the healing and the savage—each breath of the ocean was stitched into him.

Even the abyssal darkness—the forgotten Aegaeon, the Destroyer—had stirred within the boy’s bones, not by Poseidon’s will, but because the world itself demanded it.

Because the world needed a storm.

And so it had made his son.

Poseidon’s gaze sank into the water, searching for reflection, but the sea refused to reveal his face—it never did.

The ocean knew too many truths to offer a single image.

Instead, it showed him a boy standing on a high tower in New York City, wind whipping through dark hair, eyes narrowed against the chill of a city that never truly slept.

A boy unaware of what he was.

Unaware of what he carried.

The weight of the ocean.

The wrath of Olympus.

The shadow of prophecy.

The stolen bolt, bright and dangerous, humming beneath trembling fingertips.

The beginning of war.

Poseidon exhaled slowly, a breath heavy with salt and sorrow.

And as his lungs emptied, the world itself seemed to tilt—subtly, inexorably—on the edge of a storm yet to break.

From the trench below, a pulse answered—deep, cold, and reluctant. Amphitrite’s presence brushed his mind, her silence colder than the Mariana.

She knew.

She had always known.

The queen of the sea had not spoken to him of the boy, not in words. But her silence rang louder than any tempest. Not because he had fathered a mortal child—Poseidon had done that before—but because this time, it had meant something. Sally had not been a fling. And Percy… Percy was not just an echo of power. He was a convergence.

Amphitrite would not forgive that. Not easily.

Poseidon closed his eyes.

The sea pulled at him, shifting around his ankles like a dog unsure whether to nuzzle or bite.

“My son,” he murmured, voice rough and brittle, like wind scraping over jagged coral. “What have I done to you?”

Far off, thunder cracked like the shattering of ancient stone.

Above the heights of Olympus, lightning whispered awake, tendrils of electric fury reaching toward the sky like the fingers of a restless god.

Beneath it all, the sea shifted—slow, deep, deliberate—like a breath drawn from the very belly of the world, ancient and inexorable.

Poseidon did not need to turn to sense her coming.

Though he had ruled these waters for millennia, Amphitrite was no summons, no subject who answered command. She came when she willed it, rising from the depths when the silence pressed too heavy upon the ocean’s heart.

A pulse echoed through the ocean floor—soft as a heartbeat, yet older than time itself.

Then she was there.

She emerged not with the fury of a breaking wave, but like a forgotten truth clawing its way from darkness into the harsh light of day.

Her form rose from the churning abyss: tall, terrible, divine.

Her skin gleamed like wet marble, streaked with coral pink and obsidian black, as if the ocean’s most secret colors had been distilled into living flesh.

A crown of serpentine eels writhed about her head, each jeweled with clusters of barnacles and lustrous pearls—an oceanic diadem both regal and terrifying.

Her hair streamed behind her like liquid night, threaded with drowned stars whose light had long faded from the skies.

Amphitrite, Queen of the Sea.

Though Poseidon was a god, mighty beyond measure, he did not speak.

He straightened his shoulders, folding his arms behind his back, a gesture of solemn restraint.

The sea, like him, stilled, as if holding its breath for what was to come.

Her gaze met his—not with the blaze of fury, but something far colder: a razor-sharp precision, a surgical calm that cut deeper than anger ever could.

This was not a face she had worn since the day Triton was born.

When she finally spoke, her voice rippled through the waters like pressure building beneath the waves.

“You let it happen.”

Poseidon said nothing.

“You made a child,” she continued, stepping forward with deliberate grace, “with a mortal. Not out of duty. Not to continue a line. But out of love.”

The word struck the water like a stone hurled into a still pool.

Even the fish scattered, startled by the shock.

Poseidon closed his eyes briefly, the weight of her words pressing down like the crushing depths.

“It was not meant to happen.”

“No.” Her voice was calm, unyielding, more terrifying for its quiet certainty. “Nothing that truly means something ever is.”

She circled him like a gathering storm, slow and inevitable, poised on the edge of a horizon waiting to break.

“Do you remember what you were that year, husband? Which faces you wore?”

“I wore too many,” he admitted, the confession bitter on his tongue.

“You were Ennosigaios. You cracked the floor of the Aegean.”

“Yes.”

“You were Aegaeon. You sank the rebel fleet from Atlantis.”

“I remember.”

“You were Hippios, Phytalmios, Asphalios—how many faces did you call to? How many did the world call upon that summer?”

Her voice darkened, edged with sorrow and accusation.

“How fractured were you when she saw you?”

Poseidon turned his gaze away from her piercing eyes, the memory slicing through him like a jagged reef beneath calm seas.

“Fractured enough.”

She stepped beside him now, standing shoulder to shoulder. Together, they stared into the surface of the sea, where it shimmered with the image of the boy—their boy—whether she would claim him or not.

The ocean stilled around the name neither of them said aloud: Perseus.

Amphitrite’s voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper. “He carries too much.”

“I know.”

“He is a convergence.”

“I know.”

“He was born under all your names. That is not a child. That is a god’s unspoken war with himself.”

Poseidon’s jaw tightened. “He is also mine.”

“You were not only Poseidon when you made him,” she said, bitter and measured. “You were longing. You were loneliness. You were the sea at its weakest—when it wants to be touched and remembered.”

That hurt more than he’d admit. He didn’t answer.

She glanced toward the surface, where clouds were beginning to gather. Olympus stirred. Zeus, no doubt, had felt the shift in the tide. He always did, especially when it threatened his domain.

“You know what’s coming,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You know Zeus will strike.”

“Yes.”

“And the boy will suffer for your choices.”

“Yes.”

This time, she paused. Her voice changed—less knife-edge, more hollow. “Will you save him?”

He did not speak.

The silence was answer enough.

Amphitrite’s gaze was unreadable. “You cannot protect him from what he is. Or from what you were.”

Poseidon said nothing for a long time.

Then, finally, quietly: “No. But I can prepare him.”

She raised one elegant brow. “And will that be enough, Earthshaker?”

Poseidon stared at the sea. His eyes—once green, now storm-gray—reflected a lightning bolt that had not yet fallen. A prophecy that had not yet unraveled. A boy who would be hunted for who he was before he ever understood it.

“No,” he said. “But it is all I can do.”

A stillness passed between them. Not peace, not forgiveness—but something like understanding. The kind shared only between two immortals who have seen empires drown and children die.

Above them, thunder cracked.

And far, far away—at the edge of a mortal city—the sky began to shift.

The sea, once still, began to stir again. And the name Perseus Jackson passed across the waves like a tide that could not be held back.

The sea did not speak, but it remembered her.

Sally Jackson.

Poseidon could still see her as clearly as if she stood beside him now—young, mortal, and impossibly brave. No demi-priestess, no oracle, no naiad or nereid had ever looked at him the way she did. Not with awe. Not with fear. But with sharp eyes and steady hands, like she had known storms all her life and had decided not to flinch anymore.

She had smelled like laundry soap and printer ink. Her soul had shimmered like clean rain.

He had met her in Montauk—by accident, if such things existed anymore. She had been standing in the surf, shoes in her hand, muttering to herself about overdue rent and overdue dreams. She had not seen him approach, but she had known he wasn’t just some man.

“You feel like the sea,” she’d said.

And something in him had fractured. A thin crack in the walls he kept around himself. Not because she recognized him, but because she didn’t recoil.

She did not worship him. She saw him.

He had not planned to stay long. But the world was calling his names again—so many of them at once that even he could barely keep his forms straight. Ennosigaios, Pelagios, Aegaeon, Asphalios, Hippios—each summoned from a different corner of the world, different prayers, different crises. The divine was unraveling. His essence pulled like a net stretched too wide.

And in that moment of fragmentation, something broke through.

He had not meant to create a child. Not truly. But Fate had.

⸻

The Loom had shifted the night Perseus Jackson was conceived. Poseidon had felt it, humming in the pressure of the ocean floor like a tectonic heartbeat.

Clotho had slowed her spindle. Lachesis had paused, uncertain. And Atropos—sharp Atropos, who cut destinies like thread—had hesitated for the first time in centuries.

Because what had been made that night was not simple.

This was not a demigod as the world had known before.

This was a convergence.

A child born not from one divine aspect, but all of them.

A boy woven from seafoam and prophecy, stormlight and silence, a thousand faces of a god distilled into a single, mortal frame.

And now the boy was alive. Almost twelve. Unaware. Dangerous.

⸻

Poseidon did not look at Amphitrite.

She had not moved, but he felt her thoughts pressing against his mind like a current tugging at a sinking ship. Not fury. Not hatred. But a knowing disappointment that felt somehow heavier than rage.

“You still love her,” she said. She didn’t need to name Sally. Her tone made the syllables sharp enough already.

Poseidon did not answer.

Because he did. And because he knew that wasn’t the point.

He had loved many mortals. Some briefly. Some terribly. But only Sally had looked him in the face and said, “You are not your power.” That sentence alone had shifted something deeper than the sea.

“Love makes gods foolish,” Amphitrite murmured.

Poseidon finally met her eyes. “So does fear.”

Lightning bloomed above the water. Close now. Olympus was watching. The bolt had not yet fallen, but it would. Zeus would accuse. The war would begin again—different battlefield, same wounds. And Percy would be caught in the center.

“A storm is coming,” Poseidon said softly.

Amphitrite nodded. “Then teach him to swim.”

The prophecy lingers like a poisonous ivy on an old brick wall in Poseidon's mind.

A child of the eldest gods shall stand,

Sixteen years marked by fate’s hand.

Shadows will stretch, the world will weep,

A cursed blade shall claim the weak.

One choice alone shall seal his fate,

To shatter Olympus—or bear its weight.

The sea was quiet today.

A deceptive quiet—the kind that held its breath before a storm or a heartbreak.

Amphitrite floated just beneath the surface, kelp and moonlight trailing through her hair like ribbons of old mourning. Her palace was leagues away, but the coast of Montauk tugged at her like a splinter buried in soft skin. She hadn’t intended to come. And yet, here she was again.

A human boy played in the shallows.

Not just any boy.

Him.

Her stepson.

Perseus.

The destroyer.

The waves curled around his small ankles like they knew him. The water leaned into him, touched him with a reverence it had never shown any other child. He laughed—a bright, high sound like sunlight breaking through storm clouds—and tossed a pebble across the surface.

He was seven. All toothy grin and scraped knees, curls darkened with seawater, unaware of the weight the world would soon place on his thin shoulders.

Unaware of her eyes watching from beneath the tide.

But even at a distance, Amphitrite noticed what most mortals wouldn’t: the way his teeth flashed in the sunlight when he smiled. Sharp. Serrated. Not quite human. A mouth made for tearing, not chewing—the sea had marked him.

Shark teeth. The sign of a child born deep in the tide’s favor… or curse.

Thalia Grace had known. The girl had carried destiny like a curse in her clenched fists, and the sea had wept the day she fell. Amphitrite remembered the sky’s scream, the way the storm cracked the horizon in two. The daughter of Zeus was fierce, wild, a tempest in mortal form. But she was gone now.

And this boy—this child of Poseidon—was still breathing.

Amphitrite should have resented him. She did, in principle. A boy born of her husband’s betrayal. A stain. But watching him chase seagulls across the sand, watching his mother smile through sadness she carried like an anchor, Amphitrite felt something shift.

Not fondness. Not love.

But curiosity.

Sharp and persistent, like salt beneath a fingernail.

He wasn’t like the other demigods. There was something ancient coiled inside that small body, something the sea responded to without permission. Something older than Olympus, older even than Amphitrite herself.

It pulsed in the tide when he laughed.

It gleamed in those unnatural teeth when he grinned.

The kind of pull not even immortals could ignore.

“Percy!” his mother called. Sally Jackson stood knee-deep in the surf, her jeans rolled up, eyes soft with a thousand unspoken fears. “Come back, sweetheart. Tide’s coming in.”

He turned, grinned—those shark teeth flashing white against sun-warmed skin—but didn’t run to her yet. He stepped closer to the water, squinting.

Amphitrite froze.

The boy’s eyes met the surface—met her.

“Look, Mom! There’s a face in the water!” he called, voice full of wonder, as though he’d seen a mermaid or a dream. He pointed, excited. “Right there—she was right there!”

Sally hurried forward, following his gaze.

But Amphitrite was already gone, dissolved into foam, into the seam between wave and air. Only the barest flicker of sea-glass green shimmered for a heartbeat longer, then disappeared like it had never been.

Sally reached him, brushing wet curls off his forehead.

“There’s nothing there, Percy,” she said gently, with that same small ache in her voice Amphitrite had noticed before. “Just the sea.”

But the boy looked unconvinced.

He stood still, gazing out over the water, the same way sailors stared before they drowned—like something vast was calling his name just beneath the surface.

Far below, Amphitrite lingered a moment longer.

She wouldn’t show herself again.

Not yet.

But she had a feeling this boy—her husband’s mistake, her stepson, this strange little storm of a child with a smile full of teeth—would see her again.

One day.

Whether she wanted him to or not.

Chapter Text

The world was nothing but an endless sea of sand.

It stretched in every direction, a vast expanse of nothingness, burning gold and beige swallowing the sky, the earth, the air. There was no sun, yet the light was everywhere, and it stung his eyes like he’d been staring too long into something he shouldn’t have seen. Percy Jackson stood in the middle of it, barefoot and still, as if movement itself had been forbidden. There was no wind, but the sand moved anyway—curling in ghostly spirals, sweeping across his vision, brushing against his skin like dry breath.

Grit clung to every inch of him—caught in his eyelashes, stuck under his fingernails, ground into his scalp like it had been there for centuries. It worked its way into his mouth with every shallow breath, tasting bitter and metallic and dry, like ashes and rust and something far older than anything he'd ever touched. It felt like the taste of a forgotten life. The taste of resentment.

Resentment that he didn’t know how to name yet, but lived with every day.

The kind you feel when someone leaves you before they even arrive.

His father.

Whoever he was.

Percy tried not to think about him—had always tried. It was easier that way. Safer. Cleaner. His mom had told him once that his dad was gone, out of the picture, no use wondering. But sometimes, in moments like this—dreams or daydreams or weird flashes of something he couldn’t explain—it all came crawling back. Not the man himself, but the absence of him. The empty chair at birthdays. The invisible wall between him and the other kids at school, the ones who had two parents, who didn’t flinch every time they had to draw a family tree.

The sand shifted beneath him.

He looked down and realized his feet were sinking—slowly, steadily. Not like quicksand, not in panic, but with purpose, as if the desert had been waiting for him. Something was winding around his ankles: ivy. Sand-covered, brittle, dry. It didn’t grow, it claimed. Crawled up his calves like chains disguised as vines. Each leaf cracked under his skin, but there was no pain—just pressure. A weight that told him he wasn’t supposed to leave.

He twisted, tried to step back, but his legs wouldn’t move. The ivy held tight. The sand held tighter.

The air around him thickened. Time didn’t pass here. It coiled, like something alive and watching.

He wasn’t sure how he had ended up in this place. One minute he was lying in bed—he was sure of it—and the next, he was here. The transition hadn’t even been a blur. It had just happened. Like he blinked, and the world had decided to shift. But now that he was here, he couldn’t remember what his bedroom looked like. Couldn’t remember what time it was. Couldn’t remember if this was a dream at all.

And worse: a part of him didn’t want to leave. A part of him felt like he deserved to be here.

Because if this was a punishment, he wasn’t sure what he’d done—but he believed it.

The silence was thick. Not peaceful. Not quiet. Hollow. The kind of silence that felt like it was humming, like it had swallowed every word he had never said out loud. And yet, even in the emptiness, there was this... familiarity. Like he’d been here before. Or maybe he’d dreamed of it his whole life. The sand, the ivy, the weight in his chest. He didn’t have the words for it, but his body remembered.

Déjà vu, he thought. But worse.

He tried to call out. To scream. His voice came out rough, ragged, like it had been buried beneath the dunes and forgotten. He didn’t know who he was calling for—his mom? Grover? Someone he hadn’t met yet? Someone who might never exist?

The ivy climbed to his waist now.

Still, no fear. Just a heavy kind of knowing.

He blinked, and for the briefest second, he saw it—an outline in the distance. A figure? A tower? A trident, half-buried in the dunes?

Then gone.

Like the desert had swallowed it again. Like it wasn’t time.

He didn’t understand what this place was. Didn’t know why it made his chest ache or why the name “Poseidon” kept brushing against the edge of his thoughts like a wave teasing the shore. He didn’t know where the ivy came from, or why the sand tasted like guilt, or why—when he finally looked up at the sky—it felt like the stars were watching him.

All he knew was this: something was coming. Something ancient. Something heavy.

And Percy Jackson—who had always been a little too unlucky, a little too angry, a little too strange—was not ready for it.

But he would have to be.

Because the sand was still rising.

And it was whispering his name.

He was more than trapped.

His eyes flicked upward.

And there it was.

The hourglass.

It loomed above him, massive and suspended in the sky like some divine instrument of judgment. It wasn’t resting on anything—it hung, as if gravity had chosen to obey something older than the rules Percy Jackson knew. It glowed faintly in the sepia haze of the desert, framed by a sky that wasn’t quite day and wasn’t quite night.

The sands inside were falling.

Grain by grain, they slipped through the narrow throat of the hourglass, shimmering like powdered gold, but they never seemed to reach the bottom. They fell, and fell, and fell, in perfect, soundless rhythm—yet the bottom half remained stubbornly empty, untouched. It made Percy dizzy to watch. Time was moving, but it wasn’t progressing. It looped in maddening repetition, like a clock stuck between seconds, rewinding just as it tried to push forward.

It made him feel trapped.

Like something ancient was watching him. Judging.

Then came the sound.

Tick.
  Tock.
   Tick.
     Tock.

There were no gears. No hands. No clock. But the sound echoed anyway, loud and deliberate, thudding against his skull in the silence of the endless desert. It didn’t match the movement of the sand. It wasn’t rhythmic—it was wrong, off, like a heartbeat with a skipped beat. A countdown to something inevitable.

He wanted to move. To run. To scream.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

And then, through the haze of heat and fog, a voice broke the quiet.

“Perseus…”

It came like wind brushing over an empty grave—soft, cold, and ancient. It didn’t belong to any person he knew. It belonged to time itself. The sound threaded through the air with the weight of centuries, as if it had been whispering his name for lifetimes before he was even born.

Percy’s chest clenched.

He didn’t know why, but he felt it—deep. Instinct clawed its way up from his stomach before his mind could catch up. Something was wrong. Very wrong. This wasn’t a dream. It was something older. Bigger. The kind of thing that existed in the cracks between reality. In places no one ever looked.

“Perseus, you cannot escape.”

The voice had changed now.

Older. Rougher. No longer a whisper—it warned. It didn’t need to shout; it carried the same pressure as an oncoming storm. The syllables twisted in the air, rattling something in his ribs. Percy’s throat tightened. He couldn’t breathe, not properly. The air had changed—charged—like lightning was building in the sand beneath his feet.

He turned, hoping—praying—that someone else might be there. His mom. Grover. Anyone. But there was only sand. Endless, swirling sand.

And then it moved.

The wind picked up—slow at first, like a breath inhaling. Then it howled.

The desert came alive.

Sand whipped upward in violent spirals, forming a cyclone around him. It stung his skin, slicing through his arms and cheeks like a thousand tiny blades. His hands flew to his face, useless against the force. The grains weren’t just sand anymore—they were time, sharpened and angry. Every fleck that touched him felt like it carried a memory he didn’t recognize. A life not yet lived. A burden not yet claimed.

He tried to run, but his legs stayed rooted.

The hourglass above him tilted. The sands inside were no longer falling—they were flooding. Rushing, spinning, whirling into one blinding stream that stretched from the glass above down into the storm below. Time was no longer passive.

It was devouring.

And then the voice returned. Louder than before. Everywhere at once. It wrapped around him like chains and thunder.

“You can’t run from time.”

The hourglass cracked.

Just once—but the sound was cataclysmic. It echoed through the sky like the splitting of worlds. And then the voice, once human, once a whisper, shattered into something else entirely.

A roar.

It was inhuman. Primeval. Not anger. Not rage.

Inevitable.

It shook the sand. It split the air. It reached into Percy’s spine and rattled the part of him that still thought he could pretend to be normal. It was a roar that told him the life he’d lived so far—struggling in school, trying to stay invisible, wondering why the world always felt tilted beneath his feet—was just the prologue.

He didn’t know what the hourglass meant. He didn’t know who the voice belonged to. But somewhere, buried beneath the panic, buried under the sand and the sting and the confusion—

He knew it was true.

Something was coming.

And he couldn’t stop it.

Time.

It wasn’t a whisper anymore.
 It was a thunderclap.
 A command issued from the depths of the cosmos. A force not heard, but felt, as if the very fabric of reality had inhaled his name and spoken it back in a language older than sound.

The Time had spoken.

And the world trembled.

The hourglass above cracked like a divine bell, and in that single moment, Percy Jackson’s name echoed across the dunes—not in a voice, but in truth. The syllables sank into his bones, rattled through his marrow, burned across his nerves like lightning. The sound moved with the force of inevitability, shaking the world around him—and the world within him.

His heart slammed against his ribs, wild and terrified, as if it too had been caught in the endless loop of the hourglass—beating only to repeat itself, again and again, without escape.

Time wasn’t passing. Time was consuming. Time was a storm that wanted him broken.

He staggered backward, hands raised to the swirling chaos, but the sand lashed at him like a beast. It tore at his skin, sliced across his cheeks, filled his eyes with burning grit. His throat constricted. Not from fear—though he was afraid—but from something deeper. Something unnatural. The air itself had turned against him.

It was like breathing in gravity.

He tried to speak. To shout. To scream. To demand answers.
 Why was he here?

But the words caught and died in his throat.

He didn’t know.
 He couldn’t remember.
  He should remember.

The questions blurred, each one bleeding into the next like the swirling sands under his feet. How long had he been here? How many times had he seen this hourglass? How many times had he heard his name fall from the sky like a curse? His body ached with a phantom exhaustion—an ache in the bones that felt ancient. Like he’d done this before. Like he’d never stopped doing this.

He didn’t know when the dream began.
 He didn’t know if it had ever ended.

Time was folding in on itself. The desert blinked. He blinked. And suddenly he was standing in the same place again, the same exact breath catching in his lungs. A cruel game. A trick. A punishment.

The sand fell. A moment began.

The sand fell. It vanished.

And then the voice returned—louder than before. No longer simply a storm in the sky. Now it was a god’s breath, a verdict being passed.

“You cannot escape the hands of time, Perseus Jackson.”

The sound of his name came crashing down like a tidal wave made of years.

“This is your fate,” the voice boomed, each word sharp as obsidian, each syllable pressed against the walls of the world like a knife.

“And I—will—break you.”

The words hit him like blows. Not against his body—against something deeper. His soul. His will. His very essence. Something unseen pressed against his chest, and for a split second, Percy thought his heart might actually shatter.

But something stirred.

A flicker, buried deep in the core of him. Not hope. Not yet. But... defiance. A warmth that hadn’t been there before. A presence. A question without form. It bloomed in the hollow of his chest like a pulse of light beneath all the sand and silence and fear.

He didn’t know what it was. He couldn’t give it a name. But it answered the voice—not in words, not in fire or rage—but in resistance.

Still, the hourglass loomed. The sands poured faster. The storm grew teeth.

Percy fell to his knees.

His fingers curled into the sand. The wind roared in his ears. Every part of his body screamed at him to wake up, to run, to fight, but he couldn’t move.

Not because he was too weak.

Because some part of him already knew—

This was no mere illusion. No meaningless nightmare.

This was a warning.

A vision cast forward through the folds of time. A god's voice echoing from beyond the edge of understanding. Something was coming. Something that knew his name. Something that would test not his strength, but his soul.

And he would have to survive it.

Or break.

Percy woke with a gasp.

The air in his lungs felt too thick, like he’d surfaced from the bottom of an ocean he didn’t remember falling into. He jolted upright in bed, the scratchy dorm blanket tangled around his legs, the thin mattress creaking beneath his sudden movement. His skin was damp with sweat. His shirt clung to his back. His heart thudded hard and fast, as if still trying to outrun something that had followed him out of sleep.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was.

The desert was gone—but the silence wasn’t.

The dorm room at Yancy was cold, dimly lit by the gray dawn bleeding through the frost-glazed window. The radiator clicked quietly, useless as always. Across the room, his roommate snored softly beneath a pile of textbooks and unwashed laundry. Normal. Mundane. Boring.

But Percy’s whole body was tense, like he was still expecting the sandstorm to return. The voice still echoed in his ears—not just heard, but felt, stitched into the lining of his bones.

“You cannot escape the hands of time, Percy Jackson.”

He shivered.

Not from cold. From memory.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake it off. Just a dream. Just a really vivid, freaky, slightly-too-philosophical dream. Maybe the tuna melt from the cafeteria had gone bad. Maybe his brain was just being weird again.

He dropped his hand.

And froze.

There was sand in his palm.

Just a few grains. Almost invisible. But he could feel them—dry, sharp, real. He stared at them, heart thumping harder now for a different reason. He rubbed his fingers together, trying to convince himself it was lint or dirt or anything else, but he knew better.

No beach nearby. No sandbox. No explanation.

Just sand. Like the kind that had swallowed him whole not five minutes ago in that dream.

Panic scratched at the edge of his mind, but he pushed it down. He had school today. Latin with Mr. Brunner. Pre-algebra he’d probably bomb. A world that expected him to keep walking like nothing had changed.

But something had.

He swung his legs off the bed and stood, slow and unsteady. His muscles ached—not like he'd been sleeping, but like he'd been running. Fighting. Sinking. Every inch of him felt like it had been somewhere else, somewhere ancient, and hadn’t fully come back yet.

He dressed in silence. Stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror above his desk. His eyes looked older. Like he hadn't just had a nightmare, but a warning.

He looked down at his hand again. The sand was gone.

But the feeling wasn’t.

Percy moved quietly through the dimness of the dorm room, still wrapped in the fog of that relentless dream. The gray light of early morning seeped through the thin curtains, casting long, slanting shadows across the cluttered desk.

His eyes caught sight of something on the corner of the wooden surface—a small, plain cup filled with water. He didn’t remember seeing it before. It wasn’t his. The cup looked ordinary, but the water inside shimmered faintly, like the surface of a restless ocean under moonlight.

Without thinking, Percy reached out and dipped a finger into the liquid.

The cold bit through his skin like the first wave of a winter sea.

When he pulled his finger out, he froze.

Tiny, shimmering scales clung to the tip—iridescent and slick, catching the pale light and refracting it like fragments of glass. They weren’t just water droplets. They were something alive, something not human.

His breath caught in his throat.

He blinked, watching as the scales seemed to ripple, almost as if they were breathing.

A shiver ran down his spine.

His mind raced. Was it a trick? A hallucination? Or was the dream somehow bleeding into reality?

Percy flexed his finger slowly. The scales remained, cold and real against his skin.

He wiped his hand on his jeans, but when he looked again, faint traces still lingered—like fish scales pressed against the surface of his flesh.

The cup sat quietly on the desk, the water inside still shimmering.

For a moment, Percy was certain he heard the soft murmur of waves, the distant call of the sea.

And then, as if the room itself held its breath, the scales vanished.

But the feeling—the undeniable pulse of something ancient and deep—remained.

Chapter Text

Percy groaned as something soft, heavy, and distinctly musty smacked him square in the face.

A pillow. Great.

He peeled it off with a scowl, blinking groggily against the early morning light slicing through the blinds like a blade. Standing above him, practically vibrating with energy, was Grover. Which was wrong. Grover was not a morning person. Usually, he looked like he’d been dragged out of bed by wild raccoons and then had to fight off a second, angrier wave of raccoons before stumbling to class.

But today, his eyes were wide, his grin uncharacteristically bright.

“Wake up! We’ve got a field trip today,” Grover announced, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Percy squinted at him like he’d just announced they were going to war. “You say that like it’s good news.”

Grover shrugged. “Well… maybe it is?”

Percy flopped back onto his bed with a groan so deep it sounded like it came from the bottom of the sea. “Field trips are never good news.”

Still, he got up, not out of excitement — more like grim obligation. He dressed in the dark, his shirt inside out and socks mismatched, and jammed a fistful of candy into his mouth — sour gummies, the kind that twisted your face into a grimace and made your tongue sting.

His mom always packed those when she thought he was having nightmares again. Which, to be fair, he was.

And she was right.

Last night’s dream had been different. Not the usual ocean-panic or storm-drenched monsters. This one was dry. Blistering. A desert — not the kind you built sandcastles in, but the kind that boiled your thoughts in your skull. The sky was flat and white-hot, and the ground cracked under his feet like something buried deep down was trying to claw its way up.

It whispered his name in a language he didn’t speak — couldn’t speak — but somehow still understood. Not in words. In dread.

He didn’t want to remember. So he shoved the memory away like he had the pillow, and chased Grover out the door before it could follow him.

The bus ride was long and bumpy, and the air smelled like old cheese and despair. Percy hated it already.

Field trips always went wrong.

In fifth grade, the bus had crashed into a Civil War cannon monument, and somehow Percy had ended up dangling from the flagpole by his backpack. In third, a kid threw up in an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus. The empty one. At least, it had been empty before the puke. He wasn’t so sure after.

Now, they were headed to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Because nothing says “fun” like marble statues, brittle scrolls, and teachers who acted like breathing near history would cause it to crumble.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

Mrs. Dodds — the teacher who looked like she’d been carved out of razor blades and nightmares — was along for the ride. And something about her felt… off.

Not “I hate all children and dream of detentions” off — though that was a given.

Her face looked wrong. Tight. Like her skin didn’t quite fit her bones anymore. And her eyes — gods, her eyes. For just a second, they glowed.

Not like a trick of the light. Not like tired-red or bloodshot. But glowing. Actual glowing.

Red.

Percy didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He just locked eyes with her.

And she didn’t blink.

Something passed between them in that moment — something sharp, unspoken. Like a dare.

He saw something in her. And she saw something in him.

Trouble recognized trouble.

In the back of the bus, Nancy Bobofit was being her usual gremlin self. She was flicking breadcrumbs into Grover’s curly hair like he was a park pigeon. Grover flinched with every toss, trying to discreetly shake them out, but she just laughed harder.

Percy started to stand, eyes narrowed, fist already half-raised — but Grover tugged hard on his sleeve, yanking him back down with a goat-like grunt of panic.

“Don’t,” he whispered urgently. “Just… let it go. Not today.”

Percy gritted his teeth. His jaw clenched so tight it felt like it might crack.

But Nancy wasn’t done. Of course not.

“Ooooh, protective boyfriend now, huh?” she sneered, loud enough for the whole bus to hear. “Underwood’s got himself a guard dog. Or is it guard mutt? What do they call you again, Percy? Underwear?”

The other kids burst into laughter, the kind that fed on cruelty like flies on roadkill. Percy’s face burned, but not with embarrassment.

With fury.

He didn’t rise to it. Not yet. But it simmered under his skin like hot coals waiting for a spark.

Mrs. Dodds didn’t say a word. Didn’t even turn around to tell Nancy off. Her eyes flicked in the rearview mirror — just for a second — and they glowed again. Not a reflection. A flare. Right at Percy.

Like she was watching him. Measuring him.

He stared back. Unafraid.

He’d fought worse than Nancy’s gang.

They couldn’t land a punch even if he stood still.

And they definitely couldn’t dodge his kick.

Something was coming. He didn’t know what yet — but it was humming in the air like a wire pulled too tight.

And Percy Jackson had learned one thing in his twelve short, chaotic years:

Field trips always go wrong.

Mr. Brunner led the class through the echoing marble halls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, his wheelchair gliding almost silently across the tile. The group trailed behind him like a loose flock, barely paying attention. Statues lined the walls, tall and cracked with age, eyes hollowed by centuries. Glass cases held fragments of pottery and rusted blades, black-figure amphorae depicting battles and gods and monsters. Mr. Brunner spoke with his usual passion, pointing out myths and meanings like he was trying to make the dead come alive.

It should have been peaceful.

But Percy Jackson couldn’t focus.

He trailed behind Grover, eyes darting toward shadows that moved a little too slowly. His skin prickled beneath the flickering lights, like the air itself was watching him.

Something had started to change in him. Recently. Quietly. Subtly. He hadn’t told anyone — not even Grover — but the world had started to feel different.

Sharper.

The edges of things stood out more. Sounds came in layers. And there were whispers.

Always just beneath the surface.

Not loud. Not even clear. But there. Murmuring in the back of his mind like a memory he couldn’t shake. A voice he didn’t recognize, but one that stirred something ancient in his chest.

Perseus.

His name didn’t sound like it was coming from any of the kids around him. It didn’t even sound like it was meant to be heard with ears. When it came — when someone said Percy or Perseus — something happened inside him.

Like a jolt.

A sudden surge of knowing, like a puzzle piece snapped into place… only to blur out just as fast. Vanishing like mist before he could hold it.

The first time, he thought he was sleep-deprived.

The second time, maybe he was imagining things.

But it hadn’t stopped.

Now, every time he heard his name, he felt it: a cold tug in his gut, a pull toward something he couldn’t see. Like he was forgetting something important — not from his mind, but from his bones.

And the voice… the voice never left.

“Mr. Jackson?”

Percy blinked, heart thudding. Mr. Brunner’s voice cut through the haze. The class had stopped in front of a tall, jagged stele — a carved stone column depicting a towering figure with wild eyes and a gaping mouth. In his hands, he held a swaddled infant, halfway inside his jaw.

“Kronos,” Mr. Brunner said, gesturing toward the carving. “Tell us what this scene represents.”

The museum went quiet. All eyes landed on Percy.

The voice in his head dimmed for a moment, like it was retreating just out of reach.

He swallowed, throat dry. “Uh… that’s Kronos eating his kids.”

His own voice sounded distant to his ears. Off, like it was coming from someone else.

Mr. Brunner gave a slight smile, though his eyes were far too focused — like he was studying more than just Percy’s answer. “Correct. And why does that matter?”

Percy hesitated. The carving stared back at him, the child’s face halfway inside the Titan’s mouth. His stomach churned.

“Because Kronos was… a Titan. He overthrew his father. And then… the gods overthrew him.”

“Very good,” Mr. Brunner said, voice low now. “But that’s not the most important part. History isn’t just battles and victories. The gods — they watch from above. They punish. They bless. But they do not tell the whole truth.”

He paused, leaning forward slightly in his wheelchair.

“The Titans, Percy. They don’t fade. Their bodies may fall, but their influence — their presence — it lingers. In places you wouldn’t expect. In people who wouldn’t know.”

The words settled over Percy like a winter wind. He felt a chill run up his spine, one that had nothing to do with air conditioning.

The voice whispered again.

Perseus.

He flinched.

Grover glanced back at him, worried. “You okay, man?”

“Fine,” Percy muttered, but he wasn’t.

He could feel it again — that pull. That cold flicker in the back of his skull. Like something locked behind a door was slowly turning the handle. He wasn’t just hearing voices. He was changing.

It felt like part of him — a part he hadn’t known existed — was waking up.

But he didn’t know what it wanted.

And that terrified him more than he could admit.

They moved on, Mr. Brunner rolling ahead, the class trailing like half-asleep sheep. Grover tried to distract Percy with a whisper about lunch options, but Percy wasn’t listening.

His eyes drifted to the statues lining the hallway.

For a moment, he swore one of them turned its head.

Just a flicker — marble shifting ever so slightly toward him, eyes blank and mouth set in a knowing grimace.

He blinked. It was still again.

But the voice was louder now.

Perseus. Son of the sea. The fates have turns again.

And for the first time that day, Percy didn’t just feel weird.

He felt watched.

Mr. Brunner’s voice echoed off the museum walls, weaving through the exhibit like a soft drone of authority. He was lecturing about The Odyssey again — tracing the adventures of Odysseus across murals, fragments of pottery, and faded scrolls locked behind glass. His voice was steady, clear, laced with enthusiasm, but Percy Jackson had mentally checked out somewhere between “Cyclops” and “clever trick.”

He knew he was supposed to be paying attention. Mr. Brunner actually cared if Percy remembered this stuff. But today, the words didn’t stick. They just… blurred. A cloud of syllables drifting overhead.

His ADHD was doing its usual thing — bouncing his focus from one thing to another, refusing to stay put. Something about Odysseus and the gods playing mortals like chess pieces. Something about cleverness, deception, glory.

It wasn’t that Percy hated Greek mythology. On the contrary, he actually liked it — liked the drama, the monsters, the stories that felt more alive than anything else in his textbooks. But liking something didn’t mean your brain played nice.

And when you had dyslexia, even looking at words too long was like trying to unscramble alphabet soup.

He sighed and let his gaze wander, scanning the room without much purpose. Cold lighting. High ceilings. A lot of marble. His eyes eventually landed on a stone tablet tucked away in one of the glass display cases.

It was dark gray and jagged around the edges, the kind of thing you could easily overlook if you weren’t already bored out of your mind. Carved into its surface were deep, slanted lines — not like normal letters, but old ones. Angular. Worn.

There was a small plaque underneath it, printed in crisp block letters:

“Fragment from the Oracle of Myrmekion. Circa 6th century BCE. Translation pending.”

Percy squinted at it, only half-reading. His brain was still half-listening to Mr. Brunner’s lecture, half-focused on the general ache of being trapped indoors on a bright day. But then, without really meaning to, his eyes flicked back to the tablet.

And he read it.

“Ἕν ἀποθνῄσκει ὑπὸ χεῖρα γονῆος.”

The second his eyes traced the characters, something clicked. It wasn’t like reading English, where every letter fought him. These words flowed. They dropped into place in his mind like water finding its path downhill. He didn’t know how he understood it — just that he did.

He heard the words in his head before he could think:

“One shall perish by their parent’s hand.”

He blinked. His breath caught. His vision flickered, just for a second, like the lights above had dimmed.

Except they hadn’t.

He squinted again. Now the carving looked scrambled — like the lines had rearranged themselves when he wasn’t looking. The neat sense of meaning was gone. All he saw were slashes in stone, like a toddler had gone wild with a chisel.

A wave of dizziness hit him, fast and hard. His head felt heavy, as if gravity had doubled without warning. He gripped the edge of the display case to steady himself. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Had he imagined it?

He barely heard Mr. Brunner’s voice shift until it was suddenly sharp.

“Mr. Jackson!”

Percy jolted, nearly stumbling.

He turned. The entire class was staring.

Mr. Brunner’s eyes were fixed on him — not unkind, but very, very watchful. “Would you care to tell us what Odysseus said to the Cyclops after blinding him?”

For a second, Percy’s brain refused to cooperate. His mind was still tangled in stone whispers and ancient prophecies. He couldn’t breathe.

But then… something surfaced. A line. A memory from last week’s reading. His mouth opened before he could stop it.

“Uh… ‘Nobody’?” Percy guessed.

A beat passed. Mr. Brunner tilted his head slightly, like he hadn’t expected Percy to get it right.

“Indeed,” he said slowly. “Odysseus told the Cyclops his name was ‘Nobody,’ so when the monster called for help, he could only shout that ‘Nobody’ was attacking him. A clever trick. One of many.”

The class chuckled. A few kids whispered behind their hands. Percy barely noticed. His eyes had already flicked back to the tablet.

The inscription was gibberish again. No rhythm. No meaning. Just dead marks on cold stone.

His hands were shaking.

Something was wrong with him.

Not just weird-dreams-and-bad-luck wrong.

Wrong in the bones.

Wrong in a way he couldn’t explain — a way that whispered in old languages and echoed in stone halls and made his name feel like a riddle he hadn’t solved yet.

And if that carved warning had been real — if it hadn’t just been his imagination…

“One shall perish by their parent’s hand.”

Who was it talking about?

And why did it feel like it was talking about him?

The class had already dispersed. The girls were clutching their stomachs from laughing too hard, the boys shoving each other like puppies too big for their paws. Chaos, as usual. Grover and I were just about to follow them out when I heard the voice.

“Mr. Jackson.”

I winced. Saw that coming.

Grover gave me a sympathetic look, half a shrug. “I’ll save you a spot,” he mumbled.

“Go ahead,” Percy told him, then turned back to face the inevitable.

Mr. Brunner sat a few feet away in his motorized wheelchair, parked beside an old display of bronze helmets and cracked shields. His eyes met mine—deep brown, intense. Not the kind of intense that made you nervous in class. This was different. His gaze didn’t just see me—it read me. Like he could peel back my skin and see the pages underneath.

They were the kind of eyes that had seen too much.

“Sir?” Percy asked, keeping my voice polite, cautious.

He didn’t blink.

“You have to find out the answer to my question,” he said.

There was no trace of a smile. His voice was firm. Heavy. Like stone locking into place.

Percy tried to play it off. “About the Titans?”

“No,” he said, sharper now. “About life. And how what you’re learning applies to it.”

Percy blinked, caught off guard. “Oh.”

Brilliant response. Truly.

He leaned slightly forward, and I swear the lights around us seemed to dim, just by a shade. “What you’re learning from me is of the highest importance. I will accept nothing less than your best, Percy Jackson.”

The way he said Percy name made something in his chest tighten.

Percy could feel irritation bubbling in the back of my throat—partly at him, partly at myself. He always pushed him harder than the others. Always expected more. And yeah, Percy got it: maybe he saw some kind of potential. Maybe he thought he was wasting it. But it wasn’t easy.

Not when you couldn’t read without the words twisting into a blender.

Not when you couldn’t focus for more than ten seconds without your brain taking a detour.

And definitely not when you were hearing voices in ancient Greek.

Still, he bit back the frustration. He muttered something halfway between an apology and an excuse. Percy wasn’t even sure what he said—just noise to fill the space.

Mr. Brunner didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to a nearby stele, a tall stone slab etched with scenes of war and gods, now faded by centuries. His face went still—solemn, like he was remembering something older than the museum itself.

Then he spoke again. “Go out and eat your lunch, Percy.”

His voice had softened. Just a little. But the weight hadn’t left. Not entirely.

He nodded. He didn’t say anything else.

⸻

Outside, the class had gathered on the museum steps. Brown paper bags were being ripped open, wrappers crinkled, someone was already spilling orange juice. It was loud and normal. Comforting.

But the world didn’t feel normal.

The warmth of early spring pressed down over the city in a heavy sheet. Everything shimmered under it—cars, buildings, people, all soaked in that golden haze. Fifth Avenue buzzed with the usual chaos: taxis honking, tourists pointing at things they didn’t understand, New Yorkers pushing past without looking up.

But above all of it, the sky had started to shift.

Clouds were gathering. Not the wispy kind. These were thick, steel-colored things, curling around each other like smoke poured into water. They weren’t moving like normal clouds either. They were building. Rising. Stacking.

Like something was coming.

Percy sat down beside Grover, but he didn’t open his lunch. He couldn’t stop watching the sky. The wind had gone still. Too still. The entire city, for just a moment, felt like it was holding its breath.

And in the quiet between seconds, Percy had the strangest feeling:

The storm wasn’t just above him.

It was waiting for him.

“Detention?” Grover whispered beside him, his voice pitched half-joking, though Percy could hear the edge beneath it. He was nervous. They both were, even if neither of them was saying it.

“No,” Percy muttered, shivering slightly even though the spring air was warm. “Not by Brunner. But he does have a knack for making you feel like you’ve already failed at life.”

Grover didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the courtyard’s fountain, water burbling up in calm arcs, as if the chaos of the museum trip hadn’t touched it at all. Percy could tell Grover was thinking hard. About what, he wasn’t sure. Probably something way too deep for the moment. Maybe something sad.

But then Grover turned to him and said, “Can I have your apple?”

Percy blinked. “Seriously?”

Grover gave a sheepish shrug. “Just feels like a two-apple kind of day.”

Percy was about to protest. He liked apples. But before he could say anything, a strange thrum prickled through the air — faint, like distant electricity. A low buzz that wasn’t sound so much as feeling, humming along his skin.

His hand moved without thinking. “Sure,” he said, handing it over, barely registering the motion.

He tried to shake it off. Tried to be normal. His eyes drifted out to Fifth Avenue. Cabs zipped past. Tourists pointed at buildings like the sky might fall on them. But something still felt… wrong. Off-kilter.

His thoughts turned to his mom’s apartment uptown. He hadn’t seen her since Christmas. Too long. She’d be happy to see him, of course. But also sad. She always got that look after he came back from school — disappointment wrapped in affection. Like she’d hoped this year would be different. That this school would work out.

But it never did.

He didn’t want that look again.

Not this year.

“Mr. Jackson,” came a call from across the courtyard.

Mr. Brunner.

His voice barely carried over the wind, but Percy heard it all the same. He sighed, pushing off the bench.

Grover frowned. “You good?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Grover didn’t look convinced, but nodded anyway. He watched Percy walk off, his hand still holding Percy’s apple, untouched.

Mr. Brunner was seated beneath a red umbrella that gave him the appearance of someone waiting for a cappuccino, not guarding ancient secrets. His wheelchair faced the fountain, a large leather-bound book in his lap. The pages were yellowed, edges curled with age.

“Everything okay?” Percy asked, hoping to avoid another one of Mr. Brunner’s deep-dive lectures about destiny and doom.

Mr. Brunner didn’t look up. He turned another page slowly, deliberately. “Everything’s fine, Percy,” he said. “But be careful. The world is full of surprises.”

Percy hesitated, unsure if that was meant to be comforting or a warning.

As he turned back toward Grover, ready to escape into the hum of lunchtime noise, he stopped short.

Nancy Bobofit stood in front of him.

She was grinning. That grin. The one that said she’d been waiting all day to ruin someone’s life. Her little crew hovered behind her like a pack of badly trained chihuahuas, all snapping energy and no substance.

Nancy didn’t even pretend to be subtle. She tossed the remains of her sandwich — soggy bread, half a slice of ham, a smear of mustard — straight into Grover’s lap.

“Oops,” she cooed, her voice syrupy sweet with venom. “Guess I missed.”

Grover flinched, blinking down at the mess. He didn’t say anything. Just looked… tired.

Percy’s fists clenched at his sides. His ears buzzed. The counselor’s voice echoed in his head: “Count to ten, Percy. Breathe. Let it go.”

He tried. He really did.

One.

Two.

But by the time he reached five, the anger crashed over him like a wave.

And then—

Then everything blurred.

There was a flash, like light bouncing off water. A sudden surge of pressure in the air. A pop behind his eyes, and Nancy Bobofit shrieked.

When Percy blinked, she was no longer standing in front of him.

She was in the fountain. Sitting straight in the middle, soaked from head to toe, hair plastered to her face, lettuce clinging to her shirt.

She looked like a drowned rat.

“PERCY PUSHED ME!” she howled, voice shrill with rage.

But Percy hadn’t touched her.

He knew that. He hadn’t even moved.

The water had moved on its own.

And then — before anyone could react, before Percy could even step back — she appeared.

Mrs. Dodds.

It was like she’d materialized from the wind, stepping forward with an eerie stillness, eyes locked on Percy with the kind of glare that could turn steel into steam. Her lips were curled into something that was almost a smile.

But not a nice one.

The students around them fell silent. Even Nancy’s shrieking died down.

And in the hush that followed, the whispers started.

Faint, murmuring behind him.

“Did you see that?”

“The water—”

“—it just lifted—like a wave—”

“—like a water horse—”

Percy’s skin went cold. Not with fear. With something older than fear. Something rising in his blood that didn’t belong to the world he knew.

He didn’t understand what was happening.

But he knew this:

It wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Percy couldn’t focus on Mr. Brunner’s words anymore—could barely focus on anything. All he could think about was how fast everything had unraveled. One second, he was sitting outside eating lunch, trying to forget about dreams and voices and ancient tablets. The next, Nancy was screaming, Mrs. Dodds had him locked in her sights, and he was being dragged toward a punishment he didn’t understand.

And deep down, beneath the confusion and the fear, he knew he was about to pay a price for something far bigger than a food fight.

Nancy was still spluttering behind him, theatrically wringing out her shirt and dramatically gasping like she’d almost drowned. As if sitting in a fountain was comparable to being attacked by a pack of rabid wolves. Her friends circled her like buzzards, feeding her the attention she craved.

But Mrs. Dodds had eyes for no one but Percy.

There was something gleeful in the way she looked at him. Not angry. Not even disappointed.

Satisfied.

It twisted his gut.

“Now, honey—” she began.

“I know, I know,” Percy muttered, trying to get ahead of the lecture. “A month of wiping out workbooks. Got it.”

The words slipped out too fast. Too sharp. And the expression Mrs. Dodds gave him in return made his blood go cold.

She didn’t say a word. But her face tightened into something almost… inhuman. Her lips twitched. Her eyes glinted, not with reflected light, but with something internal—something molten and ugly.

“Come with me,” she said, her voice flat and metallic. As if she had nothing better to do than escort him straight to his doom.

Grover suddenly leapt up behind him. “It was me! I—I pushed her,” he blurted, wide-eyed and trembling. “It was an accident!”

Percy stared at him. Shocked.

Why?

Grover never stood up for himself, let alone for Percy. But now, he was offering himself up—terrified, desperate—to protect him?

Percy knew he couldn’t let Grover take the fall.

He gave him a weak smile and a light shove on the back. “Thanks, man… but I got it.”

Mrs. Dodds didn’t wait. “Come along,” she snapped again, voice colder than the wind, sharper than the edge of a sword.

Percy turned to shoot Nancy one last death-glare, then followed Mrs. Dodds toward the museum entrance.

The second he stepped forward, something shifted.

She was already halfway up the stairs, moving far too fast for someone her age. He blinked, momentarily disoriented, rubbing his head like he’d skipped a few frames of reality.

Must be the ADHD, he told himself. At least, that’s what the counselor always said. Brain skips around. Loses time. Normal.

But it didn’t feel normal.

Not at all.

Something was off, and not just about Mrs. Dodds. The wind had picked up slightly, but it wasn’t moving the trees. Just pressing against Percy, like invisible hands.

He followed.

The museum doors loomed larger than before. The shadows seemed deeper. By the time he made it inside, Mrs. Dodds was already far down the hall, her leather jacket fluttering behind her like wings.

That’s not possible, Percy thought. I didn’t even blink that long.

He followed her into the Greek and Roman gallery, where time seemed to slow.

The sound of the city faded behind him. The echo of distant footsteps vanished. It was just him… and her.

The hall was wide and cold. Marble gods lined the walls in solemn ranks—Ares with his helmet, Athena with her spear, Apollo mid-step in eternal song. Their blank eyes watched in silence. They always had.

But now it felt like they were witnessing something.

Mrs. Dodds stood beneath a towering statue of Hades, the god of the dead. Her face was tilted up toward the stony scowl, but rage burned beneath her skin. The air around her shimmered faintly.

Percy slowed his steps.

He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up. A warning. His instincts were screaming.

Something wasn’t right.

Her voice came, low and guttural. “You’ve been giving us problems, honey.”

He froze. Us?

The way she said it—“us”—not me—made something in Percy’s bones go cold.

He tried to keep his cool. “Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly, even though his stomach was twisting.

Mrs. Dodds turned to face him fully now. Her face had changed. Just slightly. Her smile was too wide. Her skin too tight. Her eyes too dark.

“Did you really think,” she said softly, each word laced with venom, “you’d get away with it?”

Percy stared at her.

“What are you talking about?”

Mrs. Dodds took a step closer.

The gallery lights flickered.

Percy’s breath caught. His throat tightened.

This wasn’t detention.

This wasn’t even a lecture.

This was something else. 

Percy’s throat tightened, his mouth opening to speak—anything, some desperate defense—but no words formed. His gaze locked onto Mrs. Dodds, confusion and raw fear twisting together in his stomach like a knot. What had he done now? Had they caught him selling candy out of his dorm? Or cheating on the Tom Sawyer book report he hadn’t even read?

Nothing made sense.

Then, the glint in her eyes shifted—darkening, colder, sharper. The smile disappeared, replaced by a venomous snarl. “We are not fools, Percy Jackson,” she hissed, her voice dropping to a growl so low it seemed to scrape the walls. “It was only a matter of time before we found you. Tell the truth, and you will suffer less.”

His heart hammered as he blinked, trying to grasp what she meant. Confess? To what? His mind scrambled, grasping at fragments, but all that rose was the raw panic of impending doom.

“I—I don’t know what you mean, ma’am,” he stammered, voice trembling.

Her lips pulled back, twisting into a snarl worse than any he’d seen on a monster in a storybook. “Your time is up,” she spat, every word laced with deadly promise.

Then reality shattered.

Her body convulsed violently. Percy froze, disbelief locking him in place, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him. But no illusion followed—the grotesque truth unfolded before his eyes. Her fingers stretched, bones elongating into sleek, black talons that gleamed with unnatural sharpness. The leather of her jacket melted away like wax under a flame, revealing leathery wings unfurling from her back with a sound like tearing fabric.

Her face contorted grotesquely, skin bubbling and shrinking as it twisted into something ancient and terrible. Her mouth stretched open wide, revealing row upon row of yellow, serrated fangs glistening like daggers in the dim light.

Mrs. Dodds was gone.

In her place stood a nightmare, a creature of myth and horror—a shriveled hag with hellfire eyes, wings beating air thick with menace, and a hunger that chilled Percy’s blood to ice.

A shriek tore from her throat, a sound so primal and piercing it froze his very bones. The walls seemed to close in, and thunder rattled the windows as if the storm outside had joined the madness within.

She lunged.

Percy’s heart hammered as claws sliced the space where his face had been seconds before. Panic flared, and he twisted, barely dodging death.

Then—“What ho, Percy!”

The booming voice cut through the chaos like a lifeline. Mr. Brunner.

Without thinking, Percy spun toward the call and saw the counselor hurling something his way. His hands scrambled through the air, grasping blindly—and caught it.

A pen.

Or so it seemed.

The moment Percy’s fingers closed around it, the ordinary ballpoint glowed and shifted, transforming into a gleaming sword, cool and solid in his palm. The weight was foreign but somehow right.

His knees trembled, the sword heavy, his breath shallow. He faced the monster that had been Mrs. Dodds, fury blazing in its eyes.

The room filled with a howling wind, though the windows were shut tight. A serpent’s hiss slithered through the air, followed by a scream so shattering and alien it carved itself into Percy’s soul.

Cold washed over him—unnatural, deep, as if ice had wrapped itself around his very heart. The scent that came with it was thick and choking: bitter, suffocating, a stench of sulfur and burnt magic that clawed at his throat and stung his nostrils.

He coughed, staggering back, clutching the nearest wall to steady himself. The oppressive weight of her presence lingered—an invisible shadow hanging in the room.

Then she was gone.

Or was she?

Her body, or what was left of it, hovered suspended like a dark echo—blurred, fading, as if the air itself was erasing her. Dust, sickly yellow and fine as ash, spiraled upward, carried on a faint draft through the cracked windows. It felt wrong—unnatural.

Percy’s skin prickled with unease as the echo of her scream hung in the silence—twisted and distorted, a hateful remnant.

The sulfurous scent lingered, a final poisonous trace.

The air lightened slowly, the nightmare receding—but Percy knew it hadn’t truly ended.

Her essence was scattered but not destroyed. Her shadow still haunted the space between the walls, in the cold breath of the room, in the taste of the dark that clung to his tongue.

Percy stood motionless, the sword still tight in his trembling hand, its cold weight the only thing anchoring him to reality. His legs wobbled beneath him like they might give way any second, but somehow, he remained upright—half from instinct, half from sheer stubbornness. A burning ache pressed deep in his chest, tightening with every shallow breath, as if invisible hands were squeezing him from all sides.

What had just happened? What had she been? That thing—no, that monster—had been Mrs. Dodds? Or something far worse?

His eyes darted around the room, trying to find a foothold, a reason that made sense. But the atmosphere had shifted. Shadows clung to every corner, pooling like liquid darkness, crawling slowly up the cold marble walls, curling and writhing as if alive—watching him.

He felt it keenly: a presence. Heavy and suffocating, thick like fog. Something waiting. Watching.

Waiting for what? The thought wobbled in his mind, untethered and scary.

Blinking rapidly, his eyes stung from the strain of trying to process what had unfolded. The pieces refused to fit together, like shards of a broken mirror scattered and scattered again. The room itself was unnervingly still now—too still—as if the very air held its breath.

But even in that unnatural quiet, Percy’s senses screamed at him: he was being watched. Not just by the echoes of that creature, but by something lurking in the edges of his vision, just beyond where light could reach. The shadows shifted, teasing, hiding secrets that clawed at the edges of his sanity.

This wasn’t over. No. Not by a long shot.

The room felt… wrong. Off. Like the thin veil of reality had been rent open, just enough for something to slip through. Something dark and hungry.

He swallowed hard, but the dry taste of fear lingered in his mouth.

Try as he might, understanding eluded him. What she was, why she attacked, and most terrifying of all—whether she was truly gone or simply lurking, waiting for the right moment to strike again.

And so Percy stood alone amid the shadows, the echo of her scream burning like a brand deep in his soul, every nerve screaming that the danger was far from finished.

⋆♆.˚⋆｡𖦹 °.⋆❀˖°

“To the bus!” Mr. Brunner called out, his voice cutting sharply through the thickening storm clouds overhead. He glanced up at the sky with a furrowed brow, an expression that made something twist uneasily in Percy’s gut. Worried.

The rest of the class muttered their complaints but obediently began filing toward the parking garage, where the bus waited like a dull, yellow beast ready to swallow them whole.

Percy hesitated, his heart still pounding from the earlier chaos. Something about the storm, the silence that followed the madness, made the air feel charged—like electricity before a lightning strike. He jogged over to Mr. Brunner, who was standing near the steps, folding a worn book into his jacket.

To Percy’s surprise, Mr. Brunner held out his hand expectantly. “Ah, thank you for returning my pen, Percy.”

Percy blinked down at his own hand. Somehow, he was still clutching the familiar blue ballpoint—cold and ordinary—though it had felt like something much heavier moments ago. His fingers felt numb as he handed it back, his mind still swirling with questions and dread.

“Sir,” Percy said, his voice rough and hoarse, “where’s Mrs. Dodds?”

Mr. Brunner’s face remained calm, unreadable. His dark eyes locked onto Percy’s with a curious tilt of the head, but no hint of recognition crossed his features.

“Who?” he asked softly, genuinely puzzled.

A cold knot tightened in Percy’s stomach. Not him too.

“Our Pre-Algebra teacher,” Percy pressed, swallowing hard against the dryness that coated his throat. “The other chaperone… Mrs. Dodds.”

Mr. Brunner frowned, brows drawing together as if trying to puzzle out a riddle only he couldn’t quite hear. “I don’t know any Mrs. Dodds,” he said slowly. “As far as I am aware, Yancy Academy has never had a faculty member by that name. Are you feeling all right, Percy?”

The words landed like a punch. Percy’s heart hammered painfully, and a shiver ran down his spine. The world was tilting beneath him, unsteady, unreal. Had he imagined it? The teacher, the fury, the scream? Was it all a trick his mind had played, a hallucination brought on by stress or exhaustion?

He wanted to ask more, to argue, to demand answers. But all he could do was stare, feeling more alone than ever amid the gathering storm.

Chapter Text

The next few months passed in a haze Percy could only describe as wrong.

Not the “math-class-wrong-answer” kind of wrong, but the kind that sits heavy in your bones, the kind that makes you turn your head down an empty hallway because you know something’s there, even when nothing is.

It started small—one conversation here, one weird glance there.

He’d bring up Mrs. Dodds like it was nothing, casually sliding her name into lunch talk or muttering it in the middle of science class just to see if anyone twitched. The result was always the same: blank stares, uncomfortable shuffles, or—worse—polite smiles that screamed, stop embarrassing yourself.

Except for Grover.

Grover always hesitated. Just a beat. Barely long enough to notice if you weren’t watching closely. But Percy was. He’d been counting those beats for weeks now, building a mental map of every time Grover flinched at her name. The hesitation came first, then the same deadpan answer every time: “I really don’t know any Mrs. Dodds, Percy.”

It was too clean. Too rehearsed. Percy might’ve believed him—might’ve written the whole thing off as stress or memory glitch—if Grover’s eyes didn’t dart just slightly to the side whenever he said it, as if checking whether someone else was listening.

And that was what gnawed at Percy: this wasn’t some group joke or prank gone too far. Everyone else—Mr. Brunner, the other teachers, the entire class—believed Mrs. Dodds had never existed. Brunner’s face in particular stuck with him, the way the man’s jaw tightened every time Percy tried to talk about her, like he was watching a kid walk toward the edge of a cliff and couldn’t decide whether to grab him or let him fall.

Meanwhile, the weather went insane.

Thunderstorms punched through dorm windows. A tornado tore through the Hudson Valley like it was clearing its throat. Two commercial jets vanished over the Atlantic in less than a week, sending the news into a frenzy about faulty engines—until the FAA announced both had been destroyed by “freak weather events.” Lightning clawed the sky most nights, so bright it turned the river silver.

And sometimes—only sometimes—Percy heard something beneath the thunder. Not in it, not above it, but beneath it.

Perseus… come and join us…

The first time, he thought it was part of a dream. But it kept happening. Always faint, always in the heartbeat between thunderclap and silence, always threading into the wind like it didn’t want to be caught.

He’d shoot upright in bed, the sheets sticking to his skin. And every time, Grover would still be asleep, breathing slow and even. No one else ever heard it. No one else ever felt the air go thick when the voice came.

The dreams got worse. Mrs. Dodds’ face, twisted into something monstrous, eyes like molten iron. The leather whip snapping around his ankle, burning where it touched, pulling him toward an endless black pit. He’d claw at the ground, only to find nothing—just empty air and the sound of things growling far, far below. Waiting.

The only thing worse than the dreams was Grover’s silence. Percy didn’t just suspect his friend was lying—he knew. It wasn’t even a question anymore. What he couldn’t figure out was why. Why Grover would rather twist himself into knots than just tell the truth.

The not-knowing burned hotter than his temper. He found himself starting fights more often—Nancy Bobofit, older kids, even the seniors who thought Yancy was their personal kingdom. It didn’t matter if they had twenty pounds on him. Percy had never been about brute force; it was all instinct, knowing where to hit and how to move. Fighting was at least honest.

Schoolwork? That was another story. His grades slid from shaky Cs to solid Ds, then to straight Fs. Detention became routine. Even at Yancy—a school built to corral every troublemaker the East Coast could cough up—Percy Jackson was the kid teachers whispered about in the break room.

Then came the spelling test. Mr. Nicoll’s voice dripped with mockery as he slapped the paper onto Percy’s desk. “Why are you too lazy to study, Jackson?”

Something inside him finally gave way.

“I did study, you miserable—” And that was it. No filter, no brake. Percy tore into him, calling out every lazy insult the man had ever used, every time he’d ignored a dyslexic kid who needed help. He didn’t just say it for himself. He said it for everyone Nicoll had steamrolled for years.

Even Nancy’s crew looked impressed.

By nightfall, the headmaster had drafted the letter. Percy wasn’t welcome back next year.

He told himself he didn’t care. But deep down, he knew that was a lie.

He’d miss Grover—at least, the Grover he thought he knew before all this started. He’d miss Mr. Brunner’s class. He’d miss sneaking out to sit on the roof, looking at the Hudson until the cold drove him back inside.

For a few weeks after the museum trip, he’d been doing better. He’d even tried in Latin. But the harder he studied, the more his brain fought him. The words blurred, shifted. Chiron became Charon. Polydectes tangled with Polydeuces. And every failure built on the last until something in him snapped again.

One night, the textbook went airborne.

THUNK.

The drywall now had a crater the size of a dinner plate.

“Shit.”

He pried it loose, dusting off insulation. His pulse was still sharp in his ears. I was already screwed anyway.

And yet—Brunner’s voice still found its way in: I will only accept your best, Percy.

Fine. If he couldn’t fix the grades alone, he’d get help.

Gathering his scribbled notes, Percy made his way to the faculty offices. The hall was dim, the air cooler here. Most doors were shut and dark. But one—Brunner’s—spilled warm, golden light into the hallway. The door stood slightly ajar.

Percy slowed.

“…worried about Percy, sir.”

He froze.

Grover’s voice.

“…alone this summer,” Grover continued. “A—a Fury! In the school! And we couldn’t even sense it! So that means at least Ha—he knows about Percy, and—”

Percy’s grip on his notes tightened.

He didn’t move. Not yet. Not until he knew exactly what they were hiding.

“We would only make things worse if we rushed him,” Mr. Brunner’s voice carried that steady, patient tone Percy had heard in class—but now it sounded thinner, like it had been worn down. “He isn’t ready.”

“They never are,” Grover murmured. Then, sharper, “Sir, he doesn’t have time if things go bad after the Solstice.”

Mr. Brunner let out a long, tired breath. “Let the boy enjoy his ignorance while he still can. His own world’s heavy enough without ours piled on top.”

Grover’s voice cracked on the next words. “But—he saw her. Di immortales, he—he killed her before we could even get there.”

Mr. Brunner’s tone hardened, losing all trace of the gentle teacher. “His imagination. The Mist is thick over this school, over the museum. No one remembers except the three of us. That should be enough to hold him.”

“But it’s not.” Grover’s voice broke completely. “I—I feel awful lying to him. He knows I’m lying. He’s just… stopped asking. Like he’s given up. Sir, I’ve never had a better friend. And if I fail again—”

The sound of fabric shifting. A sniff. Grover was crying.

“You haven’t failed,” Mr. Brunner said softly. “My senses have been… off since the Winter Solstice. I didn’t recognize her for what she was. Percy’s still alive—that’s what matters. Keep him that way until fall, and—”

THUD.

The weight in Percy’s hands vanished—his textbook had slipped through his fingers and hit the floor.

The voices inside went silent.

Percy’s stomach dropped. Through the frosted glass, a shadow moved—tall, too tall, and shaped wrong for a normal man. The outline of shoulders broader than they should be. And… a bow.

Every muscle in Percy’s body locked.

He stepped back, one careful shuffle at a time, until he could slide into an empty classroom. He shut the door slow, without a click.

Then—creak. Mr. Brunner’s office door opened.

The sound that followed wasn’t footsteps. It was heavier. A steady, rhythmic clomp, like wooden blocks striking tile. The figure drifted into Percy’s blurry line of sight through the frosted glass panel in the classroom door—massive, filling the frame. Its head turned from side to side, slow and deliberate.

Searching.

Percy could almost hear it inhale, the sound scraping the air, like it was scenting for him. Then came the exhale—low, rumbling, so deep it made the walls vibrate.

It turned away. The clomping receded down the hall until it was gone.

Percy’s heart pounded in his ears. He stayed frozen, barely breathing. Whatever that thing had been… it didn’t feel human. It didn’t even feel close.

Back in the office, Mr. Brunner’s voice drifted out, lower than before. “I can hardly smell anything these days.”

“Something to do with the… uh, Winter Solstice?” Grover asked, hesitating over the words.

A pause. Then Brunner’s reply came, thoughtful but tight with frustration. “A curse seems likely. But it’s not just us—most of our world’s blind right now. I don’t know, Grover. I’m looking into it, but I’ve got no leads.”

Grover sighed, long and tired. “This whole thing’s a mess.”

“Regardless,” Brunner’s voice snapped back into command, “get to your dorm. Exams tomorrow.”

Grover groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

The faint squeak of sneakers faded into the distance. Moments later came the soft hum of wheels turning—Brunner’s chair heading toward the faculty apartments at the north end of campus.

Percy waited another full minute before stepping out, his hands cold, his pulse still hammering.

And then the sound of the wheelchair faded into the distance.

Percy stood frozen for a while longer, his mind swirling. Something about the entire conversation felt wrong—as if he wasn’t hearing the full story. Something was being hidden from him, something big. He couldn’t place it. He needed to figure it out.

Eventually, he forced his legs to move and walked back to his dorm in a daze. The hallway felt longer than usual, the shadows stretching at odd angles. His heart was pounding in his chest, the words echoing in his mind—blind, curse, something’s wrong.

When he pushed open the door to their dorm, Grover was already lying on the bottom bunk, textbooks spread out around him. His hand moved steadily across the page, writing something in his neat, methodical handwriting. He looked up briefly as Percy entered.

“Hey,” Grover greeted, his voice casual, as if he hadn’t just been in the middle of some strange, unsettling conversation. “Where were you?” he asked, like he’d been there the whole time.

Percy didn’t respond right away. He felt like his body was moving without his brain. His legs were heavy, like they belonged to someone else. A walk. Yeah, that’s what I did. But it felt like more. It felt like something else had been pulling at him, something unnatural.

“Took a walk,” Percy muttered, still in a daze. He climbed into his bunk, dumping his textbook on the edge of the bed and flopping back with a groan. He pressed his forearm over his eyes, trying to block out the flood of confusion that had overtaken him. The weight of everything—the storm in his mind—was suffocating.

“Sorry about the hole in the wall,” he mumbled.

Grover laughed softly. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve got a temper, Perce.”

But Percy didn’t hear the rest of what he said. His mind was too far away, still reeling from what he’d just overheard, what he’d just seen. He could still hear that whisper echoing in his head, that deep, gravelly voice from the sandstorm. Perseus… come and join us…

The words sank into his bones, cold and haunting.

Mrs. Dodds was real. Real. Not just some figment of his imagination. He had killed her.

And then… everything went blurry again. Mr. Brunner and Grover. They had made everyone forget. But why? Why had they erased it? Why had they hidden the truth from him? What was he supposed to do with all of this?

His thoughts spiraled, impossible to catch, like water slipping through his fingers. Grover’s steady presence in the room didn’t seem to anchor him.

There was something worse at play here. Something much larger than he had realized.

And somewhere, in the distance, he could still hear that whisper, just beyond the veil of his thoughts. 

Come and join us…

Percy was pissed. His best friend and his favorite teacher had been keeping secrets from him. Whatever the Mist was, whatever had happened to Mrs. Dodds—he was done being lied to.

The Latin exam was three hours of pure torture. Percy was sure he had misspelled every word. Half his translations didn’t even make sense. In short, he bombed it.

As the rest of the class shuffled out, Mr. Brunner called, “Percy, a moment?”

Percy turned numbly, dragging his feet to the desk, his eyes downcast. “Yes, sir?”

Mr. Brunner sighed, rubbing his temples. “Percy, I just want to say—I’m sorry. But I think you leaving Yancy is for the best.”

Percy’s throat tightened. His eyes stung.

“This place…” Mr. Brunner hesitated before continuing. “You’re different, Percy. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. But Yancy—this isn’t the right place for you.”

The way he said you felt like he wasn’t just talking about Percy’s grades or his attitude. It was something bigger.

“I’m sure you’ll find where you belong someday,” Mr. Brunner continued. “And I wish you luck. Perhaps we’ll meet again in the future.” He extended his hand.

Percy took it, but the handshake felt hollow.

“Remember what I said,” Mr. Brunner added softly. “Find something special to you, Percy. Something worth holding on to. Something that keeps you trying, even when it feels like you can’t.”

Percy wanted to scream. To curse him out. To demand why he wouldn’t just tell him the truth.

But Nancy Bobofit was standing right outside, smirking like she could smell how miserable he was, and Percy refused to give her the satisfaction.

So instead, he swallowed his emotions and muttered, “Thank you, sir,” before turning and walking out.

The next day, the very last day of the school year, Yancy Academy was in chaos.

Dorm rooms were torn apart as kids dragged suitcases across the halls, flung books into cardboard boxes, and shouted last-minute goodbyes. The air smelled faintly of floor polish and cafeteria pizza—two scents Percy was never going to miss.

In his own room, Percy sat cross-legged on the bed, shoving clothes into his battered suitcase. He tried to focus on folding shirts, zipping up pockets, making sure his sneakers didn’t end up smelling like old socks. But his mind wasn’t cooperating. No matter how many times he told himself to think about normal end-of-year stuff, the conversation from two nights ago kept replaying in his head like a stuck cassette tape.

Furies. The Mist. The Winter Solstice.

Words that didn’t belong in an ordinary twelve-year-old’s brain. Words that churned inside him like storm water in a clogged drain, loud and messy and impossible to ignore.

He was yanking his jeans into a tighter fold when something unexpected happened—kids he barely knew started stopping by his door and… giving him money.

At first, Percy thought it was some kind of prank. Maybe they were paying him to do something dumb, like eat a stick of glue or sing the school anthem backwards. But then he realized what was actually happening. These were the kids he’d stood up for this year. The ones who’d been shoved into lockers or mocked in the cafeteria, and Percy had decided—without really thinking—that they didn’t deserve it. He’d stepped in, fought back, taken the heat for them.

They’d never hung around afterward. Never sat with him at lunch. He’d assumed they didn’t want to be associated with him. But now, on the last day, they were showing up one by one, paying him back like it was some unspoken debt.

Sam was the last to appear—a wiry kid with glasses too big for his face. He’d gotten sent to Yancy for hacking into his old school’s grading system and making a small fortune before anyone caught him. He grinned nervously as he dumped his offerings onto Percy’s bed: a crumpled stack of small bills, a pack of Starbursts, a neon green fidget spinner, a shiny metal water bottle that looked expensive, and—strangest of all—a folded card with signatures and doodles from what looked like half the sixth grade.

“Uh… thanks for everything, Percy. Good luck out there,” Sam said, like Percy was about to walk into a warzone.

It should’ve made Percy feel good—being remembered, appreciated. But instead, his stomach twisted.

They’d been too scared to be his friends all year. And looking at Sam’s stiff shoulders and the way his eyes kept darting toward the door, Percy realized something he hadn’t let himself think before. Sam wasn’t just nervous. He was a little afraid of Percy too.

“Thanks, Sam,” Percy said, forcing a smile that felt like it belonged to somebody else.

Sam bobbed his head quickly, mumbled something, and slipped out of the room like he couldn’t leave fast enough.

Percy shoved the bills into his pocket, tucked the other gifts into the corner of his suitcase, and zipped it shut.

The hallway was full of kids bragging about their summer plans. Most Yancy students were troublemakers, sure, but they were rich troublemakers. Their “punishment” school still came with ski trips to the Alps, family vacations in Bali, or weeks of sailing on their parents’ private yachts.

When someone asked Percy where he was going, he shrugged. “Back to the city.”

They gave him polite nods and drifted back into their own conversations, already forgetting he was there.

He didn’t tell them that “back to the city” meant finding a summer job. That he’d be walking dogs, delivering newspapers, maybe stocking shelves at the corner store—whatever a twelve-year-old could get away with. He didn’t tell them that when his mom was working late, he’d sneak out to the nearest convenience store just to avoid being alone with his stepdad.

And he definitely didn’t tell them that he still had no clue where he’d be going to school in the fall.

Because for all the things he could control—how fast he could run, how hard he could punch, how many times he could stand up to bullies—his future wasn’t one of them. And that thought followed him just as closely as the words from two nights ago.

But what Percy dreaded most was saying goodbye to Grover.

By “coincidence,” Grover had booked the same Greyhound bus back to the city.

For most of the ride, he sat rigidly in his seat, eyes darting around like he expected something to jump out at them any second.

At first, Percy thought it was just Grover being Grover. He’d always been nervous on field trips, especially since the bullies would go after him more without teachers around.

But now—there were no bullies.

And Grover still looked terrified.

Percy couldn’t take it anymore.

“You looking for the Kindly One?” he asked, deadpan.

Grover squeaked. Like, actually squeaked.

“W-what—where did you hear that name?” he stammered.

“Two nights ago. When I went to Mr. Brunner’s office.” Percy leveled Grover with a stare.

Grover swallowed hard. “How much did you hear?”

Percy could tell he was pushing Grover’s buttons. Normally, he’d back off before Grover had a full-on panic attack.

But right now? Percy was too pissed to care.

“Enough,” he said flatly. “What’s the Solstice deadline?”

Grover paled. His breathing sped up, but he took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.

“I—I was just worried, you know?” Grover stammered. “You’ve, uh, been hallucinating demon math teachers and all—”

“Grover.”

“—And since you refuse to talk to the school counselor, I thought I should go to Mr. Brunner—”

“Grover.”

“—Because I figured maybe you were overstressed, or, um, something, because there’s no such person as Mrs. Dodds—”

“Grover, you are the worst liar,” Percy said.

Grover shut his mouth. His face turned red.

He fished a business card out of his pocket and shoved it at Percy.

“Just—if you hallucinate again, call me,” Grover mumbled. “That’s my summer address.”

Percy took the card, frowning. It had never occurred to him that Grover might be one of the rich kids at Yancy.

“…Your summer home?”

“I guess,” Grover muttered. He hesitated. “It’s, um, a farm. We grow strawberries.”

Percy blinked.

A farm? He’d been expecting some penthouse in Manhattan, or a beach house in the Hamptons.

At least it wasn’t a mansion or something.

He exhaled, slumping back into his seat.

“Right,” he muttered. “A farm.”

But Percy felt that, that was a lie.

Grover Underwood 

Keeper 

Half-Blood Hill, Long Island, NY 

(800) 009- 0009

Percy stared at the title on the paper until the letters started to swim.

“Keeper?” he read aloud. “What’s a Keeper?”

Across from him, Grover fidgeted so hard it looked like he was trying to shrink into his seat. His goatlike legs twitched, his ears reddened, and his voice came out in uneven bursts.

“I’m, uh… supposed to… pro-protect you…” He stammered over the words as if they tasted sour.

Percy blinked. “Protect me?” The idea sounded absurd—especially since he’d spent the last year jumping into fights to defend Grover.

Grover winced, glancing toward the aisle like he was checking for eavesdroppers. “From… stuff.” He swallowed hard. “I’m meant to be like… an early warning system. If things go bad, I get you out. I lead you to safety.” His shoulders hunched. “But—”

The sentence died there. He curled in on himself like he wanted to vanish.

Percy’s mind flashed back to the “smell” Grover had been so cagey about before. Something he claimed he couldn’t pick up. Something he was still refusing to explain. Percy leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“Grover, what are you hiding from me?”

Grover’s lips parted—probably to serve up another vague, mystical non-answer—when the Greyhound shuddered violently.

BANG!

The sound tore through the bus like a gunshot. Smoke belched from the front, sharp and bitter, making Percy’s eyes water. The driver cursed, swerving onto the shoulder with a squeal of brakes.

“Everybody off! Use the back emergency exit!”

Chairs scraped, kids yelled, and the smell of overheated metal filled the air. Percy grabbed his backpack, then made sure Grover had his crutches before following him onto the grassy verge. The summer air was thick and muggy, but at least it didn’t taste like burning engine oil.

The bus driver popped the hood and started wrestling with the sputtering motor, muttering words Percy’s mom definitely wouldn’t approve of.

For a moment, there was nothing remarkable about the place they’d stopped. Just an empty stretch of two-lane road bordered by swaying maples, faded asphalt littered with fast-food wrappers, and the distant hum of passing cars.

And then Percy saw it.

Across the highway sat an old roadside fruit stand. Its wooden beams were peeling, its sign so weather-worn his dyslexia couldn’t make sense of it. But the fruit—the fruit—looked like it belonged in a painting. Blood-red cherries glistened like rubies. Apricots shone with the kind of gold you couldn’t find in jewelry stores. There were baskets of walnuts, cider jugs nestled in coolers, condensation sliding down the glass.

He was halfway to deciding how much of the money Edward had slipped him he could spare when he noticed them.

Three women.

Older, gray-haired, sitting side by side in creaky rocking chairs. No customers hovered near them. No one from the bus seemed to have noticed them at all.

They were knitting.

The two on the ends worked with needles, their hands moving faster than seemed natural, creating the largest pair of socks Percy had ever seen—easily big enough to wear as sweaters. The woman in the middle didn’t knit. She just held a basket of yarn in her lap.

The colors… storm-gray, electric blue, sea green, road-dust brown, all twined together with a hundred other shades. It was a dizzying, hypnotic weave. Percy shouldn’t have been able to pick out details from across the street—but somehow, he could. His stomach tightened.

At his side, Grover made a sound halfway between a whimper and a plea.

“P-please tell me they’re not looking at you.”

Percy’s throat went dry. He tried to joke. “Uh… you think they’d fit me?”

Grover didn’t even blink. “Not f-funny, Percy.” His grip on his crutches turned white-knuckled. “We’re getting back on the bus. Now.”

“What? It’s a million degrees in there, and it smells like a gas leak—”

And then Percy felt it.

Not the usual prickling on the back of his neck. This was sharper—like dozens of tiny blades wedged into his skin, all pointing inward. His gut screamed at him to run.

Across the road, the three women produced a massive pair of golden scissors.

The instant Percy saw them, every instinct in his body froze. The alarms in his head shut off—no fade, no sputter—just gone, as if something bigger had pressed a hand over his thoughts.

Snip.

The air folded in on itself. Percy’s vision blurred at the edges. His stomach turned over, and the sound of the cut rang louder than engines or traffic.

They were looking at him. All three of them.

Without a word, they tucked the impossibly large socks into their basket, covered them with a red-and-black plaid blanket, and walked up the hill toward a distant farmhouse.

The invisible grip on Percy’s legs loosened. His body remembered how to move, and he bolted—nearly shoving Grover aside in his scramble for the bus. Cold sweat plastered his shirt to his back.

Grover wasn’t much better. But the look in his eyes… it wasn’t just fear. It was the kind of terror that stripped you hollow.

“Grover?” Percy’s voice barely rose above the hum of the engine as they climbed back inside. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Grover’s jaw worked silently for a few seconds before his voice emerged in a jagged stutter.

“W-wha—what d-did you s-see?”

“The old ladies?” Percy’s skin crawled just saying it. “They’re not like Mrs. Dodds… are they?”

Grover shut his eyes tight. Shook his head—slow, deliberate—but there was no relief in the gesture. Only certainty.

Percy’s stomach clenched. “Ta-tell me exactly what you saw,” Grover demanded, the words grinding out between his teeth.

Percy swallowed hard. “The middle one… she had golden scissors. She cut a piece of yarn.”

Grover flinched like the sound had hit him physically. Without warning, he thunked his forehead against the seat in front of him.

“Grover—”

The satyr made a quick, strange sign—like crossing himself, but not quite right. The movement sent a flicker of heat through Percy’s chest, like something buried deep inside had stretched in its sleep.

Grover’s breath hitched. When he spoke again, the stutter was gone. His voice was steady. Too steady.

“Did you see her cut the cord?”

Percy nodded once. “Yeah.”

And the weight of what Grover wasn’t saying crashed into place.

Grover wasn’t pretending anymore.

Mrs. Dodds had lived.

And the harder Percy tried to picture the old ladies, the harder it was to remember their faces. Except—he did remember them. Like a puzzle with only its last piece missing, their face lingered on the edge of his brain, taunting him.

"Can't happen again," Grover whispered. He head-butted the seat again. "Not again."

Percy sat up straight. "Again?"

Grover was not listening. "I—I can't lose you too," he mumbled, to himself rather than to Percy. Then, quite out of the blue, his eyes sprang up, urgent. "Percy, walk me home from the bus station, okay? Please."

Percy stalled. Grover was genuinely freaking him out. ".Superstition?" he asked half-heartedly, praying it would not be.

Grover simply shook his head.

No.

Not superstition.

Percy's stomach fell.

"…Grover." Barely a whisper. "Does the cutting indicate that someone is going to die?"

Grover stared at him.

A dead man's gaze.

Percy's mouth dried up 

A part of his mind, just out of reach. The moment he tried to hold onto the details, they slipped away like mist on a hot summer day.

Grover was staring at him, his fingers clenched around his crutches like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

“We need to get you home,” he muttered.

Percy shivered despite the summer heat. “Grover. Who were they?”

Grover looked away. “Not here.”

The bus driver cursed as he climbed back into the driver’s seat. “Should be good for now. Everybody get back in.”

Percy let Grover shuffle into his seat first. His friend was still pale, but he was moving again, which was better than nothing.

Percy slumped into the seat beside him, staring at the back of the seat in front of him, his thoughts running circles around themselves.

Mrs. Dodds. The Mist. The Kindly Ones. The golden scissors.

He glanced at Grover again, watching the way his hands fidgeted against his jeans, his knuckles white.

And then there was Grover himself.

His best friend, who had been lying to him all year.

Percy had always known Grover was weird. But until now, it had been the kind of weird Percy liked. The kind that made someone an outcast in all the best ways. Grover was the only kid at Yancy who didn’t treat Percy like a freak for his dyslexia or ADHD. He laughed at Percy’s jokes, even when they weren’t funny. He got it when Percy zoned out in the middle of class or needed help reading signs on field trips. He never got frustrated when Percy got in trouble. He was the only one who stuck around.

Now Percy had to ask himself: how much of that was real?

How much of Grover’s friendship had been him actually caring about Percy—and how much of it had been because of whatever this Keeper thing was?

Something inside him burned at the thought.

Not here, Grover had said.

So when, then?

Percy glanced out the window, watching the trees blur past. The summer heat shimmered off the road. He pressed his palm against the glass, feeling the faint vibration of the engine beneath his skin.

Something was coming. He didn’t know what, but he could feel it in his bones, in the marrow of his teeth.

And whatever it was, he knew one thing for sure.

It wouldn’t let him run forever.

Chapter Text

Percy ditched Grover as soon as they arrived at the bus station. It wasn’t his best moment, and guilt devoured his stomach as he jumped into the back of a cab. “East One-hundred-and-fourth and First,” he told the driver, who barely spared him a glance before pulling into the packed New York traffic.

Grover’s bladder always acted up when he was nervous, so Percy hadn’t been surprised when he’d grumbled about needing a bathroom break the moment they got off the bus. Percy had nodded, told him he’d wait, and then taken off in a sprint for the taxi lines the instant Grover disappeared into the restroom. It was a chicken thing to do, perhaps, but Percy needed space. He needed air.

As the cab inched through Manhattan’s endless congestion, Percy looked out the window while people and cars moved in a hectic rhythm. His thoughts, though, were with his mother. She always evoked a tangled mix of emotions—love, warmth, and sadness all tied up. In Percy’s completely unbiased opinion, Sally Jackson was the best mom in the world. She was also proof that bad things happened to good people.

Her life was a tragedy. Parents? Dead in a plane crash when she was five years old. The uncle who took her in? Distant, cold, barely there at all. By the time she was in middle school, he’d shipped her off to boarding school, making it clear she wasn’t his problem, not really. But Sally had been driven—she was going to be a writer, see her name in print. She worked her way through high school with the hopes of going into a creative writing program, but life had different plans. Her uncle got cancer when she was seventeen. And Sally, being the kind of person she was, put everything on hold to take care of him. She sat with him at every appointment, every treatment, every agonizing moment, and when he finally passed away three years later, she was left with nothing—no high school diploma, no money, just a broken-down cabin in Montauk and a future that had been stolen from her.

Sally sold the cabin to keep herself afloat. She managed by doing night school, working odd jobs and sleeping barely at all until she finally got her GED. The only thing that kept her going was the kindness of the family that bought the Montauk cabin. They let her stay there a few weeks each summer, free of rent. That is where she met Percy’s father.

She didn’t have any pictures of him, never talked about him in detail. Yet when she did talk about that summer, something in her eyes appeared—a mix of love and regret, as though she’d always realized that it would never work out. Percy did not even know his father’s name. The only two things his mom ever told him were that he was rich and powerful, and that their relationship had been a secret. He had rented the cabin for the entire summer, and they were together every day on the beach. Then, when summer ended, he embarked on a voyage across the Atlantic. And never came back.

(And yet, Percy had this weird, twisting feeling in his gut whenever he thought about him—like the smell of the beach and sea salt was somehow carrying a presence he could almost recognize. Something about him was familiar, not just from stories, but like an echo in Percy’s bones.)

“Not dead,” Sally would always say to Percy when he inquired about him. She’d stroke his cheek and smile sadly. “Just lost at sea.”

Seven months after his father vanished, Percy was born. He had no memories of the man, but sometimes—just sometimes—he could have sworn he remembered flashes of him. A warm smile. Sea-green eyes, the same as Percy's. But that was impossible. His father was gone before he'd even taken his first breath.

Percy didn't know what to feel about him. He wasn't dead—Percy knew that in his gut—but he might as well have been. He'd done nothing for Sally. He'd left her with nothing but empty promises and a child to raise by herself. Supposedly, he'd left some money behind, hardly enough for Sally to earn her GED, but nothing more. There was something else, too—something regarding Percy—but his mom just said it in passing, never really telling him the truth. She liked the lie, Percy was aware. The lie that his father had no choice but to go away. That people would've gone after her if he stayed. That it was for the best.

Then Sally met Gabe Ugliano.

He had seemed… okay initially. Not good, not even really okay, but okay. That feeling had lasted all of thirty seconds before his true self oozed out. Gabe was a pig, a dictator, a disgusting imitation of a human being, but not in the fantastical sense of a monster with fangs or claws. No, he was far worse: the kind of monster who thrived on fear, humiliation, and control. He controlled Sally with money, insults, and tiny, surgical bursts of cruelty—the kind that made you doubt yourself more than him.

Sometimes it was the little things: a comment about her cooking, a smirk when she tried to speak up, a shove in the kitchen that he called “playful.” Other times, it was bigger, like locking her out for hours, demanding she account for every penny she spent, or calling her a worthless leech in front of neighbors. Sally had endured it all, because she was tired, because she was scared, because she hoped—always hoped—that it could be better. Percy didn’t understand it. Maybe it was stability she clung to, maybe fear, maybe the small, fleeting moments when Gabe didn’t act like a human-shaped nightmare. But the truth was, Percy didn’t care. He hated the man with a vengeance, and the feeling was mutual.

When the taxi finally pulled up in front of the apartment building, Percy shoved some of Edward’s cash into the driver’s hand, grabbed his bags, and trudged upstairs. On impulse, he split his remaining cash, stuffing most of it into his left pocket and leaving the taxi change in his right. He breathed deeply before unlocking the door—then wished he hadn’t as the smell hit him like a punch to the face.

The old stench of B.O., stale beer, tobacco smoke, and old pizza grease hung in the air. Percy gagged but forced himself to step inside.

In the living room, Smelly Gabe was reclined in his armchair, an iPad on his belly, probably playing online poker. ESPN shouted in the background. He had put on even more weight since Christmas—not that Percy was anticipating anything else. Every time he came home, Gabe seemed to inflate like some grotesque balloon, the walls themselves shrinking a little under the pressure of his presence.

“So, you’re home,” Gabe grunted, not even looking up from his screen. He took a swig of beer, stuck his cigar back in his mouth, and belched. No hello. No how was your school year? Just straight to business.

“Where’s my mom?” Percy asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. He really didn’t want to piss Gabe off today.

“Working,” Gabe said. Then, without missing a beat, “You got any cash?”

Percy’s jaw clenched. He hated this. This disgusting little ritual. Gabe could sniff out money like a bloodhound, and if Percy didn’t play along, it would get ugly. Not that it wasn’t already ugly.

“Six dollars,” Percy ground out between his teeth. He walked over and dropped the taxi change into Gabe’s languidly held-out hand.

Gabe groaned in delight, let out another deafening fart, then went back to his game. “Your report card came, brainiac,” he snarled. “I would not act that way.”

Percy had already turned away, dragging his suitcase into his room. “I hope you lose,” he said over his shoulder. Then, under his breath, he muttered, “You festering asshole.”

He slammed the door behind him and collapsed onto his bed. Outside, the faint sounds of Gabe’s belching and clicking echoed down the hall like a reminder: monsters didn’t always roar. Sometimes, they lounged in armchairs, smelling like old beer, and made life unbearable in the quietest, most human ways.

The bed was being kind. The room was Gabe’s “study,” meaning he went out of his way to drink, smoke, and fart in there in order to make the space as unlivable as humanly possible. Stacks of magazines—sports, poker, pin-ups—were strewn across the floor. Dirty clothes jammed the closet so tightly they threatened to spill out. Percy tore the pillowcases off and buried his face in them, trying to filter out the lingering aroma of Smelly Gabe.

Then, finally, the emotions caught up with him.

Silent tears streamed down his face as his head reeled. What was going on?

Demon math teachers were real. His best friend and greatest teacher had somehow erased all memory of Mrs. Dodds from the world. They had repaired the damage at the museum with actual magic. And on the way home, Percy had seen three old women cut the string of someone’s life.

His body was exhausted, every muscle aching, but his mind would not rest. It raced, spinning through impossible questions, impossible events. He needed answers. He needed to call Grover.

And then—the rap on the door. Gentle, firm, deliberate. A voice, warm and welcoming, calling out: “Percy?”

Percy sat up so fast he nearly tumbled off the bed. He rubbed his eyes quickly, swallowing the lump in his throat, trying to quiet the chaos inside him. Then, with a deep breath, he leaped to his feet and yanked the door open.

There she was—his mother. Smiling down at him with a warmth that made the walls of the grimy room seem to shimmer, as though her presence alone could erase the stench, the fear, the exhaustion. In that moment, the world felt just a little less impossible, just a little brighter.

Sally Jackson's brown, grey-streaked hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, the way she always wore it when she was going to be working long hours. The corners of her eyes creased as she looked him up and down, and her arms were already open for a hug before Percy had even had time to consider it. Without hesitation, he surged forward, wrapping his arms around her, clinging tighter than he probably should have. The tension in his body melted away as she rubbed soothing circles into his back. For the first time in what felt like forever, he could breathe again.

“Oh, Percy,” she murmured, pulling back just enough to get a good look at him. “You’ve grown since Christmas.”

Percy laughed and snorted. "You saw me three months ago, Mom."

"I know," she said, shaking her head in a loving manner. "But you just keep growing like a weed." She rumpled his messy black hair, which had grown long enough to fall into his eyes again. "I swear, you'll be taller than me before you're even a teenager."

Percy didn't say it, but he doubted it. He was small for his age, and he figured Gabe's regular diet of packaged garbage and expired milk wasn't doing him any favors. But Sally always made sure he got what he needed, even if she went without meals herself. 

He hated that.

As she retreated into the hall, he finally noticed her uniform—red, white, and blue, with the Sweet On America logo stitched across her chest. The smell of her work clung to the fabric, that mix of chocolate, sugar, licorice, and the fruity sweetness of the jelly beans from the giant wall in the candy store. It was a smell he had grown up with, one that made him think of warm summer afternoons when she would sneak him extra treats from the store, winking as she pressed a caramel or a handful of gummy bears into his palm.

“You’re home early,” he noted, shifting his suitcase to the side so she could step into the room.

“I asked for an early shift so I'd be here when you got back," she said to him, glancing around his "bedroom" with a wrinkled nose. "I can see Gabe didn't bother to clean up."

Her eyes located his face, studying him as she always did when she thought something was wrong. "How was the trip?"

Percy hesitated. His mom had this gift for looking straight through him, peel off all the layers, and get to the truth no matter how much he tried to hide it. He thought about all that had happened—the Fates, the cutting of the yarn, Mrs. Dodds, Grover's terrified face on the bus. He thought about how, for the first time in his life, the strange things he had always put down to bad luck or coincidence now seemed to be part of a much bigger picture.

Yet Sally was exhausted. He could see it in the way her shoulders were slumping, in the way she was smiling as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. She'd been on her feet all day dealing with tourists and sugar-stoked children, probably working the whole store by herself while her manager sat in the back room goofing off. She did not need to hear his problems right now.

It was… great," he lied, forcing a smile. "Just happy to be back." She gazed at him another moment, but if she doubted him, she didn't press the issue. She simply sighed and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.

"Well, I hope you're hungry," she said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "I thought we could eat some blue food tonight."

Percy's spirits lifted immediately. "Seriously?

Sally smiled. "Yeah, sure thing. I even got blue Coke."

He smiled. His mom had this thing about opposing Gabe. Years back, when Gabe teased there was no blue food in the world, Sally had made it a point to prove otherwise. And thus, for years now, it was their thing—blue waffles, blue cake, blue candies, even blue chicken nuggets once. It was stupid, but it was theirs.

Percy colored his visit to Yancy more rosily than it had been. He did not want his mom to worry.

He told her the good things—the friend he'd made, how he was doing well in Latin, how he wasn't fighting as much. That last one was a lie so obvious it might as well have been written across his forehead. His mother didn't call him on it, but the way she gently traced his split lip with her fingers told him she wasn't fooled.

Percy hesitated, then went on and told her about Sam's card. He pulled it out of his bag and showed her the signatures—the names of all the kids he'd rescued this year, the ones he'd stood up for, the ones who'd needed somebody to step in. His mom traced some of the names with her fingers, her eyebrows furrowing together like she wasn't sure whether she ought to be proud or worried. Ultimately, she sighed and smiled slightly at him, a weary smile.

“Well, at least you’re helping people,” she murmured.

Percy could tell it comforted her, at least a little. It made the fights feel like they had meant something.

Then she stood, and just like that, the weight in the room lifted. A playful twinkle lit up her eyes, the kind that always meant something good was coming.

“I have a surprise,” she said.

Percy leaned forward expectantly. “A good surprise?”

She smiled. "A very good one. We're off to the beach. Just the two of us."

Percy's chest eased. "Montauk?"

His mother nodded. "Three nights. Same cabin."

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Percy smiled, the year’s tension ebbing away like sand swept out with the tide.

"When do we leave?"

"Once I've changed," she said, already heading for the door. "Pack up, sweetie."

Percy didn't need a second hint. As soon as she was out of the room, he dropped his duffel and suitcase onto the bed and started digging through what he needed and stuffing his bag as quickly as possible. He wasn't about to let even a second tick by to leave here.

From the living room, Gabe's irritating voice was heard. "You were serious about that?"

"Of course," his mom replied, her voice firm but calm. "We talked about this. It's come out of my clothes budget."

"But what about—"

"It's in the fridge, Gabriel. Enough for the entire weekend and then some.".

Gabe muttered something under his breath. Percy exhaled. The guy was a jerk. The trip was hardly costing anything—the cabin was included, it was just gas and groceries—but of course not to Gabe. To him, every dime he spent on Sally and Percy was a personal betrayal.

"And the car—"

"Just there and back, honey, of course."

That was a lie. And Percy knew that. His mother constantly lied about the car.

Percy zipped up his duffel bag and stuffed the rest of his things into the dresser. From the living room came the distant murmur of shouting. Then, finally, a door slammed shut, and there was silence.

A second later, Gabe's giant frame loomed in Percy's doorway, a self-satisfied grin spread across his face. Suddenly, he hurled the keys to his rusty Camaro at Percy's chest. Percy barely caught them before they landed on the floor.

"Get your mom's stuff out of the hall and store it away, kid," Gabe growled.

Percy did not want to snap back, did not want to tell him to go to hell, did not want to kick him in the shins so hard he wouldn't be able to stand straight for a week. But he was going to get a three-day vacation from Smelly Gabe, and that was worth keeping his mouth shut about.

He nodded curtly. Gabe grunted and departed.

Percy grabbed his duffel, his mom's bag, and a cooler full of snacks and pulled them down the stairs to the tiny parking garage at the rear of their apartment. The building didn't actually have any actual residents with cars, but tourists and people from the other apartments always packed it. He pushed through them, heading for the dented old '78 Camaro in the rear corner.

Opening the trunk, Percy stuffed their suitcases into the trunk and plopped himself into the passenger seat. He drummed his fingers against his knee as he waited.

A minute or two later, his mom got into the driver's seat, grasping the wheel as if it were the only thing that would stop her from falling over. She took a great gulp of air, blinking too fast. Her eyes were red.

Percy made a face. "Mom, were you—

"Oh, okay," she said curtly, smiling and turning the ignition. "Let's go."

Percy's lips formed an O, but he couldn't yet protest. She said, "And tonight, you can explain. whatever you forgot to explain to me."

The same scratch reappeared on the back of Percy's neck again.

The very same scratch that he'd sported when Mrs. Dodds had dragged him off to slaughter him.

The same itch he'd had when he overheard Grover and Mr. Brunner discussing him in whispers.

The same itch he'd had when he'd seen those three old women trimming that piece of yarn.

Percy did not feel like talking much now, suddenly.

His tummy flipped over as his mom drove out of the garage, away from their apartment—and Smelly Gabe—behind.

The Montauk cabin perched at the top of the south shore, buried in the dunes at Long Island’s farthest point, as if it had been placed there deliberately by the sea itself. Salt and time had bleached its once-vibrant pastel paint into a fragile, sun-bleached shell, the wood weathered smooth by decades of wind and sea spray. The whole structure tilted slightly, weary of staying vertical, as though it had been braced against storms too long and was finally thinking about surrender.

The owners who had bought it from Sally had died years earlier, and the property had fallen to their daughter, who treated it like an heirloom she couldn’t bring herself to sell. She never lived there, never repaired more than was necessary, but every summer she rented it out, ensuring just enough warmth and breath passed through the house to keep it from collapsing into the sand.

The doors groaned when opened, hinges puffed with moisture and orange with rust. The windowpanes rattled in their warped frames, and no matter how often a broom swept across the floorboards, sand returned in drifts, piling beneath doors and creeping into the cracks. In the rafters, spiderwebs spun fine silver nets, glittering like glass when touched by sunlight, their builders hidden away in the dark, patient and undisturbed. The air carried the tang of salt, damp wood, and something else—something older, something like memory itself left out too long in the sun.

Beyond the porch, the Atlantic stretched vast and gray, eternal and restless. The waves rolled in with a ceaseless rhythm, sighing against the shore as though the ocean were breathing. On warmer days, Percy could stand knee-deep in the surf before the chill forced him back. On colder days, the wind clawed inland with teeth of brine, carrying sea spray that crusted every surface with salt. There was no cell service here, no internet, nothing of the modern world except for a dusty flatscreen in the living room and a mismatched stack of scratched DVDs abandoned by strangers. When the wind howled too hard, the TV screen warped and blurred, as if even technology bent to the sea’s will.

Percy loved it.

Every year his mother could manage, she brought him here. He suspected—though she never said it outright—that it was because this was where she had met his father. Maybe it was her only place of peace, a place she couldn’t release no matter how much time passed. Percy carried that knowledge with him like a stone in his chest: torn between longing and anger, between love for her and bitterness toward the man who had left her. His mother deserved someone who loved her fully, who spoiled her, who stayed—not Gabe, not anyone like him.

The drive to Montauk was half the adventure. Sally Jackson, sweet, steady, endlessly patient Sally, shed her skin on the highway. With Percy in the passenger seat, she became someone else: wild, sharp, mischievous. She wove through traffic with the agility of a street racer, hair flying in the breeze of open windows. On backroads she took corners with too much confidence, and every so often she spun the wheel just for the thrill of Percy’s laughter. She wasn’t the kind of person you’d imagine cheating odometers or coasting through yellow lights like they were dares—but she did. And when Percy looked at her in those moments, he thought she might have been the bravest person alive.

By the time they reached the driveway, the rain had started, soft and steady. The windshield blurred with lazy droplets, and Sally’s grin looked younger, freer, framed by the smudged glass.

“Beat you to the door?” she challenged.

Percy smirked. “On three?”

“One, two—”

“Two!” He bolted before she finished, yanking his duffel and cooler from the trunk. The planter still hid the spare key, like it always had. By the time Sally caught up, laughing breathless in the drizzle, Percy was shoving against the stubborn door with his shoulder, the old wood groaning its protest.

Inside, he dropped his bag in the hallway, where it slid to a stop in front of the room he always claimed. In the kitchen, the cooler revealed its treasures: a whole kingdom of blue. Blue corn chips. Blue candy from Sally’s stash of “samples” at the shop. Blueberries, blue cookies, even blue Gatorade. Years ago, Gabe had mocked them, declaring there was no such thing as blue food. Sally had taken that as a challenge. A rebellion. And what had started as a joke had become tradition, a family banner.

“Cheater,” she teased, dropping into the chair beside him, her smile wide, her eyes tired but bright. Percy laughed, crumbs on his fingers, feeling—for once—like life was perfect.

When the rain broke, they walked barefoot down the beach, throwing crumbs to squawking gulls and daring the waves to chase their ankles. At sunset, they lit the fire pit. Hot dogs blistered on sticks, marshmallows dripped into ash, and Percy lay back to count stars, listening to the ocean and his mother’s voice.

She asked about his tournaments with Mr. Brunner. He admitted things guiltily, like sneaking cigarettes on the dorm roof or pranks on teachers. But Sally never scolded. She only smiled, as though she recognized a piece of herself in him. She had been a rebel, too.

Later, she told him stories—not myths, but pieces of herself. The novels she swore she would one day write. Her own mother, stern and strict. The uncle she had learned to tolerate only at the very end. Percy lay quiet, memorizing every word.

Because he knew—deep down—that these nights, just the two of them against the world, wouldn’t last forever.

And the sea outside never stopped whispering, as though it knew, too.

Finally, the topic came up. 

It always did. Percy inquired after his father, and once again, his mother was evasive. But he didn't care. He liked hearing the same things over and over again.

"He was nice," she murmured, her smile tinged with something wistful. "Tall, handsome. You have his features." She stroked him, running a hand through Percy's dark hair. "His eyes, too.".

Then, to his surprise, she snorted, covering her mouth as a quiet giggle escaped.

“What?” Percy asked, grinning despite himself.

"It's so on the nose," she said, nodding out to the black waves crashing in, "but he was like the ocean. Powerful. Soothing. Life-restoring. His voice was like crashing waves, and he was wild at the edges." She leaned forward, chin on her hands, elbows on knees, and smiling up at him. "He was so much like you. Wild, giving…" She laughed again. "And scatterbrained, too."

Warmth spread over Percy's chest. It was an odd feeling, missing a father he'd never had, but hearing about him this way—so vivid in his mother's voice—made him feel as though he had, somehow.

Sally's gaze drifted out into the distance, her expression distant. "He'd be so proud of you," she whispered.

Percy's gut twisted. The heat in his chest vanished, replaced by something heavier. "Not likely," he growled, tracing the edge of his hoodie. "Would he be proud of a kid who can't get through a week without getting into a fight? Who can barely read most of the time? Who's never done better than a C+" in his entire life?

Sally didn't hesitate. "He'd be proud of you for standing up for yourself and others. For not letting anyone walk all over you. For needing change." She looked at him then, something fierce and absolute in her gaze. "Don't think I didn't hear about that fight with Mr. Nicoll."

Percy blushed but did not complain. He simply leaned back on his fists and stared at the ocean. Would his father actually be proud of him for it all? The doubt taunted him. His father had left him. Left him with Smelly Gabe. Left his mother stuck in a dead-end job, struggling to get by.

The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could take them back. "Are you going to send me away again?"

Sally inhaled sharply. When he turned back to her, her eyes were full of tears.

“I—I have to, Percy,” she said, her voice trembling. “It’s for the best.”

“Because I’m not normal?” Percy asked, bitterness creeping in.

To his surprise, she actually laughed. "Such a ridiculous word," she said, shaking her head. "Of course you're not normal, Percy. And neither am I." She smiled at him, a tearful smile, something caught between affection and grief. "You're different. And I've kept you as close—and as far—as I could get you. But." Her voice cracked, and she turned away from him, the tears falling silently down her cheeks.

Percy swallowed hard. "You think it's time?"

Sally nodded. "There's a place your father wanted you to go."

Percy's gut dropped. "A school?" His voice was distant, hollow. He'd never even met the guy, and his dad had already picked out a school for him?

But Sally shook her head. "A camp. Of sorts."

Percy snorted in amazement. "So let me get this straight. My dad, who never even met me, picked a summer camp for me?"

"I thought Yancy would be safe," Sally panted, as if to herself.

What she said sent a shiver down the back of Percy's neck. That little shiver at the base of his neck was back and worse than ever.

He dawdled. "Safe from what?

Sally looked at him then, really looked at him. And in her eyes, he caught sight of something raw and scared, something that called to a hundred memories.

Third grade: the trench-coated stranger who had plagued the playground for days. When the teachers at last drove him off, no one had believed Percy when he said the man had but one eye in the middle of his forehead.

Fourth grade: the aquarium field trip. The catwalk over the shark tank had collapsed—an accident, they'd explained. His entire class had taken an unplanned swim.

Fifth grade: the Saratoga battlefield. He'd leaned too far over a cannon, and a second later, it had fired—firing a cannonball through the windshield of a parked car.

Preschool: nap time. When his mother had come to pick him up, she had found him hugging the dead body of a four-foot-long snake, its neck crushed in his little fists.

Once a year. At least. Something that should have killed him. But somehow, the memories had always faded too quickly. And his mother had never spoken of them. Just sent him off to another school.

And now she was shivering, her face hidden in her hands.

"I don't want to say goodbye to you, honey," she said softly, her voice breaking. "If you leave, I may never see you again." She raised her head, and the look in her eyes—pleading, heartbroken—emptied something out of him. "They warned that it would not be safe to have you close to me, but I—"

Her voice caught. She didn't go on.

And Percy knew, with a chill, sinking realization, that whatever followed that.

It was something he could not avoid.

Percy's senses reeled. His skin crawled, his heart thundered in his chest, and a burning, creeping feeling slithered up the back of his neck—like one needle piercing his spine. The same adrenaline rush he'd experienced before Mrs. Dodds turned into a demon, the same queasy gut sensation that something was bad, bad, bad.

His mouth fell open, but before he could attempt to coax out a word, the cabin's back door creaked on hinges as it swung open.

Grover stumbled through the doorway like he’d barely made it in one piece. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his tie hung loose, and his Yancy Academy shirt—usually neat in a nerdy way—was half untucked, streaked with mud and peppered with twigs like he’d run through the entire forest blindfolded. His chest heaved, each breath scraping his throat raw. He clutched the doorframe with both hands, bent almost double.

“Looking—” he wheezed, “all night—took a Satyr Path—barely—got this far—”

Percy froze halfway to the kitchen, a chip in his hand forgotten. He’d never seen Grover look like this, not even during finals week. Then Grover’s gaze met his. Wide, wild, terrified.

And Percy noticed something for the very first time.

They weren’t brown. Not exactly. The edges of Grover’s eyes were darker, almost black, but the centers were pale, flickering in the firelight. And the pupils—oh gods—the pupils weren’t round at all. They were rectangular. Like the slits in barn doors. Like bars on a gate.

A chill needled down Percy’s spine. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Grover swallowed hard. His voice cracked as he tried to scold him, as though scolding was easier than explaining. “Wh-what were you thinking, P-Percy?”

Percy’s mother was on her feet before he even turned toward her. She was pale, but her eyes burned. “Percy,” she demanded, her voice rough and thin, pulled tight like thread about to snap. “What didn’t you tell me?”

Percy clenched his fists. The air felt heavier, pressing into his lungs. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t look at Grover. He stared at the floorboards as though they might split open and swallow him.

Thunder growled overhead. It rolled low and deep, rattling in his ribcage. A gust of icy wind struck the cabin, shaking the windows so hard the panes nearly cracked. The lamps flickered. And then—rain. A torrential sheet of it, slamming against the roof, drowning out every other sound.

Percy’s mouth was dry as bone. Still, he forced the words out. “At the museum,” he whispered. “During our school trip. My math teacher—she turned into this—this thing. Like a demon. She tried to kill me.”

He couldn’t stop. It tumbled out of him in broken pieces, jagged and raw.

“My Latin teacher—Mr. Brunner—he gave me a pen. It—it turned into a sword. I—I killed her.” The words tasted unreal, like ash, like lies. “And then she was gone. Just—gone. Everyone forgot she was even alive. Everyone except Grover. And Mr. Brunner.”

Sally went ashen. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She just stared at her son, at the shadow he cast in the dim light.

Grover shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting away. He scratched at the back of his neck like a kid caught in a lie, then offered the faintest, most awkward smile. “H-hello again, Mrs. Jackson,” he mumbled, as though this were any ordinary visit.

But Sally didn’t answer. She wasn’t even listening. Her focus was miles away, fixed on something Percy couldn’t see.

Grover cleared his throat, his voice breaking. “It… uh—it was one of the Furies.”

Percy blinked. “The what?”

But his mom knew. The word struck her like a physical blow. She sucked in a sharp breath, her whole body recoiling as though invisible hands had punched the air from her lungs. Her fingers dug into the denim of her jeans until the fabric bunched.

The silence stretched. The rain pounded harder. Thunder muttered again, closer this time.

Sally swiped at her eyes, quick and fierce, before Percy could see the tears. She turned, moving fast, decisive, no hesitation.

“Car. Now.”

Her voice cracked like a whip.

Percy didn’t argue. He couldn’t. The terror in her tone was enough.

One must perish.

The words stabbed through Percy’s skull again, sharper this time, echoing with the voices of the old women at the fruit stand. He saw them as if they stood in the cabin with him—their wrinkled faces severe, their eyes like flint. The golden thread pulled taut, the glint of the scissors, the breathless silence as something invisible had been cut. That terrible chill of inevitability swept down his spine.

“Grover…” Percy said slowly, his throat tightening. “Grover, what—”

Then he saw.

Grover wasn’t leaning on his crutches anymore. They’d fallen to the floor, clattering uselessly against the warped wood. He wasn’t even standing like he normally did, not hunched and uncertain. His balance was different, wider, steadier. And—

He wasn’t wearing pants.

Percy blinked once. Then again, harder.

His legs—Grover’s legs—weren’t legs at all. They were bent oddly, not human at the joints, and covered in thick, shaggy brown hair, matted from the storm. His knees bent the wrong way, ending not in sneakers or feet but—

Hooves.

Solid, blunt, cloven hooves that struck the floor with a dull, heavy thud as Grover shifted.

Percy’s stomach turned over, bile clawing up his throat. He stumbled a step back, nearly tripping over his own bag. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the storm outside.

“Oh gods,” Percy whispered. “Oh gods. What are you?”

Grover flinched at the words. His shoulders hunched, his expression flickering between shame and fear. His rectangular pupils gleamed in the lamplight, no longer hidden.

“I—I wanted to tell you sooner,” he stammered. His voice cracked, small and miserable. “But you weren’t supposed to find out like this. Not yet.”

Percy stared, his hands shaking, his mind racing with the memory of the Fury in the museum, of the thread snapping in the marketplace, of thunder growling just outside the cabin walls.

Nothing was making sense. And yet—

Everything was.

Chapter Text

A storm churned around him—wind slashing, waves crashing, thunder shaking the air. Salt stung his eyes, but he kept running, feet hammering the wet sand.

Somewhere in his chest, a voice screamed that this wasn’t a dream. It was heavier, older. Something that felt more real than reality itself.

And he wasn’t alone.

Ahead, the battle tore across the shore. A shadow cloaked in storm clouds, feathers burning with lightning, struck against something vast and armored in black, its blade glinting like the midnight sea. Each impact cracked the sky and split the ground.

Percy’s throat was raw as he shouted. “Stop! Please—stop!” His voice shredded against the wind, eaten whole by the storm. He didn’t even know why he was begging—only that if this fight went on, everything would be destroyed.

He kept running. Kept chasing. Because maybe—just maybe—someone would listen.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw them.

Not the combatants. Not the storm. Them.

Shapes gathered along the rocks and dunes. A thousand watching eyes that made his skin crawl. Creatures crowned in fire. Bodies stitched from smoke and snakes. Faces too bright, too sharp, too vast to name—except Percy knew them anyway.

He knew.

An owl clutched the jagged cliff, its dark eyes unblinking. Athena.

A vulture picked at its torn feathers, patient, cruel. Ares.

A lion wreathed in fire, mane snapping with light. Apollo.

A black dog crouched alone, eyes burning red. Hades.

A hawk of iron feathers, digging into the sand. Hephaestus.

More. Dozens more. Watching. Waiting.

Percy’s chest clenched. Gods. All of them. And none of them stopping it. Just… observing.

He felt smaller than he ever had in his life, like a bug crawling in the wrong direction. Not a hero. Not a fighter. Just prey.

The storm broke against the shore, waves slamming higher. Thunder and tide. Rage and ruin. Zeus and Poseidon—he didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.

“This isn’t the way!” Percy yelled, voice cracking. “You don’t have to do this!”

The words tore out of him, raw with something deeper than fear. It wasn’t just desperation—it was grief. A hollow kind of loss that burned behind his ribs like he’d already failed.

He didn’t even notice the girl at first—grey-eyed, reaching for him from the edge of the storm. By the time he saw her, the sand under her feet gave way.

She fell.

The earth swallowed her in one bite.

“No!” Percy lunged, his chest tearing with panic. He dove after her, arm stretching farther than it should have. His fingers snagged her wrist. His grip clamped tight, digging in like a hook.

For a moment, her face flickered out of the shadows. Grey eyes, sharp and terrified. His own reflection in them, sea-green and wide.

She fell farther, dragging him with her.

Then the air below moved.

It wasn’t empty. It wasn’t void. Something stirred beneath them—something ancient, alive, patient. It saw him. It saw her.

And it was waiting.

Fear ripped through Percy’s throat like a claw. He hauled at her arm, refusing to let go, though his hand shook, slick with sand and seawater. “Don’t let go,” he begged. His voice sounded strange in his own ears, too familiar, like he’d said it before.

She didn’t answer. She just stared at him, jaw clenched, and for a second Percy thought—I know you. I’ve always known you.

Her other hand clawed at the edge of the chasm. Together, straining, shaking, they dragged themselves free. The sand gave way under their feet, the pit hissing as it swallowed itself shut.

They collapsed on the shore, side by side, gasping like they’d just crawled out of the ocean itself.

The storm raged on. The gods kept watching. The monsters fought.

And Percy turned his head toward her.

The world didn’t feel like a dream anymore.

It felt like the beginning of something he couldn’t name.

He opened his mouth—

And woke.

Percy drifted in and out of consciousness, his dreams breaking apart into shards that cut and dissolved before he could piece them together. A horse reared against a blinding sky. An eagle’s cry pierced through thunder. The girl with stormy eyes held out a drink that tasted like home. A voice rose from the depths of the earth—low, ancient, and furious. You are marked. The words—or maybe just the feeling—settled into his bones like chains. A sense of doom pressed down on him, heavier than any weight he could fight.

When he surfaced the first time, it was like clawing his way up through thick, suffocating water. He gasped—and pain slammed into him. Not just soreness, but agony that burned through every inch of him. His skin felt raw, as though he’d been dragged across asphalt. His ribs ached with every breath. His arms and legs throbbed like someone had smashed them with a hammer. Later he’d learn just how badly his body had been wrecked, but in that moment all he knew was that he hurt everywhere. His stomach twisted. His head pounded. He would’ve gladly blacked out again—except his blurry gaze landed on Grover.

The satyr was perched on a bed opposite his, chatting animatedly with a girl Percy didn’t recognize. She looked about his age, maybe a little older, and the sunlight streaming through the curtains seemed to bend toward her. Her skin had the warm tone of sepia photographs, soft and deep. Dark brown braids, clipped short at her shoulders, framed her face before unraveling into golden curls that spilled like light. Silver beads glittered faintly where they fastened the braids, catching each movement like tiny sparks. But it was her eyes that caught Percy most—storm-grey, alive with an intensity that made her seem older than she was.

She laughed at something Grover said, and for the first time Percy noticed that Grover… looked fine. Too fine. His bronze complexion glowed as if he’d spent weeks lounging in sunlight instead of nearly dying the night before. His dark eyes were bright, unshadowed, his curly hair tidy as if nothing in the world had tried to kill him. Percy wanted to call out, demand an explanation—but his chest seized, his body screamed, and exhaustion drowned him before he could manage a sound.

The second time he woke, it was quieter. Grover was gone. The girl sat in a chair beside his bed, a book open in her lap. Her lips moved faintly, as if she were mouthing the words as she read. When Percy stirred, her eyes snapped to his. In one swift motion, she set the book aside, reached for a water bottle, and pressed the straw to his lips.

“Drink,” she ordered. No hesitation, no softness—just command.

Percy obeyed, too weak to argue. The water was cool, sliding down his throat, and then—he almost choked. It didn’t taste like water. It tasted like home. Like his mom’s fresh-baked blue chocolate chip cookies, warm and gooey from the oven. The sweetness filled his chest, and grief hit him so hard his eyes burned. But alongside the ache, warmth spread through his body. His limbs lightened. The pain dulled, just enough to let him breathe without wanting to scream.

The girl studied him with the sharp, calculating look of someone testing a hypothesis. Then she set the bottle aside. “Any idea what the Summer Solstice deadline is?” she asked abruptly.

Percy blinked at her, his brain still foggy. “Wha…?”

She sighed, frustration tightening her jaw. “That idiot Chiron won’t tell me anything,” she muttered, half to herself. “Something stolen, some deadline—and they keep me out of it. Of course.”

Percy wanted to ask what she meant, but his eyelids grew heavy, and before he could string the words together, sleep dragged him under once more.

The next time he clawed his way to consciousness, he wasn’t in bed anymore. He was being carried—cradled like a broken doll—through a wide hallway. His head lolled against the chest of the person holding him, and when Percy forced his eyes open, he nearly screamed.

The guy was tall, muscular, with shaggy blond hair—and eyes. Too many eyes. His skin was covered in them: his arms, his neck, even his closed eyelids. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of eyes, all blinking at different intervals. The sight made Percy’s stomach flip. He squeezed his eyes shut, convinced he was hallucinating, but when he dared another glance, the vision hadn’t changed.

The stranger wore heavy boots and cargo shorts, an orange T-shirt identical to the girl’s. A belt bristling with small knives crossed his waist, two larger curved blades resting against his hips like they belonged there.

Percy stared, too stunned to speak, and then—without a word—the man set him down in a chair on a porch. The air smelled of salt and strawberries. Fields rolled out before him, dotted with green leaves and flashes of red fruit. Beyond them, Percy thought he glimpsed the sea, glittering faintly in the morning haze.

His body sagged under its own weight, exhaustion creeping back like a wave. Before he could surrender to it, Grover appeared at his side. The satyr fussed with a blanket, tugging it over Percy’s shoulders, and gave him a nervous little smile.

Percy tried to hold onto that image—the warmth of the blanket, the sun on his face, Grover’s worried expression—but his vision blurred, and everything slipped away again into darkness.

The first thing Percy saw was the sky’s pale light—too blue, too flawless, like a painted backdrop someone had nailed to the horizon. For a second he thought he was still unconscious, stuck in one of those dreams where everything was too sharp, too perfect. But then his head throbbed, a dull, relentless pounding, and the ache running through his body reminded him that he was very much awake. He felt wrung out, like someone had squeezed all the water from him and left him to wither.

But none of that mattered.

Because—

Grover.

He was standing a few feet away, fidgeting like always, his fingers twisting the straps of his backpack so tightly it was a wonder the seams didn’t rip. His eyes darted everywhere—sky, ground, horizon—like he expected a punch to come flying from any direction.

Except it wasn’t just Grover.

It was Grover, but not the Grover Percy had just seen dragging him across the property line, hooves clattering against the dirt, horns half-hidden in curly hair. This Grover was… normal. Human. No goat legs, no fuzz on his chin. Just Grover, looking like the kid who sat next to Percy at Yancy Academy and pretended not to notice when Percy zoned out in class.

“I—I’m sorry, Percy.” Grover’s voice wobbled like it was held together with string. His throat bobbed, his eyes shining like he was one wrong word away from crying. “I couldn’t help your mom.”

Percy’s stomach turned over so violently he thought he might puke. Images smashed into his skull all at once: his mom’s face in the car, the Minotaur’s roar, her arms wrapped around him—then the blinding light.

“But she—she vanished in golden smoke,” Percy blurted, his voice breaking, raw. “What does that mean?”

Grover’s face twisted, caught between despair and—something else. Hope? Relief? Both at once? He swallowed hard before forcing out the words. “She was kidnapped by a god.” His tone was heavy, like each syllable cost him something. “But we don’t know whose.”

A god.

The word hung in the air, bigger than the Minotaur, bigger than every monster that had tried to kill him in the last twenty-four hours. Gods weren’t supposed to be real. And yet, so weren’t Minotaurs, or satyrs, or lightning bolts crashing out of nowhere. Percy’s mouth was bone-dry.

“A god?” he repeated, like maybe if he said it out loud it would sound less insane.

Grover glanced at him—quick, nervous, almost apologetic. The kind of look that said You know it doesn’t make sense, but it’s true anyway. He didn’t elaborate, just shifted on his—feet. Not hooves. Not anymore. His sneakers tapped the dirt, jittery, like he was ready to bolt at the first wrong sound.

Finally, he muttered, “Let’s go see Chiron.”

Percy shoved aside the million questions clawing for answers inside his head. He hated how Grover wouldn’t meet his eye, hated the way his body practically buzzed with tension, like this was only the beginning of something worse.

But he followed anyway.

Because if there was even the slightest chance that his mom was alive—if gods existed and one of them had taken her—then Percy wasn’t going to sit around and hope she came back.

He was going to get her back.

Percy sat up, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. His skull throbbed like someone had wedged a drum inside and kept beating on it. He rubbed his temples, trying to string together everything that had happened.

His eyes dropped to the object lying by his side—the box. He picked it up, set it in his lap, and traced the ridged exterior with his fingertips. It was real. Solid. Not a dream. Not a fever hallucination.

The Minotaur. His mother. The blinding battle on the hill.

All of it had been real.

He had killed the Minotaur himself.

The thought jolted him, equal parts terror and disbelief. If his mother was alive—if there was any truth to Grover’s words—then Percy had destroyed the monster that had hurt her. If not… then at least he had avenged her.

Either way, nothing would ever be the same again.

His chest constricted, a sudden rush of panic squeezing the air out of his lungs. I can’t go home. The words echoed like a bell. He couldn’t walk back into that apartment, into Gabe’s greasy shadow. Not without his mother. If she wasn’t there, then there was nothing left for him. He’d run—he’d run and never return before letting himself sink back into that place.

His fingers clutched the box tighter until his knuckles went white. His eyes stung, blurred, and before he could stop himself, tears welled up. He tried to swallow it down, to be strong, but the weight of it all—the fear, the loss, the exhaustion—crushed him. His control shattered. His tears fell hot and fast, splattering against the horn of the Minotaur.

He crumpled, folding into himself, overcome by the sheer price he had paid to get here. His grief poured out in a flood that had no words, only sobs.

Grover didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just stood, crossed the space, and wrapped Percy in a hug.

Percy clung to him. He buried his face in Grover’s shirt and let it come—all of it—until his throat was raw and his body hollowed out. Slowly, the storm passed, leaving him drained and numb, like the tide receding from the shore.

Eventually, he pulled back, swiping his sleeve across his face. His voice came out rough, barely audible. “Where are we?”

Grover sat again and pointed to the front of his T-shirt. The fabric was orange, the print black: a Pegasus surrounded by a circular woven border, intricate and ancient, like something lifted straight off a piece of Greek pottery. Below it read: Camp Half-Blood.

Grover gave a sheepish, nervous smile. “Home sweet home—for the summer, anyway.”

Something shifted in Percy’s brain, like puzzle pieces clicking into place. His dad—whoever he was—was tied to this world. Grover and Mr. Brunner belonged to it. His mom had brushed against it, glimpsed the truth behind the Mist, just as she had glimpsed the Minotaur. But she had never belonged to it, not fully.

“Let’s go visit… Mr. Chiron. Or whoever,” Percy muttered. He tried to get to his feet, but his body rebelled. His limbs were made of lead, heavy and unresponsive. The most he managed was rolling sideways, kicking his legs over the edge of the chair—before collapsing against the armrest in frustration.

Grover stood quickly, fetched a glass, and held it out. “Here. Drink this.”

Under any other circumstances, Percy would’ve burned with embarrassment at needing help just to hold a cup. But right now? He was only grateful.

The glass was cool in his hand, condensation sliding down his fingers. Inside, ice cubes clinked gently. He sipped through the straw—

And nearly gasped.

The taste slammed into him like a memory too vivid to be real. Sweetness, vanilla, the perfect crunch-to-soft ratio. It was his mom’s blue chocolate-chip cookies. Warm from the oven. A flavor that was more than a taste—it was a home, a hug, a piece of safety.

Nostalgia punched him in the gut. But the liquid itself soothed him, spreading warmth through his chest, filling him with strength. He drank greedily.

The instant he swallowed the last drop, power hit him like a thunderclap. His muscles tensed, his head cleared, and his veins thrummed with energy, like his whole body had been jump-started with sugar and lightning.

“Whoa,” he panted, lightheaded. He sat blinking, buzzing with so much energy it almost scared him.

Grover smiled faintly. “What was it like, tasting it?” His voice carried a kind of wistfulness, as though he already knew the answer but wanted to hear Percy say it anyway.

Percy hesitated, guilt rising sharp in his chest. “Oh, I should’ve saved—”

Grover cut him off, shaking his head. “It’s nectar. Drink of the gods. It tastes different for everyone—something special, something that matters.” He paused before adding, softer, “You can drink it. Satyrs… can’t.”

Percy frowned. “Why not?”

Grover’s face shadowed, and for a moment he seemed older, heavier. He rubbed his arm and muttered, “We burn. From the inside out.”

Percy froze, staring at the steam rising faintly from his own skin, curling into the air as though he’d just stepped out of an oven. He swallowed hard. “Then why can—”

Grover held up a hand. “Chiron will explain.” He rose to his feet, this time not hiding the goat legs jutting out beneath his shorts. His hand extended to Percy.

Percy took it. His legs wobbled, but Grover steadied him. Percy bent down, grabbed the Minotaur’s horn, and held it tight. He had earned it—paid in blood and grief—and no one was taking it from him.

Not now. Not ever.

Together, they stepped toward the porch.

When Percy rounded the corner, his breath caught.

The valley opened before him in a wide curve that tumbled down toward the sea. He recognized the coastline—Long Island, somewhere north. But what filled the valley was nothing like home.

Strawberry fields rolled in neat, endless rows, interrupted by apple orchards and carefully trimmed gardens. Beyond, a cluster of buildings huddled around a shining pavilion of marble and vines. The structure rose on tall Greek columns, untouched by time, its mosaic floor glinting from a distance like stained glass.

Encircling the pavilion stood a U-shaped sprawl of lodges, each building completely different from the next—a crimson motel pressed against a European-style mansion, others stitched together like fragments stolen from separate worlds. Even from afar, Percy felt the hum of power in them, a patchwork held together by something more than nails and wood.

Everywhere he looked, landmarks rose from the landscape like a myth stitched onto reality: a white-marble arena carved into the ground; a dense forest stretching all the way to the sea, hiding a walled stone compound where metal clanged like a heartbeat; a distant lake gleaming too large to sit so close to the ocean, fed by a waterfall and crowned by a single massive pine.

Closer by, kids in orange shirts played volleyball in the sand, their laughter sharp and bright. Others wore black shirts with the Pegasus crest reversed, orange against dark. Across the yard, a colossal structure stood like a temple built out of a dozen others, its open-air halls full of campers bent over easels and worktables.

Percy’s gaze kept moving, and the details only grew stranger. The rock wall in the trees shifted, belching water and spitting lava between climbing holds. A trireme floated off the beach like a toy out of history class, manned by campers rowing in perfect unison. Warships with mounted ballistae bobbed at a dock nearby. In the arena, kids clashed with bronze swords, blades flashing. Arrows whistled into red-and-white targets. Satyrs worked alongside campers in the strawberry fields, while others jumped impossibly high in a basketball game that was more like flying than playing.

And then he saw the actual flying horses. That was the breaking point.

Percy forced himself to look down at his sandals scuffing across the porch planks. At least I’m not alone, he thought grimly, following Grover, who walked with the easy confidence of someone who belonged here.

They rounded another corner, and a greenhouse came into view—though calling it a greenhouse felt like an insult. The glass-paneled structure was grafted directly onto the house, framed with dark wood, sunlight spilling golden through its windows. Moisture clung to the panes, steaming the glass.

Grover held the door open, and Percy stepped into a rush of scents so thick they nearly knocked him back. Sweet, sharp, earthy, floral—every kind of smell layered together until it was dizzying.

Plants grew in every direction, spilling from pots and baskets, climbing trellises, hanging from the rafters in curtains of vine. Lavender brushed the air with calm. Bushes with glossy leaves overflowed their planters. Stranger flowers shimmered faintly, glowing or curling their petals as though they were aware of being watched.

At the center stood a wide wooden table on a mosaic floor. The tiles formed an image of a river winding through forest, so vivid Percy thought it might start flowing if he blinked.

Three people sat at the table.

Percy recognized one instantly: the blonde-brown-haired girl who had forced nectar into his mouth when he was barely conscious. She was hunched over a massive leather tome, scribbling notes in a school composition book like she was translating ancient Greek into math homework. She didn’t glance up.

Grover cleared his throat. “Chiron. Annabeth. Mr. D—Percy’s awake.”

Percy froze, like he’d just stumbled into the world’s weirdest poker game.

At the head of the table sat a man who looked like a parody of every bad vacation photo Percy had ever seen. He had curly black hair, a red nose, and the rounded belly of someone who never turned down a drink. His Hawaiian shirt was leopard print—eye-searingly loud—paired with clashing coral shorts and flip-flops. He smelled faintly of wine.

On the table in front of him lay a set of playing cards and a nearly empty bottle, with three more sitting in danger of toppling by his chair. He sipped from a crystal goblet like it was the middle of the night instead of broad daylight.

Across from him sat someone Percy knew. His heart stuttered.

“Mr. Brunner?”

The old man smiled at him warmly and intimately. "Percy, my boy, welcome." The voice was friendly, but Percy saw something in his eyes—a sparkle of knowing, the same expression Mr. Brunner had when he'd given Percy that pen-sword just before Mrs. Dodds had attempted to kill him.

Mr. Brunner—no, not Mr. Brunner, Percy reminded himself—turned back to the middle-aged man. "Well, now we have four for pinochle," he said genially, motioning for Grover and Percy to sit down.

Percy hesitated before taking the seat closest to the door, unobtrusively putting some distance between himself and the wine-soaked stranger. Grover, however, moved around the back of the table, sitting down between the middle-aged man and the girl Percy had seen earlier.

Introductions, then," Mr. Brunner started, nodding in the direction of the loud-shirted man. "Percy, this is Mr. D, our camp director. Mr. D, this is Perseus Jackson. Though he goes by Percy.

Mr. D sighed dramatically and swirled his wineglass, looking into it as if this entire conversation pained him physically. "Well, I suppose I have to say it," he drawled. Then, with a flourish, he threw his arms wide. 

"Welcome to Camp Half-Blood! Haven for the demigod, hero training ground, yadda, yadda, yadda."

Percy half expected wine to spill over the rim of the glass but, impossibly, somehow, it didn't.

Mr. D's stage presence abandoned him immediately, and he took an unenthusiastic sip before going on, "There. Don't look for me to be all excited that another one of you kids has wandered into my care."

"Pleasure," Percy said dryly, pushing his chair in toward Mr. Brunner—not Brunner, whoever.

Mr. Brunner-Chiron appeared to be suppressing a laugh but continued uninterrupted. "And this," he said, turning to the girl, "is Annabeth Chase. Cabin Six head counselor and five-year veteran of Camp Half-Blood. She, along with the healers of Cabin Seven, nursed you and Grover back to health."

Annabeth stepped forward, offering a handshake. Her handshake was strong, but her face was a different story altogether—like she was deciding his weight class, measuring his worth, and checking his pulse in a single motion.

Then, just as suddenly, the intense scrutiny vanished, replaced by a mischievous smile. “Check your cast," she said matter-of-factly, standing and gathering her things. "I'm going to get Luke ready for him and drop off my stuff before I show him around. Be back in a bit." And with that, she disappeared through a door behind Percy.

Percy scowled, glancing down at his arm, barely realizing until now that he even had a cast. It took a couple of seconds to decipher the words, his dyslexia making the letters run together, but eventually he made it out:

You drool when you sleep. Welcome to camp.

—Annabeth

Percy's face grew hot, but he suppressed it.

"So, Mr. Brunner," he started, trying to move on from the embarrassing note, "you work here? Like, summer job?

Mr. Brunner shook his head. “First of all, Mr. Brunner is a pseudonym—”

“A what?”

“A fake name,” Not-Mr. Brunner corrected. “You may call me Chiron.”

“Okay then, Mr. Chiron—”

“Just Chiron.”

Percy groaned. “Hey, I’ve had a long week. Let me ease into it.”

That brought a smile to Chiron's face and a laugh from Grover, although Percy noticed that his satyr friend was still sitting stiffly, a wary eye on Mr. D. What Grover needed to fear in the wine man, Percy had no idea. But seriously? Percy wasn't sure of anything now. His entire universe had been flipped upside down, shaken like a snow globe, and returned to him on the brink of explosion.

He was twelve. Which deity had this much beef with a twelve-year-old boy with learning disabilities and a talent for violence?

"Second and third," Chiron continued, undeterred, "come together. Yes, I do in fact work here, but not as a summer job. I am the Camp Activities Director, which means I manage the day-to-day activities."

"So I don't have to," Mr. D grumbled, topping off his glass with wine.

Percy ignored him. "So what were you doing at Yancy?"

Chiron considered his answer, though Percy could tell he wasn't revealing all. "I suppose you could call it a house call. I generally leave guarding and, if necessary, bringing in new campers to the satyrs. There are a few in each state, working as Keepers.". They look for children like you—ones with a parent from our world—and they watch over them, stepping in when they need to." He paused, taking a sip from the coffee cup in the cup holder of his wheelchair. "Grover here is one of our oldest Keepers—"

“More like the unluckiest,” Grover muttered.

Chiron gave him a pointed look—the kind that said don’t sell yourself short. “In fact, Grover has located three campers since 2008—”

Percy blinked. “You’ve been doing this since you were seven?”

Mr. D snorted into his cup. “He’s a satyr, Peery,” he slurred. A fresh bottle of wine had appeared in his hand, and he was already halfway through it.

“I’m twenty-seven,” Grover corrected. “I’ll be twenty-eight in September. Satyrs age half as quickly as humans.”

Percy’s head spun, but before he could process that, Chiron pressed on. “Grover worried you were attracting too much divine attention. So, we reached out to your mother and confirmed what he suspected—that you are one of us. Fascinating woman, your mother. A mortal who sees through the Mist so clearly…”

A lump formed in Percy’s throat, but Chiron didn’t pause. “Afterward, I arranged for your Latin teacher to take leave so that I could observe you myself.”

Percy had the hazy memory of another teacher—quiet, forgettable—but like so many strange things in his life, it slid away when he tried to focus on it.

“Are we playing or not?” Mr. D interrupted, shuffling cards with alarming dexterity for someone supposedly drunk. “Grover, you’re with me. Chiron, you can have Perry, or whatever his name is.” His wine-dark eyes fixed on Percy. For the first time, Percy noticed they weren’t simply dark but a deep purple with a faint red glint—like something smoldering beneath the surface. “Do you know pinochle, Pedro?”

“No,” Percy said, clipped. Something about Mr. D’s tone—his laziness, his drinking—set Percy’s teeth on edge. He’d seen men like this before.

Mr. D flung his hands skyward. “Pinochle is one of humanity’s crowning achievements! Alongside gladiator fights and Pac-Man. And it’s no, sir, boy.”

Percy ground his molars. “Last time someone demanded I say ‘no, sir,’ I got suspended. So let’s stick with no.”

Grover shifted uneasily, his eyes darting between them. And for a split second, Percy thought he saw a flare—like fire—deep in Mr. D’s gaze.

“The boy can learn,” Chiron interjected smoothly, and the tension dissolved.

Percy let out a shaky breath. He was fraying at the edges, barely holding himself together. “Please, Mr. Chiron,” he managed, voice breaking. “Why am I here? Why did you come to Yancy just to teach me?”

“I asked the same thing,” Mr. D muttered, swirling his wine.

Chiron ignored him, his expression kind but grave. “How much did your mother tell you?”

Percy’s throat tightened. Once he started talking, he couldn’t stop. “We didn’t have time. I wanted to tell her about Mrs. Dodds and those old ladies, but… I didn’t want to ruin our trip. Then Grover showed up, and everything happened so fast. The storm, the drive, then—the Minotaur.”

Mr. D perked up. “Ugly brute. One of my sons and a Demeter girl once shoved a pinecone up its backside—”

“And remember the Ares kid who kicked it in the death spot?” Chiron said absently.

“We do not mention her,” Mr. D grumbled.

Percy pushed through, his voice unraveling. “The lightning hit, the car crashed. Grover was out cold. My mom distracted the Minotaur while I dragged him toward the hill. She said monsters couldn’t cross the boundary. I thought if I went back, if I drew it off her—” His breath hitched. “But it already had her. She turned to smoke, and the ground just—swallowed her. And then I killed it. And got Grover here.”

Silence. When Percy finally looked up, Chiron and Mr. D were both studying him.

“Well,” Mr. D said at last, tossing down a card, “that’s quite an origin story.”

Chiron’s jaw tightened. “I suppose our usual orientation film will not suffice.”

But Percy barely heard them. His mother’s last words echoed in his head—that she might never see him again. He clenched his fists, trying to hold back the grief surging inside him. “She knew,” he rasped. “She knew this might happen.”

“Typical,” Mr. D said carelessly. “Many mortals end that way.” He shook his head as though it were a statistic, nothing more. Percy’s knuckles ached with the urge to punch him.

“Are you bidding or not?” Mr. D asked sharply.

“What?”

With a sigh, Mr. D rattled off the rules of bidding, filling in gaps with “blah, blah, blah” and at least four insults about Percy’s savage ignorance. Percy threw down a random bid just to shut him up.

Chiron seized the pause. “Percy, you’ve realized by now—magic is real. So are the gods. You’ve slain a Minotaur, and before that, a Fury. That is no small feat.”

Percy’s patience snapped. “So you’re saying the gods are real?”

Chiron nodded. “If you mean the God of Abraham, perhaps, though I’ve never met one of His servants. If you mean an omnipotent creator—” He shook his head. “That is beyond me. But the gods—lowercase ‘g’—exist. They are not all-powerful, but they are immortal, tied to the forces of the world. They are will and energy given shape.”

Percy couldn't wrap his head around that. It wasn't computing. So he went for the simplest response. "Okay? Like Zeus, Hera, and Apollo?"

Chiron nodded.

"But they were just myths—legends to explain stuff like lightning and the seasons. So… did the stuff not exist before the gods? Like, there was no winter before—uh—Persep-whatever-her-name-is got kidnapped?" He frowned. "How does science even work with all this?

For the first time, Mr. D actually looked up from his cards. “That’s the first good question I’ve heard at one of these.” His wine-dark eyes sharpened, the slur vanishing from his voice as he leaned forward. “It’s both.” He gestured lazily with his glass—somehow not spilling a drop. "The gods, magic, all of this—" he waved his hand in the air, "—is because mortals needed explanations for things before they understood how they worked. So, Hades and Persephone run off together—or he kidnaps her, or neither, or both. Demeter, in a tantrum, creates winter in her grief. This didn't really happen. Winter comes about due to the tilt of the Earth, not a domineering mother-in-law.". But—and here's the part that matters—they three remember it like it did. They can make it exist, bring it into the world. So in a way. both."

Chiron nodded. "Mortals make gods, monsters, and myths. And through collective memory—through sheer force of belief—those myths become real. That is what I meant when I spoke of the power of stories, Percy.".

Percy only heard about a fourth of that explanation. He stared numbly at his cards for a few minutes, letting the game distract him while his mind tried to process it all.

Then, finally, he said, "So why am I here?"

Mr. D sighed. "Di immortales, your mother didn't even get to that part? And Grover, you didn't tell him?"

Grover cringed and slumped in his seat.

Mr. D let out an exaggerated sigh and turned back to Percy. “You, Pippa, are here because of your…” He trailed off, then flicked a glance at Chiron.

Chiron took over. “Because your father—presumably—is one of the gods.”

Percy blinked. “Well, he’s not mine,” Mr. D muttered, taking another sip of his wine.

Percy gave him a skeptical look. “You’re a god?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

Suddenly, the purple fire in Mr. D's eyes flared, and Percy's vision exploded with images.

Vines slithered like serpents, curling around the throats of unbelievers, tightening until bone snapped and flesh ripped. They burrowed deep, tunneling into flesh, draining the last breaths of their victims.

Warriors clashed—spears splintering, swords slicing through armor, arrows tearing through the chaos. Cannons roared, bullets screamed, fists and clubs and a hundred weapons in a hundred thousand inebriated fists. Faces twisted in ecstasy and rage, intoxicated by the thrill of battle, the promise of slaughter.

And beyond the war, the revelers. Wild-eyed, unaware of their desire for more—more wine, more pleasure, more chaos. A feast of excess, never fulfilled.

On a storm-battered ship, sailors screamed as their bodies twisted, distorted—legs merging into tapering tails, hands dissolving into fins. They threw themselves over the side, driven by some unnatural urge, their rolling eyes bulging in terror as they plunged into the depths, no longer men, no longer human.

Percy's head shattered, envisioning himself thrashing against the padded walls of a rubber room, his head rebounding off the padding, a straitjacket closing around his arms.

"Are you an unbeliever?" Mr. D asked, his drunken slur gone, substituted by a frigid, cold poise.

Percy swallowed, shaking his head. "Just… surprised a god would wear those clothes," he stuttered involuntarily. The words spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he regretted them instantly. He hoped he had sounded curious enough not to offend.

Chiron coughed. "I think I win," he said into the thick silence, playing a straight.

No one spoke for a moment.

Mr. D read Percy, puffed, and waved his hand. The empty bottles on the floor and table vanished, only to be succeeded by another one. With a flick of his fingers, the cork popped out. He poured himself a generous glass, stood up, and stretched. Grover stood up too, fidgeting nervously with the hem of his shirt.

I'm going to sleep before the campfire. Good game, Chiron," Mr. D yelled, already heading toward the door Annabeth had left through. "Grover, come. We need to talk about your… less-than-stellar performance."

Something broke in Percy's mind. Leopards. Madness. Wine.

Dionysus.

As Mr. D—no, Dionysus—entered the house with Grover, Percy stared at Chiron, who was gathering up the cards and placing them in their box.

"Why is a god running a summer camp?"

Chiron hesitated, then sighed. "Zeus had a fling with a wood nymph back in the early 1950s. He lost interest but put her off-limits to anyone else. Dionysus didn't think he cared and courted her anyway. Zeus… wasn't pleased." He glanced in the direction of the door Dionysus had exited through. "As punishment, Dionysus was sentenced to community service.". Most of his essence will have to remain here until the 2050s sometime—unless Zeus excuses him sooner, but the possibility of that…" Chiron did not complete the thought.

Percy frowned. "Wait—Zeus is his father, isn't he? Isn't that weird? Dating your father's old flame?"

Chiron smiled. "In a mortal sense, I suppose. But when you're dealing with relationships between gods—or gods and mortals—you must remember this: gods are not related in the same way as humans. Gods do not have fixed biological forms. They are spiritual beings."

Percy scowled, trying to wrap his head around that.

“Demigods like yourself,” Chiron went on, folding his hands in his lap with the patience of a practiced teacher, “are not considered related unless the mortal parents are. While you may inherit certain traits from your divine parent—strength, temperament, the occasional unusual affinity—you are genetically as varied as the rest of humanity.”

Percy frowned. He wasn’t sure if that was supposed to make him feel better.

“In fact,” Chiron continued, leaning forward slightly, “we once dabbled in what mortals call DNA sequencing. A small project—nothing of great consequence. The magical component made the data… unpredictable, but what remained was remarkably extensive. Every demigod carried a unique mortal heritage. The gods themselves, of course, do not possess DNA. They are not biological beings in the way you are. There is no risk of genetic overlap, no… well, no danger of what mortals call inbreeding. The gods, socially and biologically, do not operate as family in the mortal sense. To them, the term incest is meaningless.”

Percy shifted in his chair, scratching at the armrest as heat crept up his neck. “Still. Kinda weird.”

Chiron’s mouth twitched, the closest thing Percy had seen to a smile since their conversation began. “You are not the first to raise the question. Camp life brings together young demigods from every cabin. It is natural for relationships to form. The only strict taboo is between those who share the same mortal parent. Beyond that…” He spread his hands. “It is no stranger than the union of two mortals from different families.”

Percy wasn’t convinced. His mind still spun with the idea of gods playing house—or not playing house, more like breezing in and out of mortal lives without care. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Still weird.”

Chiron let the silence hang for a moment, his eyes thoughtful, before he drew in a deep breath. Then something changed. He wheeled back from the table, his movements deliberate. Percy thought at first he was simply shifting in his chair, but then his frame began to stretch, his torso rising higher, his back broadening. His legs… weren’t legs anymore. The wheelchair dissolved around him, or maybe folded away into nothing, and what expanded in its place was a powerful equine body—chestnut brown, glossy even in the dim light of the rec room.

Percy staggered to his feet, heart hammering. “Y-you’re—” His brain scrambled for the word, the only one that fit. “You’re a centaur?”

Chiron shook out his new limbs, stamping once as if to ease the stiffness. “Yes.” His voice was calm, almost gentle, as though unveiling this truth was nothing more than pulling back a curtain.

Percy’s stomach dropped. He knew the myths, the names scrawled in old textbooks and half-remembered classroom stories. A realization hit him, sharper than the first. “Wait… are you the Chiron?”

The centaur inclined his head, mane catching the light as he moved. “Yes, Percy. I am Chiron, tutor of heroes, trainer of demigods since the age when mortals first dared name their gods. I have borne many names, but the duty remains the same.”

Percy’s mouth went dry. He wanted to laugh, to deny it, to say this was some elaborate prank—but the Minotaur’s death still lingered in his muscles, the scent of his mother’s vanishing still burned in his lungs. The world no longer allowed denial.

“Come,” Chiron said, already turning toward the door. His hooves struck the wooden floor with a rhythmic weight that made the air vibrate. “Annabeth should be returning soon. It is time you saw the camp with your own eyes.”

Percy followed, still reeling, his thoughts chasing each other like a whirlpool: Demigods. DNA. The gods don’t have families. And Chiron—the Chiron—is real.

He wasn’t sure whether to scream, laugh, or collapse.

Chapter Text

As Percy walked down the marble paths of Camp Half-Blood, he saw the cabins, each one of them filled with the personality of its patron god. Some resembled actual houses, some temples, and some a fantasy novel come to life. He was already getting accustomed to being at a genuine camp for demigods, but because he had hardly managed to reach here from the journey, he was not going to complain.

And there they were—Cabin One and Cabin Two. And while the others lined up neatly in rows, these two stood alone, reflected, and intimidating, as if to say, We were first, and we always will be.

Cabin One loomed above him, made of rough white marble with streaks of gold veins, so it appeared as if a storm in stone suspended. The walls were not smooth but rough, as if lightning had chiseled them out itself, and the pillars supporting the entrance were carved with bursts of electricity so vivid that, for a moment, Percy thought he could see them flash. Above the doors, an eagle whose wings were spread wide was carved into the stone, its eyes glinting as if it were aware that it was being looked at.

The air around the cabin was charged, like before a storm. The closer Percy got, the more hairs stood up on his arms. He couldn't tell if it was static or the sheer energy of the spot, but he didn't get any closer. Annabeth had told him that no one hung around here. That only made it look all the more inviolate, as though intruding without being invited would be to request a bolt of lightning from Olympus itself.

And then Cabin Two—Hera’s. Unlike Zeus’s storm-torn palace, this one was royal, unblemished, and abnormally silent. It was built of highly polished white marble, cold and smooth, with dark red and gold trim that glowed softly in the afternoon light. The doors had two columns to their sides, one covered in ivy and decorated with images of weddings, family gatherings, and thrones. The carvings were so detailed that Percy could almost hear the laughter from the feast scenes, almost smell the bread and honey from the offerings.

Above the double doors stretched a golden peacock, wings unfurled in an ornate display, each feather lined with a unique gemstone that shimmered even in the shade. Unlike Zeus’s eagle, which looked ready to dive for prey, the peacock only watched—regal, calm, and watchful, as though it was cataloging every detail and waiting to judge whether Percy belonged.

The cabin radiated power, but not the raw, volatile strength of Zeus. It was quieter, heavier, like the pressure of sitting in a grandmother’s parlor where every vase and cushion had its place. It was the kind of presence that made Percy want to fix his shirt, stand up straighter, and mind his manners, even though there wasn’t anyone around.

And yet, beneath the silence, there was something softer. The air carried a faint smell of roses and myrrh, warm and comforting, almost like a memory of home. It was as if the cabin itself was saying: Here, families are bound. Here, loyalty is honored. Here, even if you are not my child, you are expected to be cared for—and to care in return.

Annabeth had told him that no one lived here, that Hera wasn’t exactly renowned for being a demigod parent. And yet, looking at it, Percy thought it didn’t feel empty. It felt like a watchful guardian, a hearth left burning for children who never came home. Not inviting, exactly—but not rejecting either. A mother’s presence, stern and unyielding, but unwilling to let you forget that you were, in the end, still hers.

Percy took one last glance at the two cabins before following. The gods might not have lived here, but their presence was impossible to ignore.

Then he glanced down at his shirt—and stopped.

Wait. Did someone change it?

It definitely wasn't the same one he'd worn before. His brain grasped for an excuse, because for certain, he didn't remember changing shirts. The material was different, and the design—was that a dolphin in sunglasses?

Panic churned in his stomach. His pride.

Who had done this to him? He wasn't about to ask Annabeth—no way was he allowing her the pleasure. He could only hope it was Grover. Please, please let it be Grover.

Percy hoped he wasn’t blushing when Annabeth looked at him and pointed to the cabin before them.

“Cabin Three. Poseidon,” she said simply. “No one lives in this one, either, so like Hera’s, it’s sorta honorary.”

The cabin was different from the others, not just in its place, but in its very mood. Where Zeus’s loomed like a storm about to break, and Hera’s stood regal and unyielding, this one felt… patient. Ancient. It did not demand attention so much as invite it.

It was bigger than the rest of the huts, a two-story house perched on top of Greek columns that doubled as stilts, elevating it above a shiny pond. The pond itself looked like a strip of beach that had been kidnapped and deposited in the center of Camp Half-Blood. Patches of yellow sand lay in clumps between smooth black rocks, tide pools brimmed with small anemones, tiny darting fish, and bits of shell that glimmered like treasure. The water did not stay still. It rippled with a slow rhythm, as if replying to a tide only it could hear.

Seaweed and coral designs twined beneath the surface, swaying lazily, and some of them emitted a faint glow—pearlescent, otherworldly, like the kind of light Percy had only ever seen in aquariums. The air smelled strongly of salt and brine, closing around him with the intimacy of an old friend. He could almost hear gulls crying, waves rolling, the call of the sea—home and danger both.

The cabin itself was painted a soft baby blue with white trim, its wooden exterior weathered yet dignified, like something that had stood against sun and salt for years without faltering. It looked less like a camp building and more like an artifact—something Atlantis might have left behind, a reminder that the sea was as eternal as Olympus.

A lump formed in Percy’s throat. It was beautiful—beautiful in the way of the Montauk cottage his mother had rented summers past. He remembered her carefree, barefoot in the sand, smiling as she cooked pancakes in the cramped little kitchen, humming like she didn’t have the weight of the world on her. The sight of the cabin dragged that memory up so vividly that his chest ached. It was the last time he’d seen her happy before everything fell apart.

Percy swallowed hard and glanced at Chiron. His voice came out shakier than he meant.

“Mr. Chiron… when my mom—when she was distracting the Minotaur—she just… she dissipated. Into smoke. Grover guessed maybe that means she’s not… not actually dead, because the Minotaur doesn’t kill that way.”

Chiron’s expression darkened, the lines around his eyes deepening. Even Annabeth, who had seemed so brisk, so determined, shifted uncomfortably, her face softening with something almost like sympathy.

“I don’t know, my boy,” Chiron said at last, heavily. “Hard as it is to say, I would not recommend letting your hopes rise too high. But Grover is correct—what you describe is unusual. I will consult my library, see if there are records of such magic.”

Percy nodded, his throat tight. “Thanks. That was… that was all I needed to know.”

For a moment, he didn’t trust himself to look at either of them. He forced his gaze back to the cabin, but it only made his chest squeeze tighter. That was supposed to be his. His place. A home. Instead, it felt like a reminder of everything he had lost, and everything he wasn’t sure he was ready to claim.

He blinked hard and glanced back at Annabeth, guilt pinching at him for derailing the tour. “Sorry. You were saying?”

Annabeth hesitated, caught between recording the weight of the moment and moving forward. Finally, she only gave a small nod, then turned and gestured in the direction of the next cabin.

It was a disaster.

The entire building was a battle zone—literally. The low stone bunker sported the boar's head above its massive bronze doors, its glinting tusks streaked with what looked suspiciously like dried blood. The walls were red-painted, but not in that nice, newly-applied-paint sort of way; instead, it looked as though buckets of gore had been splattered on it and just left to dry.

A broad ditch—ten meters wide and full of an unholy number of spiked bronze swords—surrounded the cabin, and the lone entrance was a downward-sloping, steep descent. The terrain surrounding it was grass-clearced and flattened but not for cleanliness. Instead, it was scattered with barbed wire, bear traps, and what seemed like pressure-sensitive landmines but were probably cast. The roof was plated steel, and the walls at the top had narrow slits—kill slits, Percy realized. Like an old castle or something.

Annabeth sniffed. "Cabin Five," she said, not impressed. "Ares. One of the more active cabins. Typically a few dozen kids in a year."

Percy got the sense that something was amiss with the site. This was only confirmed when the doors to the cabin opened and several of the campers emerged.

They were led by a girl who towered over Annabeth. She had pale brown skin and curly brown hair pulled into a disheveled bun. She was a tank of a girl—broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a fighting stance that screamed, challenge me, I double dare you. She looked to be about fourteen but stood a towering six feet tall.

Over her shoulder she had slung a huge, unstrung metal bow—larger than any bow Percy had ever laid eyes on. He wasn't even sure how anyone could possibly bend it to string it, but she did so with ease. She stuck one end of the bow in the ground, looped the string over the top, and pulled. The metal legs bent as if they were constructed of air, and the string buzzed taut with a whang. She pulled on it carefully, casually, and continued.

Okay. We're half-fucking-god, Percy said to himself.

Chiron looked up at the sky, suddenly alarmed. “Oh, I’m late too,” he said, his voice tight with surprise. His expression immediately shifted to anxious. “Annabeth will give the tour. I’m giving an archery lesson.”

He smiled politely at Percy, then trotted away toward the archery range, hooves thudding against the packed earth.

Percy and Annabeth walked a little farther until they stopped in front of the next cabin.

“Cabin Seven,” Annabeth announced, her tone carrying something like reverence. “Apollo.”

The cabin was… dazzling. Not intimidating like Zeus’s storm-wrought fortress, not heavy with silence like Hera’s marble shrine, but alive. It looked like a blend of a Greek temple and a Malibu dream home, all shiny white rock and dark wood, ancient lines softened by modern warmth. Carvings ran along the walls, intricate depictions of the sun in its many phases—blazing, rising, setting—interspersed with images of archers, lyres, and healers.

Huge windows dominated the structure, angled to catch every possible angle of the sunlight, so they seemed to blaze with gold. The set of double doors was polished wood, a radiant golden sun cut into the center as if it had burned its way through. A golden harp was built into the porch itself, its strings shimmering faintly in the heat. When the wind stirred, the strings gave off the faintest, otherworldly music—like laughter made sound.

Warmth radiated from the place, not suffocating like heat on asphalt, but the kind of warmth you felt when you sat by a campfire or stood in a sunbeam after rain. Percy blinked, realizing for the first time that the cut on his arm didn’t sting as much anymore. Just standing here felt healing.

“So these guys repaired me and Grover?” Percy asked.

A voice behind him answered with easy confidence. “Sure did.”

Percy turned. A tall Black teen, maybe sixteen, stood there. His dreadlocks caught the sun in bronze-tipped strands, and his gold-colored eyes seemed to glow faintly, like twin candle flames. He smiled wide and extended a hand.

“Lee Fletcher. Head Counselor of Apollo Cabin. My brother Michael and I stitched you up, and our sister Erin watched over you and Grover.”

Percy took his hand, startled by the firm, reassuring grip. “Percy Jackson. Thanks, man, for that. Grover got bonked on the head with my water bottle during the crash—knocked him out cold.”

Lee winced, tilting his head. “Oof. That’s crappy, dude. I was trying to piece together how he got the head wound. I knew it was blunt trauma, but a water bottle?”

Percy shrugged sheepishly. “It was metal. And our car rolled, like, ten times.”

Lee shook his head in disbelief. “Still. Lugging Grover all the way here after that? That’s impressive.” His gaze flicked to the wooden box Percy was carrying. His voice dropped, curious. “Speaking of impressive—what’s with the Minotaur horn?”

Percy stumbled over his words. “Uh… I killed the Minotaur,” he managed, opening the box.

Lee gazed at the horn, then back at Percy, then at Annabeth, as if weighing whether this was a joke. When he decided it wasn’t, his face split into incredulous awe.

“Fuck me,” Lee muttered. “That’s insane.”

Percy barely had time to swallow that before Lee leaned in, dropping his voice into something conspiratorial. “Listen, dude. Word of advice? Let the horn slide. There are campers out there who’d kill for the chance to murder Asterion.”

Percy frowned, confusion tightening his face. “Wait. Would ? I think I murdered him.”

Lee’s jaw set. He gave a small, bitter growl. “Monsters don’t die, Jackson. They respawn in Tartarus, crawl their way out through the Underworld, and return. The Minotaur’s been killed dozens of times before—Theseus, other demigods… even one of Mr. D’s kids shoved a thyrsus up his rear a few centuries ago. Didn’t stick.”

Percy’s stomach dropped like a stone. So the Minotaur would come back. Terrific.

Lee stepped back, brushing off the heaviness of his words with an easy grin. “Anyway—nice meeting you, Percy. Good luck on tour.” He nodded toward Annabeth. “Tell Luke I said hi.”

And with that, he turned, strolling off toward the range, the sunlight catching in his eyes until Percy couldn’t tell where Lee ended and the daystar began.

When the boy vanished around the bend in the path, Percy turned to Annabeth. “He’s okay, I suppose.”

Annabeth sighed, but it wasn’t dismissive—it was heavy, like she was holding back something she didn’t want to share. “If only he was nice enough to accept my offer.”

Percy’s brow furrowed. “What offer?”

Annabeth didn’t reply. She only pressed her lips together, eyes flicking away, and then pointed down the hill.

“Cabin Nine,” she called. “Hephaestus. Head Counselor—Charles Beckendorf.”

The cabin looked like someone had dropped a small brownstone factory into the middle of camp. It was squat, broad-shouldered, with iron-riveted walls and soot-stained brick, as if it had been pulled straight out of an industrial district. Four great smokestacks jutted from the roof. But instead of billowing black smoke, they released something far stranger.

One let out a clear, faintly white gas that undulated like soap bubbles, breaking the sunlight into rainbows that shifted across the grass. It didn’t rise fast like normal smoke, but drifted lazily, curling around itself in hypnotic spirals before fading away. Another stack gave off a ten-meter-high pillar of what looked like pure, unyielding white fire, silent and steady, evaporating into nothing at its peak like a ribbon cut from the sky. A third gave off sparks of molten bronze that vanished before they hit the ground, each flash accompanied by a faint metallic chime. The last stack… simply exhaled steam, but it smelled faintly of oil and cedar wood, and Percy swore he heard the hiss shape itself into half-formed words.

“What in the world is this?” Percy blurted, craning his neck back until it hurt.

Annabeth followed his gaze, her brow creasing. “The flame-looking one is Harpocratian Fire,” she said at last. “No clue what they’re using it for. And no clue about the rainbow gas, either.”

Percy gaped. “Aren’t you worried about, like… pollution?”

Annabeth shook her head briskly. “Not here. There are too many nature spirits around. Any impurity burns itself away in three minutes. It actually purges most non-magical illnesses out of the air, too. You’ll notice almost no one at camp ever catches colds.”

Percy blinked at her. “That… is way better than Montauk.”

But Annabeth was already leading him on, her finger stabbing toward the largest, rowdiest structure in sight.

“This,” she declared, “is the cabin of Hermes. Or, if you prefer—Hotel Hermes. That’s where the unclaimed campers stay.”

Percy looked up at it and nearly laughed, because the building looked like someone had scooped up an ancient Greek temple, thrown it together with the Burrow from Harry Potter, then set a gang of morally questionable adolescents loose inside. The white marble pillars had been turned into canvases, covered in graffiti—some in Ancient Greek, some in English, and some pure nonsense. ( CAUTION: Do Not Open Pandora’s Fridge ).

A battered bronze mailbox slouched near the door, with a crooked note taped across the front: Got Mail? Maybe Not. Hermes is Busy.

Warm golden light spilled through the open windows, and the air was alive with sound—shouting, laughter, a crash that definitely meant something just broke, and the rattle of what sounded suspiciously like someone haggling a deal.

Percy shifted nervously, clutching the straps of his backpack as Annabeth nudged him inside.

The chaos doubled. The cabin was a whirlwind of activity. Campers sprawled across battered couches playing cards, while others huddled at a shaky poker table, dealing fast and loud. Some were negotiating in a corner over goods Percy couldn’t identify—was that a crate of fireworks, or… snakes? Hammocks were strung between stacks of bunk beds, forming a makeshift jungle gym where kids scrambled and swung like monkeys.

Against the far wall leaned a haphazard pile of confiscated weapons—half celestial bronze, half mortal steel—topped with a corkboard plastered in IOUs, half-finished maps, and scribbled notes. A poster in red ink read: WANTED: TRAVIS AND CONNOR STOLL. FOR BEING THEMSELVES.

The entire room buzzed with unrepentant chaos.

Percy swallowed. “This place is… wow.”

Percy had no moment to absorb everything when his gaze fell on the figure in the center of the room.

He was older than Percy had pictured—not older, really, but adult.

Most likely nineteen or twenty, with a fox's face and a lazy, knowing smile. His dark blond hair had been thrown around with no effort at all, and he shuffled a deck of cards through his fingers like a pro, never glancing down. There was something about him—a something in the way that he stood, in the way that he looked around the room without ever really looking around—which implied that he was the one who was in control of the situation. Not bossy, but the kind of control that others simply accepted without having it told to them. Percy jumped on Annabeth, prepared to interrogate her about who he was—when he noticed her ears start to pink up. She sniffed away and coughed.

“That’s Luke,” Annabeth said, her voice too deliberately relaxed, like she was warning Percy not to read too much into it.

“Hermes cabin counselor.”

Luke’s head jerked up at the sound of his name. His grin widened when his eyes landed on them, sharp and easy at the same time.

“Ah, you must be Percy.”

Something materialized in the palm of his hand as if he’d plucked it straight out of the air. He tossed it at Annabeth with a casual flick of his wrist.

“Have a nice visit to Hotel Hermes. Enjoy the chaos.”

Percy glanced down. It was an ancient brass key, edges worn soft with use, the handle shaped into a tiny winged sandal.

He didn’t have long to process before something else snagged his attention—Luke’s hand. More specifically, the ring on his finger.

It was plain, star-bronze, unassuming. Except when Luke shifted his hand. A faint scratch along the rim slid open like a seam, and from inside the band a key unfolded—small, sharp, solid. With the flick of his thumb, Luke folded it back, so quick and fluid it was as if it had never been there.

It wasn’t a ring. It was every key in one.

Percy’s stomach flipped. There was something deeply wrong about one person holding the ability to open every locked door in a place like this.

Luke either didn’t notice Percy’s discomfort, or he chose not to. His smile never faltered. He clapped Percy on the back, friendly and firm enough to sting, and steered him toward the heart of the cabin.

“I’ll show you around. If you’re going to be here for any stretch of time, might as well know what you’re in for.”

And only then did Percy realize just how massive the Hermes cabin truly was. From the outside, it had looked like a rowdy bunkhouse. Inside, it was closer to a small city.

“Front room,” Luke said, rapping the bulletin board with his knuckles, “is the lounge. That’s where we hang out, gamble, plot world domination. If we’re feeling particularly ambitious—which is basically never—we clean up after ourselves.” He smirked, then tipped his chin at a vending machine wedged into the corner, blinking faintly with mismatched lights. “That’s our de facto snack bar. Don’t ask where the snacks come from. You really don’t want to know.”

Percy wisely didn’t.

Luke was just warming up when two identical boys seemed to materialize at his elbows, grinning like cats who had already stolen the canary.

“Ahh,” Luke sighed, though there was no heat in it. “And, speaking of shady business dealings—Travis and Connor Stoll. Our very own in-house businessmen. Professional headaches, part-time criminals.”

The twins gave an elaborate bow in perfect sync, one hand each pressed dramatically to their chests, the other already fishing through Luke’s pockets for loose drachmas.

Luke swatted them away with practiced ease, but his grin lingered.

Travis rapped Percy on the arm in a friendly kind of way. "You're new, isn't it? We offer full cabin service—laundry, making up beds, snack service—"

"For a fee," Connor finished with a smooth voice.

Percy's eyebrow went up. "And if I don't pay?"

Travis grinned. "Then we get paid another way."

"Screw off, you two," Luke swore, pushing them aside. The Stolls exchanged a sheepish glance before dissolving into the crowd.

Luke stopped in front of Percy once more. "Anyway. Where was I?

He led Percy through the common room and down a long corridor of doors. Some were open, revealing individual sanctums—a room packed with posters of legendary thieves, another with pilfered celestial bronze swords. Every door was unique, some stickered, others inscribed with threats by hand (DO NOT ENTER UNLESS YOU WANT TO BE PRANKED FOR LIFE).

“If you’ve got a room, that means you’re either here for the long haul or you’ve earned it,” Luke explained. He stopped in front of a door with a plain brass doorknob. “And you, my friend, have a roommate.”

Percy glanced at the nameplate beside the door: Ethan Nakamura.

"He's been around a week longer than you," Luke continued. "He's a loner. Don't go messing around with his belongings if you don't want to get knifed."

"Glad to hear it," Percy growled.

Luke hit him on the back again, grinning. "You'll be fine. If you need something, just ask. Or, you know, bribe someone. That works pretty well."

The group continued walking and arrived at room 306. Luke knocked on the door and called, “Hey, Ethan, your new roommate is here,”

Percy shook his head uncertainly, still adjusting. The movement, the energy in this room—it was too overwhelming, but somehow alive.

He looked over at Annabeth, hoping for some final word of warning, but she was stiff, eyes slightly too fixed on the wall, cheeks slightly too red.

Percy's scowl deepened. Did they both just—?

No. Must've been the light.

Chapter Text

There was some shuffling inside the room before the door opened, revealing a boy around Percy’s age. He was Asian—Japanese, Percy guessed—which fit with his name. His black hair was cut short with mullets, and his dark reddish-brown eyes studied Percy with quiet calmness. For a moment, Percy thought he could see a flicker of wariness in those eyes, like Ethan was measuring him before deciding if he was friend or foe.

He stepped aside, motioning for them to enter. “Hey,” he introduced himself, “I’m Ethan Nakamura. I’m new this year too.”

Percy held out his hand as he passed, and Ethan shook it. “Percy Jackson. I got here last night.”

Ethan nodded and gestured around the room. It was lightly furnished: a bunk bed against one wall, an empty bookcase, and a couple of locker-like cupboards at the end of the bed. The bottom locker was open, its bronze shutter rolled up, with some clothes inside. A half-packed backpack lay beside it, straps frayed from travel. The room held the sole personal touches in the shape of a photo of a man on the bookshelf and a burning incense vase, its faint trail of smoke curling toward the ceiling, filling the air with a woody, grounding scent that reminded Percy of temples he’d seen on TV.

Annabeth stepped forward and offered her hand. “Annabeth Chase, Athena Cabin Head Counselor, Cabin Six. I’ll let you two get settled down—I need to talk to Luke.” She ducked into the hallway for a second before facing Percy again. “It’s three-ten. Meet me in the lobby in fifteen minutes, and we’ll have time to finish the tour before dinner.”

Percy nodded, and Annabeth left. Luke slapped his palms together grinning. “Well, go on, you two. I’m going to go get yelled at.” He said this playfully before sliding out and closing the door.

Percy walked back over to Ethan. Not quite sure what to say, he asked, “Did you decide on a bunk?”

Ethan shook his head, still focused on unpacking. “Either one’s fine.”

“Okay, I’ll get the top, then, if that’s okay.” Percy walked over to the lockers, tracing a hand across the bronze shutter. “Do we need to use our room key on these?”

Ethan smiled and stepped aside so Percy could retrieve the top locker. “Thanks,” Percy replied, unlocking the shut door and inserting the Minotaur horn inside before shutting the door again. The lock clicked in place with a sound that felt more final than it should have—like closing the chapter on everything that had happened before Camp.

As Percy climbed the bunk ladder, Ethan remarked, “If you don’t mind me asking… why don’t you have anything with you?”

Percy fell onto the mattress with a sigh. He really didn’t feel like explaining it, but if he was going to become friends with someone, this was as good a place to start as any.

“My Satyr Keeper, Grover, was driving my mom and me here when we were ambushed. Our car wrecked, and the monsters overtook us. I managed to get Grover across the border, but… my mom didn’t survive.” His throat closed up. “It happened too fast. I didn’t have time to pack anything. Not even my overnight bag.”

There was a silence before Ethan broke it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, but… my dad got into jail last week. Monsters got him while my Keeper, Mr. Hedge, was taking me to the airport.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavier than the incense smoke. Percy sat up, blinking. He hadn’t expected Ethan to share something so personal, so fast. It was the kind of honesty that cut straight through awkwardness and walls, leaving behind only the sharp sting of grief.

For a few heartbeats, neither of them moved. They just sat there, two strangers in a cabin that didn’t yet feel like home, bound by the kind of losses that other kids would never understand.

Finally, Percy muttered, “Guess we’re both starting with nothing, then.”

Ethan gave a short, quiet laugh. Not mocking—more like he was relieved someone else understood. He zipped his backpack shut and leaned back against the bottom bunk, eyes fixed on the smoke rising from the incense. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Nothing but what we can carry now.”

Percy turned his head to gaze at the bookshelf. "The picture?"

Ethan followed the direction of his stare and nodded. "Yeah. He wasn't a saint, but he always paid his debts. Take care of me. I respected that."

Percy rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "This is depressing. Favorite color?"

Ethan let out a gentle laugh. "Red. I know, cliche answer."

Percy grinned. "Mine's plain too—blue." He stopped. "My mom and I had this thing about blue food. She colored everything blue for me. I loved blue chocolate chip cookies."

Ethan’s locker clicked shut. “That sounds like Cookie Monster’s love child.”

Percy chuckled. “Well, if you love cookies that much, why don’t you marry them?” he said in an exaggerated, deep voice.

He heard Ethan flop onto the bottom bunk. “So… are you Unclaimed or what?”

“Unclaimed,” Ethan replied. “You?”

“Same.”

A quiet stretched between them before Ethan asked, “What do you think your godly parent is?”

Percy took a deep breath, thinking. “No idea. My mom’s one of the nicest people I know, so I can’t see it being Ares or Dionysus. Maybe Apollo… or Hermes?”

“Why not Zeus, Poseidon, or Hades?”

“They’re not allowed to have kids, right?”

Ethan shook his head. “Just because they usually obey doesn’t mean they all do. There was this girl, five years ago—Zeus’s kid.”

Percy’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. So there’s always a chance.”

Percy rolled toward the bed railing, leaning over to look at Ethan. “But they swore their oath on the Styx—or that’s what Annabeth told me. The way she explained it, it sounded like the oath was magic or something.”

Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s just what I heard from two of Hermes’s kids—Travis and Connor, I think.”

Percy went quiet for a moment, chewing on it. “Poseidon then,” he said finally. Strangely, it felt right saying it out loud. “My mom met him at the beach, whoever he was, and her story was that he died at sea. That’s all I’ve got. She never told me anything else.”

Ethan stayed quiet as Percy swung back into the bunk and lay down. “Don’t you think it’s kind of unfair?” he asked after a moment. “All the Unclaimed kids shoved into Cabin Eleven, and the minor gods’ kids too?”

“Yeah,” Percy agreed. “The gods seem like… pricks, honestly. Just statues of themselves, making kids and leaving them behind.”

“Coach Hedge explained it like this to me: the gods stay away from their kids because contact with magic makes it easier for monsters to find us.”

“I guess that makes sense, and around puberty, we start to get this scent or whatever on our own, so—Camp Half-Blood.”

“Still seems wrong. Why wouldn’t they just show up themselves to grab their kids? I get the feeling a god would be better protection than a satyr,” Ethan replied.

“Yeah… Annabeth mentioned some Ancient Laws that control them, though. Maybe that’s why they don’t or can’t.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions to defend them.”

Percy was silent for a while. He spoke slowly. “My mom and I had a hard life; my stepdad is an asshole. I guess I just resent the guy not being a part of my life and hope he might be better.”

Ethan was silent for a moment as well. Percy stared at the ceiling a few feet above him, trying to unknot his emotions without collapsing entirely.

“My dad was an obsessive jerk,” Ethan suddenly announced. “His parents were killed years before I was born. I don’t know how, just that it was murder. My dad spent every day from their death until his own looking for their killer. He never said it, but I think they were involved in organized crime, so my dad’s revenge killed a lot of people. I don’t resent my mom, whoever she is—I know how unstable my dad was. But I resent him. I love him and hate him for being there and not being there. I could never ask my dad for help with homework, but when there was a shootout in our apartment building, he covered me with his body, got me to a safe place, then left to get revenge.”

“He sounds like a badass when you put it like that,” Percy commented.

“He was a drunk, obsessed with guns,” Ethan replied bitterly. “He spent most of his life locked in his study, planning whatever it was he did trying to avenge my grandparents. The rest of the time, he would vanish for weeks at a time. I never knew if he was alive or dead until I would come home from school and he’d be in the living room with another beer and half-healed wounds. Then he wouldn’t talk to me about how he got them—just yell at me if I asked.”

Percy thought about that. He couldn’t equate anything in his life to those sorts of feelings.

Ethan barked a laugh. “We’ve known each other for what, five minutes, and here I am telling my life story. Which I’ve never told anyone.”

Percy replied after a thoughtful moment. “I’ve spent the last six years in six different schools. I get kicked out for being disruptive, violent, and getting terrible grades. I always resented my mom for sending me away, and hated myself for that, because she worked so hard just for me to fuck it up every time. Every year, another boarding school while she worked another dead-end job, slaving away to keep my stepdad mildly happy.” He recalled and forged onward when his voice broke.

“Summers were just the worst. Listening to him get drunk with his friends, playing poker in the living room. I had to stay so fucking quiet when my mom was out of the house or he’d beat me, and I could never tell her. I just told her I got in another fight… I knew she was trapped with him, and I couldn’t take it if she worried even more about me.” Percy confided and had to hold back tears. “There—” he said with a half-forced laugh, “—now we’ve both overshared.”

They were both silent for a long time. Then Ethan asked, “How many more kids here do you think have these sorts of pasts?”

Percy laughed. “A lot.” Then he sat up. “Well, trauma dumping aside, tell me about yourself. We did colors—do you have any hobbies?”

“...I like DnD.”

“Okay. I’ve never played. Text stuff would probably get fucked up by my dyslexia.”

“That’s true. How are you with numbers?”

“Not great. You don’t have dyslexia?”

“No, and I never got diagnosed with ADHD, though my teachers suspected as much. How about you, hobbies?”

“Skateboarding. I had a cheap board at my apartment. It was fun.”

“Was?”

“No way am I ever going back there. I’ll get a new board when I can afford it—not like it’s worth the trip home. As for fighting… I wouldn’t exactly call it a hobby, more of a survival skill at this point. I’ve always had a big mouth and no filter—zero impulse control. If I think something, I say it, and that tends to rub people the wrong way. I can’t even count how many times I’ve pissed someone off without meaning to, and half the time, it ends with me getting punched. At some point, I figured I should probably learn how to hit back.

A few years ago, I stumbled into this local boxing gym that was offering free trial classes for kids. I only went because I had nothing better to do, but the guy running the place—old dude, tough as nails—saw something in me, I guess. He let me stick around, train for free, even taught me the basics. Before I knew it, I wasn’t just doing boxing. He started throwing in MMA stuff—Muay Thai, Jiu-Jitsu, wrestling, the works. Wrestling’s not really my thing, though. Short guys like me don’t exactly have the best time with takedowns.

Still, I picked things up pretty fast. Maybe it’s the ADHD, maybe it’s just desperation, but I learned to fight by necessity. I’ve only been training seriously for two summers, but at this point, it feels less like something I do and more like something I need to know. Just in case.”

“Maybe I rant a little too much,” continued Percy.

“What, like Jiu-Jitsu?”

“And Muay Thai, boxing, wrestling—though I suck at the last one.”

“Well, you are short. No offense.”

Percy stuck his head over the railing and gave Ethan a cartoonishly aghast expression. “I am insulted! Domean—domean—” Percy cut off. What was that word again?

“Demeaned?” Ethan supplied, and Percy nodded his thanks, then resumed his act.

“Demeaned! I demand satisfaction, sir! A duel!” he concluded with thespian fervor before ducking back while Ethan laughed softly. “Anyway, I should probably go meet Annabeth downstairs and finish the tour.”

“Have you seen the climbing wall yet? It’s got lava.” Ethan continued.

“It has wha?”

“Yeah i know crazy right”

“super”

“anyways “ ethan started giggling, “are you aaron burr sir”

“ that depends on who asking”

The lava was on the climbing wall.

Percy stood gaping at the hundred-meter cliff, its dozens of colored routes disappearing into the smoke above. The walls loomed over a lake of molten rock, embers spiraling into the air. Sections of the wall shifted constantly, flowing and reassembling in a hypnotic, terrifying rhythm. Every few minutes, the left and right sides collided, blocks from bottom to top smashing together with a thunderous clang.

“There’s no way you actually let people climb that,” Percy said, his voice a mix of awe and panic.

“Yeah, we do,” Annabeth replied, unbothered. “This is the hardest difficulty. There’s a control panel on the platform, though. I’ve climbed it loads of times. Watch.”

Her gaze followed a black teen with massive arms and a crew-cut, wearing an orange Camp shirt and athletic shorts, as he scrambled up the wall. Every time he grabbed a handhold or foothold, he launched himself upward, almost as if he were pitching himself skyward.

He was about two-thirds of the way up when the blocks began colliding, molten lava spouting from hidden ducts as if the natural heat weren’t enough. Percy’s stomach lurched. The handholds grew smaller; the boy’s pace faltered.

For a moment, it looked like he’d be crushed. Blocks slammed on all sides, groaning under the pressure. Then, impossibly, he dropped from the wall and sprawled in an X, each arm and leg bracing against the colliding blocks. The oncoming walls pressed in, but he held firm. When the blocks finally released him, he slumped downward, the harness around his waist catching him just in time. He decelerated until he hovered inches above the metal platform jutting into the lava pit.

With a shove of his legs, he landed on the platform and ripped free the harness. Percy exhaled, a mix of relief and amazement.

The boy turned toward them, face lighting up when he saw Annabeth. “Hey,” he called.

Annabeth waved back.

The guy was bigger than Percy had estimated. He was fourteen or fifteen, with a close shave and black hair. His skin was chocolate brown with perspiring all over his body.  Okay, he did climb a lava-spewing rock wall, Percy told himself. The guy was a bit over six feet tall, with well-muscled arms and a barrel chest.

He turned to Percy, “Hi, I’m Charles Beckendorf, you’re the new kid that came in last night, right?” 

Percy stuck out a hand, “Yeah, Percy Jackson,”

Charles took deep breaths and spread his calloused hands, "I'd shake but I'm drenched," Percy nodded and tried not to let his embarrassment show as Charles continued, "I'm Head Councelor for the Hephestus Cabin, so if you need anything made I'm probably the guy to talk to, well, either me or Annabeth,"

Percy turned, "I thought your mom was a wisdom goddess, and war?"

"And craftsmanship. Charlie is one of the finest machinist and blacksmith in Camp, maybe the world unless you count the gods."

Charles lifted his hands, obviously flustered by the compliment, "I'm handy at hammering metal into handy shapes," He diverted, "By the way I managed to get the prototypes done, Annabeth,"

Annabeth's expression brightened, "Quenched and tempered,"

"Three times a piece, with the materials you sourced out,"

"I'll stop by the forges later and get them. The sheaths are near enough complete so the whole should take no longer than what? Two days before the full moon appears?"

Charles nodded, and Annabeth let her gaze slip loose in an expectant, starved smile as she looked past him into some inner place. She jerked herself out of it a few seconds later, coming back into the moment. "So basically, you decided to give it a try.".

Charles's panting breaths finally tapered as he gazed over his shoulder, "I figured I could get here, I wiped out all the other modes yesterday, but I guess I am out of practice."

Percy and Annabeth bid farewell and pressed on with the tour, spotting the amphitheater where Annabeth mentioned that the evening campfire was and the tiny lake where Percy witnessed some teenage girls underwater, engaged in a game of go-fish. "Naiads, they are awful flirts. If you encounter them off of Camp it's a toss-up whether or not they will kiss you or drown you if you get to close," Percy gave them a wide berth when they smiled at him.

In the arts and crafts pavilion, the demented chaos of Greek temples Percy had glimpsed from The Big House was crowded with children sketching, painting, carving photorealistic statues, or simply conversing.

Heading west, back toward the Cabins and the dining pavilion. Annabeth continued pointing out small things as they walked, introducing him to some of the Campers. As they were passing by the outhouse near the dining pavilion, Percy could hear a raspy female voice call out

"Not gonna introduce the newbie to me? Annie-beth,

Annabeth let out a sigh and turned toward the voice. It was the massive light-skinned girl Percy had seen coming out of the Ares Cabin earlier.

“Clarisse,” Annabeth said in a slightly dead, slightly exasperated voice, “We have an entire camp here, and you’ve decided to hang out behind the outhouse?” Annabeth asked in a slightly mocking tone.

“Like you’re one to talk, this place smells like ass, sure, but  I  don’t spend all day kissing Chiron’s,”

Annabeth’s jaw clenched slightly, “How’s your spear arm,” She said, venom rising, “Still sore after yesterday,”

Clarisse’s smile was cold, not reaching her eyes, “Well enough to run you through friday night,”

" Erre es korakas, bitch. You might have a chance on a warm day in Hades," Annabeth retorted, and Percy miraculously understood the curse as going to the crows, though it carried more weight than most of the insult-slinging Percy had engaged in. As if the age of the curse had given it weight. The last part seemed backward to Percy, but what did he know? Maybe The Underworld was cold.

"Who do you have? We have Dionysus, Demeter, Aphrodite, and Hephaestus. You don't have a chance,"

"I have my brother Apollo and Hermes. That's a lot of corpses to wade through, Clarisse, and I don't know if anyone can handle the range disadvantage," Annabeth sneered, crossing her arms. Percy could have sworn Clarisse's eye flickered.

"Apollo?"

Annabeth shrugged. “Lee told me this morning,” she mentioned casually, and the realization apparently made Clarisse nervous enough to change subjects. “Who’s the new runt?” she barked at Percy.

“Percy Jackson.” Annabeth said with a nod in his direction, “Percy, meet Clarisse La Rue, daughter of Ares,”

"Ares?" Percy asked, really a bit apprehensive. Charles had been Hephestus's son and had climbed that wall with ease. Even if it had finally caught up to him, Percy didn't want to know what the son of an actual war god was capable of. He hoped his nervousness didn't betray him, but clearly, attempting to conceal it was a mistake.

“Got a problem, little shit?” Clarisse snarled, and Percy, without thinking, spat back, his old instincts coming into play at the worst time as the little comments in his head came out in a flood.

“No, it just explains the smell,” Percy volleyed back. 

Clarisse’s eyes narrowed, “Smell?” But Percy didn’t notice. He was on a roll.

"You just smell like a pig, isn't that Ares's favorite animal? No, boar," Percy recalled, snapping his fingers as he remembered the god's sacred animal.

Clarisse's brow furrowed, "We got an initiation for newbies,  Prissy ,

“Percy.” He corrected without hesitation, his train of thought spewing out with no filter. “I don’t know why people keep messing that up today. I didn’t think a god would be as dumb as some girl who cuts off her sleeves to compensate for her lack of brains,”

Percy barely saw the punch coming and stepped back, the cold realization of what he had been saying coming back to him.  Ah, wouldn’t it be nice if it was just some kid two grades above me, now I’m gonna die to a WWE reject. 

Percy’s right fist came up, his left still in the cast, as he leaned back to dodge another haymaker.

Ducking down, Percy came into Clarisse's guard and threw a straight punch for her gut, which was when his hand hit iron. He recoiled, feeling as though he'd just punched bricks. Clarisse moved like the wind. She kneed Percy in the gut, grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and lifted him off the ground like a duffel bag. Percy was so shocked. The breath was knocked out of him by the blow; he did nothing for a moment as Clarisse strode toward the outhouse and threw open the door, tossing Percy inside and letting his face skid on the tile floor. I’m getting ten diseases from that, Percy thought to himself as he realized Annabeth was shouting at Clarisse, “He just got here today, Clarisse, knock it off-”

"Fucker called me a name," Clarisse snarled as her fist wrapped around Percy's shirt once more.

She scooped him up, and this time, Percy fought, but Clarisse just wrestled him into an empty stall. In characteristic ADHD, Percy paid attention to the little things: the trash can was full of stale paper towels, the mirrors had scratched notes on them, and one stall door hung off its hinges. Aren't the gods able to afford more comfortable outhouses? The thought flashed into and out of Percy's head in an instant.  As his legs were shoved out from under him and Clarisse started to push his face against the toilet, another thought struck him. Shit, shit, shit!

Percy's mind shrieked.  He dared not open his mouth that close to the water. In a moment of panic, Percy realized that someone hadn’t flushed, and the acrid smell of piss and bad Mexican food was wafting up toward him. A few brown things sat in the water as he struggled against the toilet. SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! Percy scratched the walls, the floor, and the toilet itself, his still hurting left arm throbbing in pain, but Clarisse was ten, most likely twenty, times stronger than him and slowly pushed his head down. When the tip of Percy's nose hit the water, he experienced a pulling in his stomach, the same as when he had "pushed" Nancy Bobofit in December. As if he had just dropped on a roller coaster. A roar came through the pipes, and a bubble burst beside Percy's face before the toilet blew up.

The stinking contents of the bowl and gallons of additional water spewed out of the toilet and behind Percy.

He had just enough intelligence to realize he wasn't getting wet before Clarisse let go of her hold, and Percy staggered backward. The water seemed to mold around him, and he ducked out of the way as a pressurized blast of sewage pinned Clarisse to the far wall for a moment before dying. The toilet bowl was clean, and Clarisse was definitely not. Percy didn't wait, ducking around Clarisse as she spat and waved her arms, trying to flick off the disgusting smoothie the toilets had regurgitated. He ducked out of the bathroom as a group of campers passed, heading toward the side of Camp with the climbing wall.

"Go, go," Percy whisper-shouted to Annabeth, who was standing by the door, looking wide-eyed into the bathroom. They turned, walking away for a few paces before Clarisse emerged from the outhouse. “Jackson! You’re fucking dead!” She shouted, then noticed the audience, who were already snickering at her sewage-stained clothes. Percy’s mouth, once again, didn’t help matters. “You wanna gargle toilet water  again  Clarisse? I’d shut your mouth,” The nearby campers burst out laughing, all but a few big kids who reminded Percy of Clarisse. He had probably just made a massive mistake.

Annabeth finished up the tour along the west edge of camp, stopping in front of the forges—a billowing steam-factory-like thing—before beckoning toward the white marble arena, the archery range, the gymnasium, and the stables. Percy hadn't even had a chance to absorb each sight before his gaze landed on a real, breathing Pegasus, and his brain nearly short-circuited with sheer shock. He assumed it was best to keep on going before the real world murdered him completely.

Back at Cabin Eleven, Annabeth clapped her hands together. "Well, that's about it. You'll see the woods on Friday when we play Capture the Flag. Just don't go in there by yourself unless you're also carrying and feeling very confident."

Percy blinked. "I'm just going to pretend that's a normal thing to say."

Annabeth smirked. “I’ve got strength training with the rest of my cabin before dinner—seven-thirty. Just follow Cabin Eleven, and you’ll be fine.” She gave a casual wave and jogged off toward the west side of camp.

Percy stepped into the cabin, where Luke was leaning against the counter, chatting with the twin-looking kids Annabeth had sent Chiron to check on earlier. When Luke noticed him, he grinned. “Hey, dude. Annabeth finish your tour?”

"Uh, yeah," Percy said, still dazed like he'd been struck on the head with a freight train of thoughts.

Luke indicated the two twin brothers. "Connor and Travis Stoll, my half-brothers. I told them to rummage around and find some things for you."

One of the twins displayed a worn, faded-green backpack, his expression a mischievous grin. So did his twin. "Toiletries, clothes, snacks—the whole package."

"Welcome to camp, kid. We heard you gave Clarisse a swirlie."

Percy's face flamed. "No, I—"

"Don't be afraid," said the first Stoll as Percy hesitated over the bag. "That takes a lot of talent. And guts. And also, we take tips." His face was a mask.

Percy had begun to say he didn't have money when Luke broke in smoothly. "I've already tipped you two. Don't take the kid for all he's worth."

"Boo," the twins chorused together.

"You're no fun, Luke," one of them added.

"Sue me," Luke snapped back.

"We would, but I think our track record would count against us," said Stoll #1.

"Too much previous criminal activity," Stoll #2 added, and Percy was pretty sure that was no joke.

Luke rolled his eyes. "Get outta here."

The Stolls tossed up their hands in mock defeat and swaggered away toward the common room.

"See you around, Count of Crap," one of them flung back over his shoulder.

His brother snorted. "Dude, that name sucks. Sultan of Sewage is way better."

"Supreme lord of the bathroom?"

Their bickering stopped as they moved into the other room.

Percy confronted Luke. "This stuff…" He hesitated, then determined that he probably didn't want to know. "It's not stolen, is it?

Luke shrugged. "Probably some of it. The Stolls have Aphrodite Cabin burgled a lot. They always have more clothing than they have use for, so a few things missing aren't an issue."

"What, are they all or something?

Luke grinned. "Not all of them, but some, yeah. Their head counselor, Silena, is great. A lot of them make clothes as a hobby, or just for themselves, so they have loads. But Silena also has the usual stuff for when people lose theirs, rip them up in training, or, y'know, get splattered with monster guts."

"Like. a camp thrift store?

"Sort of. She has a new pile every few weeks that she allows people to take. Connor and Travis must've just broken in and taken some first. Although that backpack does look like it's from Demeter Cabin, so maybe stash it away."

Percy swallowed. "Gotcha.".

Luke stared at him for a moment. "Tough first day? I've heard what happened with Clarisse. Annabeth also said something about your whole, uh. dramatic arrival last night." He grinned. "Killing the Minotaur is awesome.".

Percy exhaled. "I just. I don't think I'm meant to be here. I never believed in gods, and now, suddenly, they're real. They're in charge of me, dictating my fate. And one of them is my dad—somebody I've never even met in my life." The words tumbled out, irritation heavy in his voice.

Luke's expression shifted. "Yeah," he whispered. "You'll start to believe, because you'll have to. And it won't improve."

Percy was surprised by how tired Luke sounded—like someone who had carried the weight of all this for far too long. But a moment later, his usual friendly demeanor returned. “But hey, at least you’ll meet some good people here. Like Annabeth.”

Percy nodded. Annabeth was okay—not in the bubbly, warm way Grover was, but in a hard, self-assured kind of way. He was starting to get the picture of the reality of his new life: a daughter of Athena who could probably outthink him in a battle of wits, a son of Hermes who was pleasant enough but had a glint in his eye that made Percy wonder if he was always one step ahead, and a half-goat best friend who had been trying to protect him this whole time. And where was Grover now? Hopefully not in too much trouble with Mr. D. It hadn't even been Grover's fault things went sour. That had been on Percy.

He ought to have listened. He ought to have believed Grover instead of sending him away and delaying their departure. If they had left for camp sooner, would his mom have survived? Would the Minotaur have caught up with them at all? Would he have still had to witness her disappear in that burst of light?

It didn't matter. He couldn't make it any other way. But just because he knew it wasn't his fault that monsters wanted him dead, it somehow still felt like his fault.

To get the thoughts out of his head, he turned to Luke and said, "So, if you're a son of Hermes… did you ever meet him?"

The words were hardly off his lips before Luke's face twitched—only for a moment. His look hardened a tiny fraction of an inch tighter, and the jagged, long scar from eye to jaw seemed a shade more menacing in the poor light. Then just as quickly as it had appeared, the moment was gone. Luke's friendly grin crept back onto his face as if nothing had ever happened.

"Once," he said matter-of-factly.

Something in his tone made Percy drop the subject.

Ethan came down the stairs before he could think of what else to say, catching sight of Percy and waving at him hastily. Percy waved back as Ethan caught up to him. 

"How was the rest of the tour?" he asked.

"Crazy," Percy admitted. "That climbing wall is not a joke."

Luke smiled. "Can't wait to catch you guys in Capture the Flag. It's going to be great."

"Capture the Flag?" Ethan repeated, glancing from one to the other.

Luke nodded. "Every other week, Friday night, we play out in the woods. Battle armor, swords, superpowers—the whole shebang. No killing moves, of course, and we try not to maim too much, but it's a really great game."

Percy furrowed his brows. "Wait. Like… real weapons? Swords and stuff?"

"Yep," Luke said, looking far too pleased with their incredulity. "It's gonna be great. Annabeth's leading our team—Hermes and Athena against Ares, so most of the camp is going to be against us."

"Isn't that unfair?" Ethan frowned.

Luke shrugged, not really cared about. "All's fair in love and war," he quoted… someone, probably. "Teams are decided by whoever stole the flag last time. Last summer, Ares stole the flag from Apollo at the last game. Athena and Ares never pair up, but Clarisse knew she couldn't beat Annabeth's team, so she made a deal. One of my brothers—Mark, I think?—shoulder-checked Connor into a tree to steal the flag from his own team at the last second.".

So now it's a grudge match.

Percy blinked. "Sounds intense."

"Oh, it is," Luke promised him.

Percy recalled Annabeth and Clarisse's heated argument near the canoe lake. 

"What about Apollo Cabin? Annabeth said Lee agreed this morning when she and Clarisse were insulting each other." Luke emitted a rapid laugh. "That little devil." He leaned in slightly, speaking quietly conspiratorially. "You two are already on our side, so keep this under your hats—Lee hasn't agreed yet. Annabeth's been trying to wear him down since Monday when summer session started. But she said he promised Clarisse just to tease her. Now, when she's angry, she'll start harassing the Apollo kids, and before she knows it, she'll push them right into our camp.". If we can get Apollo on the ground, the teams will be able to match up fairly evenly. We'll have fewer of our heavy hitters like Ares, Demeter, or Hephaestus, but Hermes and Apollo are two of the largest cabins.

We'll have the numbers on our side."

Percy shook his head, letting that register. "My brain could never," he grumbled.

Luke smirked. “Annabeth and Malcolm—her second-in-command, basically—are great strategists. And Clarisse is, uh… below par, let’s say. She’s already struggling to manage a bunch of factions that might betray her if the odds look bad. Her own teammates could turn on each other for the flag. She’ll be desperate and aggressive, which means she’ll make mistakes.”

He rested back again, arms crossed. "Anyway, we've got physical training tomorrow and weapons training Thursday, so I hope you two can get into shape on time."

"Annabeth talked about her sister Sophie teaching a newbie class on demigod powers," Ethan replied. "When is that?

“Tomorrow morning,” Luke answered. “You’ll both want to be there. If all goes well, you’ll be able to consciously tap into your demigod instincts by the end of the week.”

Percy had no idea what demigod instincts were supposed to feel like, but he figured it would come up sooner or later. “And until then?” he asked.

Luke gestured toward the common room. "Don't worry. There's always some games going on in the board games, or you can go down to the basketball court. People usually don't use powers if you're a newbie, so you'll be fine. But"—the playful tone in his voice was spreading through—"Percy, you might just stick with me or the Stolls. Clarisse is just dying to knock your teeth in."

Percy winced.

Luke grinned. "Dinner's in a few hours. You'll hear the bell—just come back here to the lobby and get in line with the rest of us. We go over together."

With that, he gave them a curt nod and took off towards the common area, leaving Percy and Ethan standing there alone in the cabin, attempting to wrap their heads around it.

"So," Ethan said after a moment, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "Welcome to Camp Half-Blood?" Percy took a slow breath. "Yeah. Something like that."

⋆♆.˚⋆｡𖦹 °.⋆❀˖°

Percy and Ethan returned to the lobby of Cabin Eleven as a musical string of bells sounded within the building. The sound wasn't harsh or piercing—it was almost melodic, like a wind chime, but loud enough to carry across camp.

Around them, the rest of the kids hardly flinched. Some were already fooling around—laughing, pushing one another, cracking jokes that Percy had no doubt had been told a hundred times over. Others appeared more subdued, sitting on their bunks or hanging out against the walls, waiting. There were a tremendous number of kids. Percy figured at least seventy-five, perhaps more, and it was apparent not all of them were part of Hermes.

The Hermes kids were easy to identify. They all shared an elfish look—pointy facial features, wicked smiles, the kind of expansive energy that made Percy instinctively pat his pockets. The cabin was crowded with the rest of the Unclaimed—children who were ignorant of what god their parent belonged to—and those belonging to the lesser gods, the ones not good enough to have a cabin of their own.

Before Percy could cram more into his mouth, Luke's voice echoed out.

"Eleven! Fall in!"

The room instantly changed. The easy chatter died off, and the campers quickly fell into lines, standing two by two in orderly formation. Percy barely had time to think about what was going on before Ethan nudged him ahead of him and they followed the rest of the campers out of the cabin.

As soon as they came outside, Percy had a look at the rest of the cabins assembled in the campgrounds. Less were as large as Cabin Eleven, and none were likely to be, but some were little in relation to it. Several had merely four or five waiting outside for the campers.

Satyrs appeared out of nowhere, going along with the campers when they went into the pavilion. Percy could not help being surprised that there were only males. As they passed through camp, some of the girls emerged from the trees, sprinting towards the pavilion with fluid ease. He stood there, looking, as their bodies coalesced from the bark like a waking dream. He barely had time to process that before his eyes were drawn by another group of girls—this time with slightly bluish skin and hair drifting above their heads like it was underwater. They emerged from the lake direction, their movements unnaturally light, almost as if they weren't quite on the ground.

Good. Naiads and Dryads, too, Percy reasoned, filing that away for later.

When they reached the pavilion, the campers sorted themselves out naturally, some running to their siblings, others joining friends from other cabins. There were no seats allocated, no separate sections save the natural groups of children who had been friends since they were tiny.

As Cabin Eleven disintegrated, Luke lagged behind, backing down the line to Percy and Ethan.

"Ethan, you know how to do the offering?" he asked.

Ethan nodded.

Luke smiled. "Okay. Bon appétit. We have an early morning tomorrow. Annabeth's going to lecture me at dinner about strategy for Capture the Flag, so I'll be sitting with her. Later, guys."

With that, he wheeled around and started walking over towards one of the tables. Percy followed the course with his eyes, watching as Luke approached a half-dozen rough-kids with Annabeth's grey-and-turmoil eyes. Yellow-eyed Apollo campers there were a couple, and there was the kid Percy had already gotten to know, Lee Fletcher. There was another girl there who didn't look familiar—surely some other Hermes kid.

Percy and Ethan sat at one of the end tables, amidst a cluster of Hermes campers, young demigods, and Unclaimed children. Nobody spoke as they sat down.

At the pavilion end, opposite the Big House, Chiron was at a middle table. He struck his hoof on the tiles, the piercing clang cutting through the buzz of talk. The talk ceased at once.

Chiron raised his goblet, and as a group, the entire camp did the same.

"To the gods!" he bellowed.

"To the gods!" the campers chorused as a group.

Percy was barely able to utter the words again before the pavilion erupted into chaos. As soon as the toast had been consumed, everyone started talking all at once, demanding their food and standing up from their seats.

Ethan shoved him. "Select something you're going to eat, then we must burn an offering."

"A what?" Percy questioned.

"A portion of your supper into the fire as an offering to the gods. They like the aroma or something."

Percy frowned. "Why would the gods like the aroma of burning food?"

Ethan just smiled. "You'll see."

Percy shook his head but complied with his lead, his gaze fixed on the empty plate before him. He hesitated for a moment before he spoke, "Double cheeseburger and fries."

Immediately, the plate was full, the food seeming to have been there all along. Percy blinked, still adapting to the whole magic thing. He picked up his goblet next, hesitantly, and asked, "Blue Diet Coke?"

The full cup with exactly what he craved.

Okay, Percy thought. That is sort of great.

He cut off a bite of his burger with the knife on his plate, glancing up to watch Ethan do the same. The two of them stood up, joining the crowd of campers flowing towards the brazier in the center of the pavilion.

As they approached him, Ethan tipped his plate, distributing some of his ramen to the fire. Percy watched his plate be reborn as a bowl, probably because ramen was not for a flat plate.

Ethan hunched forward, growling something that Percy barely heard:

"Mom, whoever you are." He smelled a scent of pomegranate in the air that got doused by a scent of the sea even if it’s far away.

Percy hesitated for a moment, then proceeded. He threw the fragment of burger into the fire, and it was engulfed by the flames in the blink of an eye.

When he did, something strange happened.

The smoke curled around him, rich and thick—not of charred meat, but of something richer, almost drunken. It was good. Better than any barbecues he'd ever had, better than grilled food hot off the flames. It was homey and warm, like home, but somehow, simultaneously, there was something… waiting for it. Like the fire was expecting something more.

Percy swallowed.

He didn't know what to do. He didn't know whose ear to talk into, whose hand had brought him here. But when the flames curled up into the air, he took a deep breath and said the only thing he could think:

"Whoever you are… I hope you're watching."

And then he turned and followed Ethan to their table.

About halfway through the meal, Grover strolled over and plopped into the seat next to Percy.

"Hey, man," Percy said, then gestured to Ethan. "This is Ethan Nakamura, my new roommate in Cabin Eleven."

Ethan nodded curtly in greeting. "Hey."

Grover barely even registered him. He looked pale—worse than usual, as though he was going to be sick. Percy prepared himself, afraid that he was about to have another panic attack, but Grover took a deep breath and calmed down.

"N-nice meeting you, Ethan," he said in a rush before his eyes jumped over to the plate in front of him that had been cleared.

Percy frowned. "What was it like with Mr. D?"

Grover's expression grew dark in an instant. "H-he suspended judgment."

He spoke as though it were the most terrible thing on earth.

"What does that mean?" Ethan asked.

Grover swallowed. "H-he said because we d-don't know how things will t-turn out with Percy yet, he's waiting."

Percy cocked an eyebrow. "That's not so bad. At least you didn't get punished."

Grover grunted, scowling. "Mr. D basically staked my whole career in neutral. U-unless you get a quest and take me with you, I'll n-never get my Searcher's License."

Percy frowned. "Quest?"

Ethan cut in. "Quests are essentially the only way Chiron lets people leave Camp during the summer. You're supposed to do some great deed, aren't you?

Grover nodded. "T-three demigods go out to f-fight a monster, get an artifact, that sort of thing. B-but Chiron hasn't given out any quests in two years."

Percy blinked. "Why not?"

Grover shifted, shifting uneasily. "L-Luke, your counselor, did the last one. He went to the Garden of the Hesperides with a Hephaestus kid, Cassia Leclair, and a daughter of Demeter, Delancey Larkspur."

Percy waited, but Grover stopped there.

".And?

Grover looked down. "Luke was the o-only one who came back."

"Oh," Ethan and Percy said in unison.

The room remained quiet for a second.

Grover sighed and rubbed his face. "Y-you might never be given a quest, Percy," he said, gesturing over towards the pavilion. "T-there are so many demigods here, and not very many get quests. N-none anymore…" His words trailed off, sounding completely broken.

Percy scowled. "So you can't ever get your Searcher's License?"

Grover nodded again.

"Shit," Percy growled. "Sorry, man. Maybe I could talk to Mr. D? It wasn't your fault that things went the way they did."

Grover laughed humorlessly. "Mr. D made u-up his mind. G-gods are stubborn.".

Percy took a breath and gazed down at his plate. After a moment, he reached for a fry and sent it flying into his mouth before holding out another to Grover.

"We can hope, right?"

Grover paused, then, for the first time that evening, smiled slightly.

"I-I guess there's that."

Chapter Text

Within a few days, Percy fell into a routine—driven by the necessity to rescue his not-so-dead-yet mother. The quest, the sense of urgency of Grover, and the chance to rescue his mom provided Percy with a purpose greater than he'd ever had before.

Maybe this was what Chiron had been saying, discovering a special motivation, because for the first time in his life, Percy felt like he could actually get this done. The training, the classes—he wasn't exactly a prodigy or anything—but for the first time in his life, he felt like he could actually do it.

Fortunately, his injuries healed ridiculously fast with the healing powers of the Apollo Cabin's nectar and ambrosia. By Wednesday morning, the healers cleared him to take off his cast, telling him his arm was probably stronger than ever before—a fact which left Lee Fletcher completely baffled.

Mornings were spent by Percy exercising in the gym with Ethan. Luke would appear for cardio most mornings and depart Percy and Ethan in his wake. At a jog, two-to-one, Luke was on Percy and Ethan. Percy had a feeling that Luke hung around only to keep the Ares brats at bay from him, brats who would shoot Percy dirty looks—as if waiting for Percy to be defenseless. The largest bullies seemed not to want to mess with Luke.

(He had his suspicions.) 

On Wednesday, Percy and Ethan made their way across the sun-dappled garden, their footsteps crunching softly on the gravel path. Camp Half-Blood was quieter than usual; most of the campers were either training or resting, leaving a tranquil calm around the gazebo in the center of the lush, flower-filled courtyard. Birds flitted between the branches overhead, and the faint scent of jasmine mingled with the earthy aroma of the recently watered grass.

The lecture, entitled “Understanding Epithets and Demigod Powers,” was being delivered by Sophie Campbell, Annabeth’s half-sister, whose reputation as both brilliant and unorthodox had preceded her. Percy had met Annabeth plenty of times, of course, but Sophie was… different. She carried a quiet intensity, the kind that made you feel like you were being measured—but not judged.

The gazebo itself was ornate, its white pillars wrapped in ivy and tiny, twinkling lanterns that seemed almost decorative in the daylight. Sophie stood at the center, her notes spread on a small wooden lectern. Around her, campers gathered, sitting cross-legged on the soft grass or leaning casually against the gazebo’s railing. Ethan fell into step beside Percy, glancing at the gathering crowd with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

Sophie raised her hand, silencing the soft murmurs as she began, “Today, we’re going to talk about a concept that’s often overlooked: epithets. Not just as titles of gods, but as living forces that shape the powers and destinies of their children.” Her eyes flicked across the audience, landing briefly on Percy, who felt a slight shiver at the intensity of her gaze.

Percy exchanged a glance with Ethan, who shrugged slightly, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips. If Sophie’s reputation was anything to go by, this lecture wasn’t going to be ordinary—and Percy had a sinking feeling he might learn more about himself than he expected.

“Epithets,” Sophie began, drawing the word out like it was a spell, “aren’t just fancy titles for the gods. They actually influence what powers their children might get.”

The campers shifted on the boulder-like benches that circled the gazebo, some leaning forward with interest, others already looking drowsy in the late afternoon sun. Percy leaned back, vaguely hoping he wouldn’t get anything too… catastrophic. His luck usually landed squarely on the catastrophic side.

“Think of it like this,” Sophie continued, pacing slowly across the wooden floor. “Two children of the same god can have completely different abilities, depending on which aspect—or epithet—of their parent was… active when they were conceived.”

At the word conceived, a wave of snickers broke out among the younger campers. Someone in the back made an exaggerated kissing noise, followed by a whisper of “gross.” Sophie didn’t even flinch.

“Very funny,” she said dryly, shooting a look sharp enough to silence the laughter. “But unless you’d like to explain to the rest of us why Ares sometimes looks like a soldier and sometimes like a wild animal, I suggest you save the jokes.”

That shut them up. Percy noticed Ethan trying to keep a straight face but failing—his mouth quirked, like he was amused and annoyed at the same time.

Sophie tapped the side of the lectern. “Epithets are not decorations. They’re identities. Think of them as masks the gods wear, and whichever mask they’re wearing at the moment of conception determines what you inherit. A child of Poseidon under the epithet Earthshaker might create earthquakes. Another, under God of Horses, might control or even speak with equines.”

Percy sat up straighter at that, wondering what mask his father had been wearing—and hoping it wasn’t something ridiculous, like God of Seaweed.

Percy glanced sideways at Ethan, who was leaning forward, eyes sharp with interest. Of course Ethan would be fascinated by this—he looked like the type who actually took notes in class. Percy just blinked, his brain snagging on the phrase active epithets. Was that supposed to be comforting? Because it sounded like the gods were basically mood rings with divine power.

“For example,” Sophie went on, “Zeus has many epithets: Polieus, Aegiduchos, Xenios. A child conceived under Polieus might be sensitive to leadership or strategy, while Aegiduchos could grant you lightning reflexes or battle instincts. It’s subtle—but it matters.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd. Percy shivered slightly. That sounded… complicated. Like the gods had a thousand different settings, and the kids were just unlucky enough to be born on whichever one got stuck.

“Poseidon has even more,” Sophie continued, her tone deepening, “Earthshaker, Sea-King, Earth-Queller, Ennosigaios, Hippios… And sometimes, a child inherits a mix. That can be… overwhelming.”

She let the words hang in the air, her gaze sweeping the group. A few campers shifted uncomfortably under her eyes, as though she was trying to peel back their skin and see what epithet pulsed underneath. Her look lingered for a moment on Percy, but he was too busy wondering how many epithets Poseidon actually had—like, was there a God of Sea Slugs?—to realize the weight of her glance.

Ethan noticed, though. His eyes flicked from Sophie to Percy, a spark of something—curiosity? suspicion?—in his expression.

A few kids nodded, murmuring among themselves. Percy just tried to ignore the prickling at the back of his neck. Probably nerves. Or maybe a spider.

“That prickle,” Sophie said, like she’d plucked the thought right out of his head, “is The Sense. Almost every demigod has it. Awareness of danger, monsters, or magic. It’s subtle at first—a whisper, a shadow—but if real danger is near, it grows. Think of it as a warning. But remember: it won’t tell you everything. Your epithet influences it, too.”

She paused, letting her words settle before adding, “A child of Ares under Enyalios might sense combat better—like an instinct for when a fight’s about to break out. Another, under Thêritas, might be sharper to strategies and traps. The Sense isn’t one-size-fits-all. It bends with your parent’s mask.”

Percy gulped. Somehow, the idea that even this tiny, helpful power could be influenced by something he didn’t understand made it scarier. It was like discovering your smoke alarm only worked if you guessed the right brand of fire.

Across from him, Ethan tilted his head, eyes narrowing in concentration. He looked like he was filing the information away for later, dissecting every word. Percy wondered how he could be so calm about it, when Percy himself felt like someone had just explained the rules to a game he hadn’t even known he was playing.

Sophie’s gaze swept the group again, as if daring anyone to dismiss what she was saying. “You can’t change your epithet,” she said firmly. “You inherit it. But understanding it—learning the patterns, the strengths, the blind spots—can save your life.”

A nervous laugh came from somewhere in the back. Percy couldn’t tell if it was because someone thought Sophie was exaggerating, or because they realized she wasn’t.

A hand shot up from the second row. It belonged to a girl with glossy black hair, who looked like she’d walked straight out of a shampoo commercial. “What about Aphrodite’s epithets?” she asked, with a little flip of her hair.

Sophie nodded. “Good question. Aphrodite is one of the more… complicated cases. Everyone assumes her children just get charm or beauty. But her epithets change everything.”

The crowd leaned in. Even Percy perked up a little—mostly because he’d never really thought of Aphrodite beyond lip gloss and perfume ads.

“For example,” Sophie continued, ticking off on her fingers, “under Aphrodite Pandemos, her children might be good at uniting people. Under Peithō, they could sway opinions—what you call charmspeak. And then there’s Aphrodite Areia, the warlike side, which gives sharper reflexes or even combat skills.”

Several campers muttered at that, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of love producing warriors.

“But the rarest,” Sophie said, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret, “is Aphrodite Pelagia.Children of this epithet are incredibly hard to find—even rarer than Areia. They often have a minor, very minor control of water. Usually tied to beauty or fragrance: turning perfume into a weapon, or sensing poisons mixed in drinks. Sometimes it’s barely noticeable. Sometimes… it’s deadly.”

That got a ripple of uneasy whispers. Percy glanced at Ethan, who raised his eyebrows, intrigued. Percy just thought about how unfair it was that even Aphrodite’s kids—supposedly the “safe” ones—got water powers.

Sophie lifted her chin. “Remember this: every god carries more than one face. And every demigod carries the shadow of that choice.”

“Powers,” Sophie continued, “aren’t just handed to you. You have to find them. Push them out. And knowing your parent’s epithet helps you discover what you’re meant to do. Everyone here—every single one of you—can do it.”

She gestured at Percy, Ethan, and two other nervous kids. Percy clenched his jaw and tried anyway. Nothing. A dull headache built behind his eyes. Ethan, however, managed a little burst of speed when they ran across the lawn, grinning at his own surprise.

Luke, who was shadowing them for practice, tilted his head. “Nice, Nakamura. How’d you do that?”

“I… don’t know,” Ethan admitted, wide-eyed. “It just… happened.”

Percy swallowed hard. He tried again. Nothing. He strained, pushed, willed—but no sign of anything. Not even a flicker.

For the rest of the day, Luke pushed them through drills, Sophie’s words echoing: “You won’t know what you’re good at until you test it. Epithets can nudge you, but they won’t carry you.”

Wednesday’s schedule was a chaotic mess of successes and failures.

The archery range was a particular disaster. Percy tried to notch an arrow, but the bowstring snapped back with a cruel twist, smacking his thumb so hard his eyes watered. He loosed another shot, but the arrow went spinning wildly and thunked straight into Chiron’s tail.

The centaur’s deep, rumbling sigh carried across the field. “Archery… perhaps is not your strong suit, Mr. Jackson.”

Across the range, a dryad streaked past Percy in a blur of green, retrieving fallen arrows with effortless grace. Ethan, meanwhile, looked like he’d been born holding a bow. His shots zipped through the air, landing just shy of the bullseye, and when Chiron asked for volunteers to try a timed sprint-and-shoot, Ethan surged ahead with a speed that seemed almost supernatural. Percy could practically hear the invisible scoreboard racking up points against him.

By the time they got to canoeing, Percy was already bracing for another humiliation. But something shifted the moment he stepped into the boat.

The lake was alive around him, the surface sparkling in the afternoon sun, rippling against the shore in soft patterns. As soon as Percy dipped the paddle, the canoe slid forward as if the water itself was carrying him along. He didn’t need to think about rhythm—he just… had it. Each stroke matched the current like he’d been born for it.

Within minutes, he was gliding past other campers, skimming over the surface without effort. The breeze in his hair felt less like luck and more like—something else. A pull in his chest, a whisper from the water beneath him.

Was this some Naiad influence? Or some hidden epithet of Poseidon wanting to prank kids—Ennosigaios, Hippios, Pelagos-Kyrios—nudging him toward mastery of the waves? He had no idea, and the not-knowing made him uneasy.

Luke, leaning casually on the dock, let out a low whistle. “Nice, Jackson,” he called. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Percy flushed, gripping the paddle tighter. For once, he wasn’t failing spectacularly. But the way the lake seemed to listen to him—that was scarier than snapping a bowstring.

Thursday brought more confusion. Wrestling? He got flattened within thirty seconds by a kid half his size. Arts and crafts? His clay bowl collapsed into something that looked like a sad pancake. Even music class ended in disaster—his attempt at the lyre produced sounds that made the satyr instructor wince and cover his ears.

But smithing class was different.

The heat of the forge pressed down like a wall on the other campers, sweat pouring from their faces as they struggled to keep focus. Percy, though, hardly noticed it. The air felt warm, almost welcoming. The hammer fit naturally in his grip, its weight steady and reassuring instead of awkward. Sparks burst as he struck the glowing metal, but he didn’t even flinch when drops of molten fire hissed against the anvil, popping like fireworks.

For once, Percy didn’t feel like he was fumbling through someone else’s world. He had a rhythm—steady, even, purposeful.

Luke, who’d come to “help supervise,” leaned against a workbench, arms crossed. His sharp eyes tracked every movement. When Percy wiped the sweat from his brow, Luke raised an eyebrow, expression unreadable.

“You handle that like you’ve done it before,” Luke said finally. His voice wasn’t mocking, like Percy half-expected. It was curious. Probing.

Percy shook his head quickly. “First time.”

“Mm.” Luke’s gaze lingered a second too long, then slid away. “Strange, then. Hephaestus kids usually take to the forge. But you…” He tilted his head. “Maybe your father’s not as simple as you think.”

Percy blinked. The words rattled around in his skull, heavy with implication. Not as simple? What did that even mean? Gods had layers, Sophie had said. Masks. Epithets.

Was he just clumsy, half-useless Percy Jackson.

Meanwhile, Ethan continued to surprise everyone. One morning, during running drills on the track, he suddenly surged forward, his stride lengthening until he blurred past the other campers.

“Whoa—what’s happening?” Ethan laughed breathlessly. “I feel… unstoppable!”

Some of the campers cheered, others stared. Luke, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, frowned slightly. “Probably your parent’s power nudging you,” he said. “Keep it in mind. Figure out how to use it.”

Ethan beamed, his confidence growing with every word.

Percy tried again, digging his feet into the ground, straining until his lungs burned. He pumped his arms, forced his legs to move faster—but nothing. Not a flicker, not a hint, not even the tiniest edge of the strange abilities that seemed to come so easily to everyone else.

When he finally stumbled to a stop, panting, he caught Luke’s gaze on him. It wasn’t mocking, exactly. More… curious. Puzzled.

That look made Percy’s stomach twist. What if there was nothing inside him? What if he’d been brought here by mistake?

He swallowed hard. Maybe I just haven’t found the right one yet. He thought of the canoeing and the smithing. Maybe it wasn't about a single big power, but many small, weird ones. Maybe he was a collection of whispers, not a single shout.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

After the running drills, Luke decided it was time for Percy to try something else: weapons.

“Every camper gets sent to a senior to find a weapon that suits them,” Luke explained, tossing a small smirk Percy’s way. “Some take a week. Try them all. Don’t hurt anyone.”

Percy blinked, suddenly aware that the arena wasn’t just a place to run in circles—it was where kids tested their limits, and maybe even discovered a part of themselves they didn’t know existed. He glanced around, taking in the racks of swords, spears, and other strange contraptions he had only seen in movies or myths. The metallic scent of sharpened steel mixed with the faint tang of sweat in the air, making his stomach tighten with a mix of nerves and excitement.

“Okay,” he said, trying to sound braver than he felt. “So… do I just pick one?”

Luke shook his head, walking over to a rack of wooden practice swords. “Not exactly. Weapons don’t just work with you—they choose you. Some of them will feel right the first second you touch them. Others… not so much. You might have to swing a few dozen times before you figure it out.”

He handed Percy a sword with a polished wooden hilt. “Start light. Don’t go thinking you can pull off a fancy swing like in the movies. You’ll just hurt yourself.”

Percy took it, feeling the weight in his hand. Surprisingly, it wasn’t heavy. It felt… almost natural. He raised it experimentally, awkwardly trying a few swings, the blade whistling through the air. Luke circled him, his eyes sharp, noting every misstep.

“Too stiff. Relax your shoulders. Your body’s not a board—it bends, it moves. Don’t swing at it. Swing through it.” Luke demonstrated with a fluid motion, his sword carving an arc that seemed almost too easy, like the blade was an extension of his arm rather than a separate object. “See? You gotta let it flow.”

Percy mirrored him, and though it wasn’t perfect, the movement started to feel more natural. His confidence grew with each swing. And in the back of his mind, a small, stubborn part of him couldn’t help but smile—maybe this weapons thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Luke stepped back, crossing his arms, his smirk widening. “Alright, that’s enough for now. Tomorrow, we try something harder. If you survive that, you’ll be closer to knowing what your real weapon is.”

Percy grinned, feeling the buzz of adrenaline and anticipation. He was still clumsy, still green, but something about holding that sword—the possibility, the challenge—felt… right.

Percy’s stomach churned. He had never held a sword before, and the idea of swinging a sharp piece of metal around made his nerves jangle like exposed wires. Still, he followed the senior camper, who moved with the easy confidence of someone who had been doing this since before Percy could even walk properly. They reached the first cabin’s stash, the smell of old wood and polished steel hitting him instantly.

The first sword was long, heavy, and awkward in his hands. Its hilt felt cold, and the balance was all wrong—he couldn’t tell where his arm ended and the blade began. He swung it once, overcompensating for the weight, and nearly toppled over, landing with a graceless thud on the dusty floorboards.

“Not that one,” the senior muttered, his tone flat but not unkind. “Try the next cabin.”

Percy groaned inwardly, the sting of embarrassment mixing with a stubborn streak. He wasn’t used to failing so publicly, and the idea of doing it again made him want to turn and run back to the safety of his cabin. But no—he clenched his jaw and picked himself up.

He went through almost every cabin: the fiery blades of Ares’ kids, light, whistling daggers from Hermes’ stash, even one oddly dark sword that had belonged to a child of Thanatos who… didn’t make it through last year. Percy held it, felt a cold chill, and almost dropped it instantly.

“Maybe something else,” he muttered, moving along.

Finally, they reached the Aphrodite cabin. Percy eyed the assortment of weapons: swords, spears, a few strange curved blades, all shimmering faintly like sunlight refracted through water.

He picked one almost at random. The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, it felt… perfect. Balanced. Light, yet powerful. He swung it experimentally. The blade cut through the air as if it had been waiting for him—not too heavy, not too stiff.

“Whoa,” Percy breathed, staring at the sword. The water-forged steel glimmered under the cabin lights, catching every movement. It was flawless.

The senior camper nodded. “Yep. That’s the one. Fits like it was made for you.”

Percy frowned, confused. “But… why? I don’t even—”

“Forged underwater,” the senior explained casually. “Aphrodite? Born in the sea. Kids of her cabin tend to handle water-forged stuff better.”

Percy glanced at the blade again. Something about the way it moved in his hand, almost alive, made him shiver. It was… right. Somehow. Not like the swords he’d tried before. Somehow, in all the chaos of camp, he had stumbled onto the one weapon that fit him perfectly.

He glanced down at it again, gripping it a little tighter. Maybe, just maybe, the world wasn’t entirely stacked against him.

After testing the water-forged sword, Percy grinned. “Okay… maybe I should try something else,” he said, pointing to the throwing knives displayed on a nearby rack.

The senior camper raised an eyebrow but handed him a set. “Careful.

Percy lined up a target across the training area—a wooden post marked with a crude bullseye. He took a deep breath, thinking about the rhythm he’d found with the sword. Maybe it would work here too.

He threw the first knife. It wobbled midair and clanged off the post.

“Uh… maybe a little less wrist?” the senior suggested.

Percy tried again. This time, it grazed the edge of the target. Close, but not quite. He adjusted his stance, focusing, trying to feel the knife in his hand instead of just throwing it blindly.

The third throw hit the center with a satisfying thunk. Percy blinked. That had been… almost effortless.

The fourth throw? Dead center again. The fifth? Same.

The senior camper leaned back, clearly impressed. “Huh. Not bad for someone who’s never done this. Maybe you’ve got… instincts.”

Percy frowned. Instincts? Maybe. Maybe it was just luck. But the way the knives seemed to find the target, almost as if guided by something invisible, sent another prickling thought down his spine.

“Not bad,” he muttered, retrieving the knives. “Maybe I’m… okay at this.”

The sense of control—so different from the chaos of wrestling, archery, and arts class—made him feel… strange. Powerful, even, in a quiet way. He had no idea why it worked, but it did. And for once, he didn’t feel completely out of place.

“Let’s go, you have sword fighting class next” Mark the senior said.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

“I’ve been fighting monsters since I was seven,” he said, voice calm but sharp. “No training until I was fourteen. I survived by learning what worked. For me. So today? That’s what we’re doing.”

He stepped back, pointing to the center of the arena. “You’re going to spar with me.”

A few of us froze. Luke smirked like he’d seen it all before.

“I’m bigger, stronger, faster. More experienced. I’ve got control of my powers—you don’t. That means I’m holding back, and you’re not. That’s the deal. Yes, it’ll hurt. But better bruised here than dead out there.”

He pulled a longer wooden sword from a barrel, spun it once in his hands, and held up three fingers.

“One: no rules for you. Take every advantage you can—but don’t bite me.” A nervous laugh ran through the group, even Percy chuckled despite himself.

“Two: I’ll only use mortal strength. Powers stay off unless I absolutely have to.”

“Three: win by disarming me or landing three clean touches. We reset after every point. You’ll get feedback each time.”

He lowered the hand and stepped back a few paces. “If you’re not up, watch carefully. Notice strengths in how people move, how they attack, how they recover. Flaws, too. Everyone has them—even me. The trick is finding the cracks in their armor.”

He let the words settle, then cracked a small grin. “And don’t get embarrassed if you mess up. First monster I ever killed? Golf club. Pure luck. Real lucky. We all flounder at first.”

Luke turned to Percy. “You’re up.”

Percy swallowed and stepped forward, clutching his wooden sword like it might vanish if he let go. The other six campers moved to the sidelines, forming a loose line. Around them, older Hermes campers were sparring—blades flashing, wood and bronze ringing fast enough to make Percy’s head spin.

One match caught his attention: a huge, unclaimed kid with a warhammer against a girl half his size. She dodged the hammer’s massive arcs with agile footwork, then darted low, slashing behind his knee. Orange chalk dust puffed up; the boy dropped to one knee, scowling as he rose. Without pause, he was replaced by another camper.

Percy turned back to Luke, trying not to let the nerves show.

Luke extended his sword. “Touch blades when you’re ready.”

He shifted into stance—knees bent, back leg angled, hips slightly sideways. Effortless. Natural. Percy copied as best he could: both hands on the hilt, shoulders tight, weight forward.

Their blades met.

Luke moved first. A low, rising sweep aimed at Percy’s shoulder. He barely raised his sword in time; the clash rang sharp through his arms. He staggered, but Luke pressed close, each strike deliberate, testing him. Not enough to hurt, but every motion had weight, rhythm, and intent.

Percy’s feet tangled. He couldn’t back up, so he didn’t.

Instead, he ducked under Luke’s next swing and rammed forward, shoulder-first. The impact knocked Luke off balance. He stumbled, caught himself, and raised a hand with a grin. “Touch.”

Percy blinked. That counted?

Luke glanced at the others. “Lesson one: the sword isn’t your only weapon. Arms, legs, momentum—use them.”

Then back to Percy. “You’re overthinking. Tripping over your own feet. Don’t treat every step like it’s a chess move—just move. Trust your body.”

He swept his gaze across the campers. “Some of you will do the opposite: charge in without thinking and get wrecked. Know which one you are. That’s the first step.”

Finally, he looked at Percy again, more serious. “Ready?”

Percy, chest heaving, gripped the sword tighter. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

He couldn’t do it.

“Percy,” Luke said, stepping in front of him, arms crossed loosely, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as a hawk, “you’ve got pace, and your movement’s smooth—fluid. That’s good. Really good. It makes the sword a smart choice for you. I wouldn’t exchange it for another weapon.”

Percy blinked, slightly out of breath, his hands still gripping the hilt a little too tightly. He could feel heat creeping up his neck, threatening to betray him. He was afraid—no, terrified—he would blush. That would make him look weak. That would make Luke think he wasn’t ready.

“You learn how to use distance—especially against someone bigger than you,” Luke continued, his tone even but insistent. “Close-up is working to your advantage. But your problem is, you don’t know how to exit. You close the distance, looking for that opening, and walk right into a counter because you’re so focused on my knife, not me.”

Percy swallowed, trying to force himself to nod, though his throat felt tight. Luke waved the sword casually, the motion effortless, as if it were an extension of his arm rather than a weapon that could pierce or slice him in a heartbeat.

“Also? Your edge hangs back too far. You’d be better with a balanced sword—but you don’t always have that option. So, compensate. If your sword can’t move quickly enough, stop trying to push it.”

Percy clenched his jaw, imagining how he could adjust, how he could anticipate instead of react, how he could stop thinking about the weapon and start thinking about the person wielding it against him. It felt like staring down a storm, but he had to face it. He had no choice.

“Alright,” Luke shouted, stepping up beside the line of other newcomers, his eyes scanning the group like a predator assessing prey, “Percy—round one.”

Percy tightened his grip, raised his sword, and took a shaky breath. The air felt heavier now, charged with tension. He had the movement, the pace, the fluidity—but could he finally learn how to move without being trapped in the rhythm of his own fear?

Percy drew in tightly, spreading his feet wider, grounding himself. He wasn’t going to lunge this time—not recklessly. He raised his blade, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. “Ready,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

They crossed swords, and Luke surged forward. His strikes were precise, near, and calculated—slightly too slow for Percy to parry comfortably. It wasn’t weakness. Percy realized, with a jolt, that Luke was deliberately holding back, letting him engage, testing him.

Parry. Parry. Parry again. His arms ached, his pulse hammered, but something clicked. Percy adapted. He felt the rhythm shift under his hands and decided to disrupt it.

He thrust on the next parry, pushing into Luke’s timing. For a heartbeat, surprise flickered across Luke’s face just as his leg began its smooth, measured kick. Percy slipped under it, rolling across the dirt with a rush of adrenaline.

Luke spun, recovering instantly, sliding into guard, but Percy was already moving, rolling past him, then pivoting to swing low—behind Luke’s knees.

Luke flipped backward with fluid precision, sword slicing dangerously close to Percy’s head. Percy stumbled back but didn’t panic. This time he moved deliberately, thinking one step ahead. He circled, blade ready, eyes scanning Luke for the tiniest opening.

Luke whirled to follow him, but Percy’s next strike was faster, sharper, guided by intention. His sword descended over Luke’s shoulder, forcing Luke to react—too late. Luke blocked, off-balance, boots scraping against the dirt as he stumbled backward. Percy didn’t pause. He shortened the stroke mid-swing, stepping deep into Luke’s defense, pushing with purpose.

Luke raised his sword again, but it was too late. The momentum was Percy’s now, and for the first time in this sparring session, Percy felt the thrill of control, not just reaction. The wind of their clash whipped around him, but he moved with it rather than against it.

Percy blinked. He really did. That wasn’t luck. That wasn’t a fluke. That—he realized with a jolt—was power. His power. Something inside him had shifted, guiding his movements with intent rather than reaction.

Luke grinned, eyes alive with excitement, blade spinning like a living thing in his hand. “Alright,” he said, voice low and sharp with adrenaline. Percy didn’t wait. He charged, faster than he thought possible—inhuman speed coursing through him—and plunged the tip of his sword at Luke’s chest.

Luke deflected, metal ringing against metal, but Percy didn’t stop. He slammed into Luke, knee driving into his belly, and the momentum threw them both to the ground. Dirt flew. Percy’s chest heaved as he scrambled to push himself upright, sweat prickling at the back of his neck. But Luke was already up, moving like he’d been born to this, a predator grinning after a worthy fight.

“Touché!” Luke shouted, laughter undercut with amazement, his eyes sparkling with adrenaline. “That was insane, Percy! You actually did it.”

Percy felt heat rush to his cheeks. He tried not to smile, tried not to let the blush show as Luke turned, still grinning, to address the rest of the group.

“What Percy just did,” Luke began, gesturing toward him, “was excellent—but there’s a moral here. Who can make an educated guess as to what he did wrong when he opened up space?”

Ethan’s hand shot up. “Too much distance?” he guessed, voice cautious.

“Exactly.” Luke’s grin widened, sharp and approving. “Percy, come here. Stand the way you stood during the parry.”

Percy obeyed, positioning himself, feeling the weight of Luke’s gaze. His hands tingled around the sword, ready to relive the moment, but this time with focus, with understanding. He wasn’t just swinging blindly anymore—he was learning, absorbing every movement, every mistake, every success.

Luke nodded, satisfaction clear in his stance. “Now, let’s see if we can fix that distance problem. You felt the power, Percy—now let’s control it.”

Percy inhaled, gripping his sword tighter. His chest swelled with anticipation, and for the first time, he truly believed he could keep up with Luke—and maybe even surpass him one day.

Percy replicated the stance as Luke had described, focusing on each step, mentally recounting the sequence like a map he had to memorize. His arms trembled slightly from the exertion, but he held the sword steady, every movement deliberate.

“Percy pushed me off guard here,” Luke said, crouching into a low, predatory stance. He moved fluidly, showing exactly how he had lifted his leg for the kick. “Like this.” He paused, letting Percy take in the angle, the weight distribution, the way every motion was precise and purposeful.

“Now,” Luke continued, stepping closer, “this is where Percy ought to have ended it. Rather than stepping back like he did, he could have gone under my arm and pushed through. In an actual fight? You don’t throw that away. You aim to finish it.”

Percy felt his stomach tighten. “Finish it…” he muttered under his breath, repeating the phrase like a mantra. He raised his blade as Luke instructed, crouching lower, and carefully aimed under Luke’s extended sword. His movements were still awkward—he felt clumsy and too slow—but the point of his blade aligned where it needed to be.

Luke nodded approvingly. “Good. At this point,” he said, stepping even closer, “he’d put his off-hand on the hilt and drive home. That ends the fight. One clean motion. One precise decision.”

Percy’s heart thudded in his chest, but he could feel the difference. It wasn’t just about swinging and parrying anymore. It was about anticipating, about finishing with intention. He adjusted his grip instinctively, letting Luke’s guidance settle into his muscles.

Luke stepped back, eyes gleaming. “See that? That’s how you turn advantage into victory. Remember this moment—remember that power is nothing without control.”

Percy nodded, swallowing hard. He wasn’t just learning to fight—he was learning how to think like someone who could survive, someone who could win.

He stood up and smiled. "Only other note—when you kneed me? Tuck and roll over you. You'd end up on your feet and ready to thrust again."

Percy didn't know what to do with the compliment, but Luke was already adjusting his stance.

"Try to do it again."

Percy swallowed. The pressure was back again like a vice. And just like that, the former strength was gone. His movements were sluggish. Luke swept him across the floor. 

Chapter Text

Friday night had come, and with it the usual chaos of Capture the Flag.

To everyone’s surprise, Percy had managed to suit himself up in full armor without anyone’s help. The plates clicked together with a smoothness that suggested long practice. He strapped the last piece into place and rolled his shoulders, testing the weight as if it were second nature.

Several senior campers exchanged bewildered glances. Even Luke, leaning casually against the wall, raised an eyebrow.

“Uh—huh,” Annabeth muttered, circling him like she was examining a puzzle. “You’re wearing that correctly. Are you sure this is your first time?”

“Yeah,” Percy said, fumbling for words. Then he caught sight of a strap near his shoulder and instinctively tightened it with the same crisp motion Luke used before battle. “Oh! Guess I just… figured it out?”

Luke snorted softly, but there was something more thoughtful than mocking in his tone. “Muscle memory, huh?”

He disappeared for a moment and returned carrying a bundle. With a flick of his wrist, he held out a short sword and a handful of throwing knives, their hilts polished with the faint shimmer of perfume and sea salt.

“For you,” Luke said, tossing the sword into Percy’s hands. “Since Jake told me you can only use weapons from the Aphrodite cabin’s stash. Maybe she’ll claim you today.” His grin was half-teasing, half-serious.

Percy blinked at the sword, testing its balance. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t feel wrong either. “Uh… thanks?”

Luke clapped him on the shoulder, his eyes lingering a moment longer than usual, as if trying to solve a riddle only he could see.

“Let’s go,” Annabeth cut in briskly, shouldering her shield. She led the way out of the armory, her braid swinging, muttering something under her breath about “finally we’ll see what you’re really made of.”

Percy Jackson had never participated in capture the flag, a half-blood capture the flag. He didn’t even know what that meant, really. To him, capture the flag was a game, a messy, loud, competitive game, not something that might leave him flattened, electrocuted, or—worst case—maimed.

He looked at the opposing line and froze for half a second. Or maybe it was two. The Ares Cabin wasn’t alone. Not by a long shot. Aphrodite, Demeter, Dionysus, and Hephaestus had joined forces with them. Percy did a quick headcount in his brain, which was never his strong suit, but even he could tell: that was a lot of campers. A lot of armor. A lot of weapons. And a lot of people who seemed like they knew exactly how to use all of it.

Annabeth was studying them, her eyes narrow, lips pressed together like she was calculating the trajectory of every attack before it even happened. She was prepared. Her squad had earplugs to block Aphrodite’s distraction tricks, and she knew Demeter and Dionysus would reinforce the natural barriers. Hephaestus would set up mechanical traps. Everything was… meticulous.

Everything except Clarisse.

Clarisse wasn’t strategic. She was a hurricane wrapped in bronze and electricity. She prowled at the front of her team, bronze spear humming with energy, little threads of static curling along the metal like they were alive and looking for something to burn. Annabeth’s eyes flicked to Percy—again. Then again.

Percy’s stomach sank. Clarisse’s glare wasn’t sweeping across the battlefield to check all the targets—she was zoning in on him. Him. Percy Jackson, who had literally just shown up and had no idea how deadly this could get. His gut said run, but his legs stayed put, glued by some mixture of disbelief and dumb curiosity.

He had a strange kind of confidence, Percy thought. The kind that made you laugh at how out of place you were, the kind that made monsters underestimate you. And maybe that was why he was still standing. But he had no illusions. He hadn’t been trained for this. He barely knew how to fight. He could barely even swing a sword properly.

Annabeth kept watching him like he was a chess piece she’d pushed in front of a gladiator. Strategy. Tactics. Use every tool you’ve got. And somehow, he was supposed to survive that.

Percy took a shaky breath. Maybe it would be fine. Maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, the bronze spear humming at him looked ready to remind him exactly how wrong he was.

Footsteps crunched through the pine needles, and Percy froze just long enough to notice a line of campers forming around Annabeth. Luke materialized to her left, his armor catching the torchlight and throwing back dull gleams, his stance full of that impossible confidence that made Percy’s chest tighten a little—not with fear exactly, just… wow.

To her right, Lee Fletcher of Apollo Cabin approached, adjusting the quiver on his back, smooth and precise, the kind of movements that made you think he was built for this. And farther down the hill, Malcolm came up, pushing himself out of a crouch, his face calm but with an edge that made Percy’s stomach do a flip.

Percy noticed something he hadn’t expected: everyone was looking at Annabeth. All of them. Luke, Lee, Malcolm… even campers further back who weren’t part of this little half-circle. They weren’t just waiting. They were watching. Like she held the center of the world and everything else revolved around her.

And Percy—well, naturally—looked too.

Annabeth stood there, shoulders straight, eyes sharp, lips pressed together in that “don’t mess with me” line that made even the toughest campers pause. Percy could see it now: the way she carried herself wasn’t about being bigger or stronger. It was about brains, about strategy, about knowing exactly what needed to happen and trusting herself to make it happen.

He blinked. He’d thought capture the flag was just a game, maybe a little rough, maybe a few bruises, maybe an embarrassing fall. But seeing her there, seeing the way everyone—including older, stronger, more experienced campers—watched her… yeah, maybe this was serious. Maybe it was more serious than he’d thought.

And maybe… just maybe… Annabeth was the reason it could all work.

Percy took a deep breath, realizing he was already caught up in it, like the rest of them, even though he didn’t belong yet, even though he was still completely clueless.

Annabeth approached, her boots muffled by pine needles, armor humming faintly with each step like it had a heartbeat of its own. Percy straightened instantly, like he’d been caught doing something wrong, one hand fumbling to adjust the leather strap of his shield.

“Percy,” she said, cool and clipped. Not a question. A call.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

Her eyes slid to Ethan. “You’re Ethan, right?”

Ethan gave a tight nod. No words. No expression. Percy glanced at him, wondering how someone could be that calm when everything around them was about to get chaotic.

“You’re both coming with me.”

Neither of them grumbled. Percy tried to pretend he wasn’t relieved he didn’t have to argue.

“Alright,” he said, sounding braver than he felt. Ethan echoed quietly. They trailed after her, Percy thinking—somehow—the way she moved made following her feel like the most natural thing in the world, like he had already signed up without knowing it.

A voice boomed over the clearing before she could move farther, low and ancient, vibrating through the trees.

“Welcome, heroes.”

Percy froze. Something about the voice wasn’t just sound—it was weight, pressing into his chest and making the hairs on his arms stand up.

Chiron. The half-bloods’ mentor. Or whatever mythological version of mentor he was supposed to be. His voice emerged from the shadows like the hum of some ancient bell, deep and solid. It didn’t ring. It just existed.

“The game will begin when the second sign does.”

Percy blinked again. Wait. Game? He had thought it was just capture the flag. He was starting to realize that maybe he’d been drastically underestimating the meaning of “game.”

A heartbeat.

Then—the conch blast. The note shattered the forest stillness, and suddenly everything exploded into motion.

Armor clanged, metal sang. Campers scattered into motion. Voices rose into the night, shields snapped into place, war cries cut through the trees like knives. Percy’s heart pounded so fast he thought it might burst out of his chest.

Annabeth, though? She didn’t flinch. Not a muscle. Not even an eyelid. She turned, already moving, her voice calm as stone:

“Come on. You’ve got assignments.”

Percy followed. He could barely keep up. Every step she took seemed calculated, precise, like she had already imagined every trap, every ambush, every angle of attack. And somehow, he was supposed to keep pace and understand it all.

The trees closed over them, hiding torchlight behind green shadow and twisting branches. Annabeth led them along a narrow, unblazed deer trail, winding through thick undergrowth moon-spotted. Every step was cautious, deliberate.

Then she stopped.

“Wait.” She held up her hand.

Percy froze.

She pressed two fingers to her temple. A silent call. Percy frowned, trying to process it. Was she talking to herself? To Ethan?

Through some unspoken thread, he realized she wasn’t talking to him at all. Someone else would understand. Someone else would.

Annabeth stretched her mind like a web, a silent connection that pulsed outward. Percy could almost feel it brushing past him—sharp, precise, in control.

“Let the game begin.”

Silence.

Then a voice cut through, like wind slicing through broken glass. “Yes, ma’am.”

Percy frowned. “What was that?”

Annabeth didn’t glance his way. She only smiled—a thin, killer pucker of the lips.

“Just you wait.”

Percy swallowed hard. Yeah… he had a feeling he definitely wasn’t ready for this.

Percy jumped the moment the voice spoke in his head.

“Alright, newbies,” it said.

He froze. Telepathy? Seriously? This was happening now?

It was that girl—Sophie—the one who’d instructed the class in demigod abilities. Percy remembered her from the lesson, the one where she’d made them practice sensing each other without speaking. And now… she was talking to him. Or at least to him and someone else.

“This is going to feel a bit strange at first, but you’ll get used to it. For those of you who have done this before—yes, shut up, Connor,” she snapped.

Percy glanced at Ethan and realized Sophie wasn’t just talking to him—she was broadcasting to multiple people at once. He just couldn’t hear their replies. That was… unsettling. But also kind of amazing.

“Anyway,” Sophie continued, her tone edged with exasperation, “I’ll be giving out orders and coordinating support for the skirmishers. Your main job is to patrol the Creek and keep an eye out for incoming enemies. If you see something, just call out like, ‘This is X, I see X amount of enemies approaching.’ I only hear your projecting, not your rambling thoughts. If you’re new, don’t worry, it’s easy. I know we’ve got a couple of newbies on this detail—Percy, Ethan, give it a shot.”

Percy swallowed hard and closed his eyes, concentrating. Telepathy wasn’t exactly like talking. It was… weirdly noisy. Words bounced in his head like tiny, annoying sparks.

“Hey, this is Percy,” he sent.

There was a pause. Then, crisp and clear:

“Yep, just like that. Anyway, the game’s going to start, so stay out of sight. Yes, that means you, Erin.”

Percy opened his eyes, taking a deep breath. He looked over at Ethan, who was practicing a few swings with his new sword. Luke had said it was a makhaira—a long, single-edged leaf-shaped blade, kind of like the one Chiron had given him to fight… well, rage. Only one side was sharp.

They crouched behind a group of trees near the Creek, waiting for the signal to begin. Percy’s knees ached, but he tried not to think about it.

He glanced sideways. “Do you think they put earplugs on us for a reason? I mean, the telepathy thing is working, but…”

Ethan paused, tightening the straps of his shield around his arm. “I don’t know. Somebody said it’s policy when you’re working with Cabin Ten.”

Percy nodded slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Aphrodite, though? What, do they have… love powers or something?”

Ethan shrugged, offering a crooked smile. “Sounds like the kind of thing they’d have. You seen their statue?” He nodded toward the Aphrodite statue outside their cabin. Percy squinted. Yeah… the statue was definitely not modest. Definitely a little distracting. Percy shook his head, trying not to imagine it moving.

He forced his attention back to the trees, to the Creek, to the world about to erupt into chaos. Because apparently, this was just how capture the flag worked at Camp Half-Blood.

"Hey, what's up, Percy?" She sounded as relaxed as if she were speaking back by the campfire and not inside his head.

"Why's most of our crew wearing earplugs?"

"Cabin Ten speaks Charmspeak," she replied. "They can charm you into doing things—like, for example, dropping your weapons." A pause, then a sharp, laughing snap: "No, Travis. Just because it sounds good when they do it doesn't mean you get to knock yourself out early."

Ethan stood transfixed. Percy imagined that he did the same. Telepathy and mind control—both set up, both matter-of-factly established in his life in less than half an hour. His head reeled trying to keep pace, and by Ethan's dazed expression, he wasn't alone.

Then the horn sounded—a low, vibrating note that rolled across the forest, ancient and ominous.

A heartbeat later, bedlam.

Shouting filled the air. Metal screamed. Boom after boom thundered through the ground like grenades exploding. Leaves shook violently above.

“Travis, Connor—retreat. You’re getting cut off,” Sophie’s voice snapped in Percy’s head.

He turned toward the northwest. Two shapes hurtled through the trees at a speed that didn’t seem human—blurs of motion. Pursued.

“Percy, Ethan—fall back east. Stay along the forest edge and—” Sophie’s instructions cut off mid-sentence.

From the north, laughter ripped through the trees.

“How’d my shoe taste?” one of the Stoll brothers shouted, and the laughter made Percy’s stomach lurch. Someone cursed after it.

Another voice—Charles, if Percy had his wits about him—snarled, “They stole my damn net mines.” Even he didn’t sound like he was holding back a laugh.

Percy and Ethan ducked low, creeping from tree to tree, trying not to be noticed.

Then someone bellowed, “Prissy!”

Percy spun around just in time to see Clarisse leap across the Creek in a ten-meter jump, spear crackling with electricity.

She was a blur of bronze and lightning. Before Percy could freak out, she landed. A living bolt of electricity and fury.

Two other Ares kids dropped in beside her.

“Go,” Clarisse snapped, eyes locked on Percy. “Get the other one and advance.”

One of the Ares kids grinned at Ethan, said something mean, and took off after him. Percy didn’t blame Ethan—he would have run too.

Clarisse spun back to him, grin wicked. “This one’s mine.”

Percy’s hands went to his belt. Throwing knives. A balance sword, steady in weight. Not Riptide—this was new, this was… practical. He dropped into a defensive stance, heart hammering.

“I yield!” he shouted, tossing one throwing knife toward her feet more as a warning than anything. He wasn’t about to test Clarisse head-on yet. “I—uh—I surrender!”

Clarisse laughed, jagged and sharp. “Sorry, Prissy—didn’t quite catch that.”

Then she attacked.

Spear came for him like a living thing. Percy ducked and rolled aside, barely keeping his balance, throwing a knife as he landed. It thudded into a tree near her, sparks dancing where it struck the bark. His sword slid into his hand as he scrambled upright.

Clarisse whirled, spear slicing in an arc. The butt caught his left arm with a jolt of electricity that sent his muscles spasming. Pain lanced through him, but he twisted mid-fall and brought the balance sword up, slamming the flat edge against her helmet with a clang. Sparks flew.

She snarled and pulled free, spear leaving a scar across the earth, electricity arcing from root to rock. Percy was already moving, tossing another knife as he backed along the creek, dodging and weaving.

Each step, each swing, each knife thrown was calculated half by instinct, half by terror, all by sheer, desperate hope. He could feel himself changing—his knot of self-doubt burning up like kindling. This wasn’t just practice anymore. This was him. Him, standing, surviving, learning.

Clarisse lunged again, spear aimed to pin him to the ground, and Percy rolled under the strike, countering with the balance sword in a sweeping arc. Sparks met metal, wood, and mud in a chaotic symphony that made his heart hammer and his stomach flip.

Percy darted left, then right, keeping low as Clarisse whirled behind him, spear arcing like a lightning bolt. His first knife had missed by inches, embedding in a mossy tree trunk. He yanked another free, twirling it between his fingers like a desperate dance, tossing it toward her side. It didn’t hit her, but it drew her attention for a split second—long enough for him to slide under the next swing of her spear.

The balance sword felt heavy in his hands, steady but alive. He had to use it differently than a normal sword—more like a lever, a counterweight. His muscles burned from holding it, swinging it, parrying invisible attacks that seemed faster than human reflex. Every move Clarisse made was precision and chaos rolled into one. Percy barely kept up.

Two more Ares kids lunged from the side. Percy spun, slashing the flat edge of his sword against one, sending him stumbling backward. The other came at him fast; Percy threw a knife, hitting the kid in the shoulder. Not deadly, not meant to kill—but enough to make him reconsider the attack. Percy ducked another spear swing from Clarisse and felt the air shimmer with electricity.

“Okay, okay, breathe,” Percy muttered under his breath, teeth gritted. Focus on the knives, focus on the sword, keep moving… survive.

He noticed a fallen branch and kicked it up, tripping the nearest Ares kid slightly. His throwing knives were gone almost as fast as he could reload them, each catch and toss a blur. His sword clanged repeatedly against weapons, trees, rocks—anything to keep Clarisse at bay. Sparks leapt where metal met metal, and Percy’s gloves tingled with static.

Clarisse lunged again, spear tip crackling. Percy barely sidestepped, rolling over the ground and snapping his sword up at her boots, knocking her off balance slightly. It wasn’t enough to stop her, but it bought him a breath. A second.

He patted his belt again, hoping for another knife. Found one. Clicked it loose and sent it spinning toward the second Ares kid, then ducked another swing of Clarisse’s spear that would have impaled him if he’d been a second slower.

You’ve got this, he muttered to himself. It’s not Minotaur-level, it’s not—okay, yes, it’s scary, but you’re not dead yet.

Percy could hear Sophie’s voice in his head: Stay along the forest edge, report anything, don’t get cornered. He twisted his body, dodging, swinging, tossing, and managed to keep the Ares kids at bay. His knees screamed with every crouch, every roll, every desperate jump over roots and low branches, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

Clarisse leapt again—this time, spear aimed straight at his balance sword. Percy planted his feet, raised the sword, and met her strike. Electricity arced from the spear into the blade, humming through his hands. Pain shot up his arms, but he held firm, countering with a sweep of the flat edge that knocked her a step back. Sparks flew. Mud sprayed. Leaves scattered like shrapnel.

Percy’s chest pounded. Adrenaline screamed in his ears. The throwing knives were gone. His arms ached. His legs felt like lead—but he was alive. More than alive. He was fighting.

And somewhere deep inside, a little spark flared. He could do this. He could survive this. He could even… maybe, just maybe… keep Clarisse on her toes long enough to get back to Ethan.

He spun, launching the last knife from his belt with perfect desperation, ducked under a second swing, and slammed the balance sword against her spear’s shaft again, sending a shower of sparks into the night.

The forest echoed with the sounds of chaos. Percy Jackson grinned through his exhaustion and pain.

Bring it on.

The Minotaur had been fast—too fast—but Clarisse was different. She had a brain. Sure, maybe a small one, but it worked. She could see. She could read feints. She could adapt. Charging blindly, like he had against the Minotaur? Not an option. She’d just drop the spear and punch him into the next week.

Percy adjusted his stance, throwing knives strapped to his belt, balance sword tight in his grip. He had to find the sweet spot—close enough for throwing knife range, far enough to avoid a free strike from her spear, just enough to keep her from bashing his shield.

Clarisse snarled. “Don’t insult me, Prissy.”

Percy grinned, dodging right. “It’s Percy. Countess of Crap, actually. You good? Or did that sewer thing earlier scramble your brain? Rinsed something out for you—no charge.”

She roared and came at him like a storm. Percy ducked under a sweeping spear strike, sliding a knife free and flicking it toward her midsection. She caught it in her peripheral, deflecting it with the shaft, sparks dancing off bronze. He rolled aside, launching another knife, keeping her attention split just long enough to close in with the balance sword.

He jammed the pommel into her ribs. She staggered. Percy zigzagged back, tossing knives as he moved, keeping distance.

Clarisse recovered instantly, shield raised, spear aimed with lethal precision. Stab—stab—stab. He dodged and parried, sword flashing, arms tingling from the shocks of metal meeting bronze. He shifted strategy, slashing at her spear shaft instead of the tip, minimizing the jolts, buying more control.

And then—she bellowed.

Not human. A guttural, wild roar that slammed into his chest, reverberated through his blood, set fire to something deep inside. Fear and rage collided. Impulsiveness exploded in a rush of energy. Percy’s mind screamed: Blood!

He didn’t hesitate. A throwing knife sailed past her shoulder. He spun, side-stepped, and lunged, dropping the sword to punch her square in the armored stomach. The armor dented under his knuckles. Clarisse twisted, flying backward like a ragdoll slammed into a tree.

She slid down the trunk, crashed into the dirt a dozen meters away. Percy’s chest heaved. The wild surge of strength ebbed as fast as it had come, leaving him trembling, breath ragged. What the hell had that been?

He didn’t have time to think. Clarisse was already rising, eyes blazing, spear and shield at the ready. He yanked another knife free, spinning it like a tiny wheel of death, and slashed at her with the balance sword.

Stab. Parry. Dodge. Step back. Another knife thrown. Each motion tight, precise, chaotic—his arms burning, legs screaming, heart hammering—but he kept moving, kept surviving.

Clarisse attacked again, faster this time, each strike sharper, more cunning. Percy gritted his teeth, throwing knives, swinging the balance sword, ducking under sweeps of bronze. Each contact sparked against metal, stone, or tree, sending tremors through his arms.

He was alive. He was still moving. And somehow—somehow—he was still in the fight.

The forest echoed with battle, electricity arcing through trees, leaves shaking like they were alive. Percy Jackson grinned through exhaustion and pain. Bring it on, he thought.

Luke moved swiftly through the forest—not flat-out sprinting, but fast enough. Around him, branches whipped past as six Hermes kids, five of Lee’s Cabin Seven crew, and three Athena siblings kept pace, the crunch of leaves beneath their feet barely audible over their focused breaths. They were making good time, heading toward the northern shore of Camp, deep in Clarisse’s claimed territory.

“Slow up. We’re near their base,” Louella’s voice cut through the group like a whip. Instantly, the pace shifted from a run to a calculated prowl. “Amber, Victoria—keep us out of sight. Luke, Coralline—get close, gather intel.”

Luke gave a quick nod and tapped Coralline’s arm. She matched his pace as they peeled off into the brush, shadows folding around them. Behind them, sunlight began to twist and shimmer unnaturally—Austin and Vic warping the light, cloaking the squad in a veil of illusion.

The cool pull of the shadows welcomed Luke, and he melted into them. Coralline followed, her form shimmering at the edges until it nearly vanished into the dark foliage. The two of them slipped through the undergrowth like ghosts.

Ahead, the enemy stronghold loomed—a circular fortress of woven wood, thorned vines curling over six-meter walls. Luke’s eyes locked on Katie Gardner patrolling the ramparts, bark armor shifting with her movements, merging her with the living wall.

He sent the scene silently to Farah through their mental link. Got it. On my mark, we hit. Luke, you know your role.

Copy that, he replied, sliding his sword free without a sound. Coralline shimmered beside him, knives drawn, practically vibrating with anticipation.

Ready? she mouthed.

Luke smirked. Oh, he was ready.

“Attack,” Louella’s voice cut through the forest.

Victoria erupted from the treeline, flanked by two Cabin Six fighters. Shields raised, she ignited, a concentrated beam of light slicing through the fortress wall. Luke’s eyes narrowed. Photokinesis that strong was rare. Noted.

Chaos erupted. Luke and Coralline melted into the shadows, crossbow bolts whining past them. Cabin Seven’s archers fired back, sonic arrows shrieking through the air. Luke winced but ignored the ringing—earplugs saved him.

They reached the breach just as the wall began knitting itself back together. At its center, the flag stood alone, fabric smoking from Victoria’s strike, slowly repairing.

Luke hugged the outer wall as Coralline dashed forward in a blur. In seconds, she snatched the banner, spun, and sprinted back.

Castor dropped from the battlements ahead, moving fast for his size. Luke met him in a clash of steel, feints and flicks keeping him one step ahead. Pollux joined the fight, and Katie’s skin flickered green as vines twisted under her control.

“Go!” Luke barked.

Coralline didn’t hesitate. She darted past Luke as he tripped Castor, then pivoted into a clean slash that froze Pollux mid-step. The son of Dionysus dropped his sword, stepping aside to remove his sash. Luke pressed his blade to Castor’s face as the boy staggered back, theatrically defeated.

No time to savor it. The breach was closing fast under Katie’s command. Luke dove through just clearing the thorns, Cabin Seven covering their retreat. Coralline tossed him the flag mid-flight.

It shimmered in his hands—then split into two. He handed one copy back to her. She grinned, slid her blade away, and bolted northwest. Luke turned south, the real banner gripped tight, and ran.

Their strike force split, defenders in pursuit. Crossbow bolts flew. The trees themselves seemed to reach out, snaring at their clothes and limbs as they fled.

Luke laughed as he ran—breathless, wild, victorious.

Coralline veered north, smile still on her face. Luke angled south, their forces spreading out to protect the flag bearers. Behind them, the forest rang with shouting and the thrum of battle.

Glory awaited.

Ethan’s feet pounded against the forest floor, heart hammering in his chest. His breath came in ragged gasps as branches whipped across his face and arms, the world blurring around him. His legs screamed from the strain, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t dare.

Behind him, the sound of heavy boots crashing through the underbrush grew closer. Ares kids. Three of them, sent by Clarisse to take him down, and they were getting angrier by the second.

He could hear their voices—gravelly and threatening—calling out to him, but he couldn’t spare the breath to answer. He was too fast, too determined, and he had to get away. He was just a kid. Thirteen. He still had both his eyes intact, and he wanted to keep it that way. Clarisse’s Ares kids were bigger, stronger, and relentless. He’d heard the stories. A close encounter with them could leave him with permanent scars. Or worse. He wasn’t planning on becoming one of those camp legends, the “what-happened-to-him” stories they told around the campfire.

The forest blurred past him, every step carrying him further from the danger, but his pulse was pounding too loud in his ears. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was leaving something behind—someone.

Percy.

He blinked. Wait, no.

He swore under his breath. He had been too focused on escaping to think straight, but now the realization slammed into him like a brick wall. Percy. The new kid. He’d been assigned to keep an eye on him, make sure he didn’t wander into trouble. And Ethan had—what?—just run?

His stomach twisted in guilt. He had been here for two weeks, one week longer than Percy, but even so, he should have known better. Percy didn’t know the ins and outs of the camp, didn’t know how to stay hidden when danger was near. Ethan did. He had learned fast, had survived fast, but Percy? He was still figuring it all out.

“Damn it,” Ethan muttered, his eyes darting nervously over his shoulder. He couldn’t leave Percy behind. Not like this.

His feet stuttered to a halt, and a wave of panic crashed over him. Percy was out there alone, unprotected, and the Ares kids were only getting closer. Ethan didn’t think twice. He spun on his heel, headed back toward the creek where he’d left Percy, knowing he was making himself an easy target. But that didn’t matter right now. Nothing mattered except getting back to the kid who needed him.

Ethan didn’t even pause. He slipped into the shadows of the trees, moving faster, quieter, as if the forest itself was opening up to let him through. The leaves seemed to part for him, the earth softening beneath his feet so he barely made a sound. A strange, eerie calm had settled over him, quieting the usual frantic terror that came with being hunted. It was like a new part of his brain had been switched on, a deep, primal instinct taking the wheel. His breath caught in his throat, but not from exertion. It was from a mix of wonder and disbelief. What was happening to him?

He couldn’t afford to focus on it now. The Ares kids were back on his trail, but they were slower now, distracted by the mess their teammate had made. The sounds of their heavy footfalls and frustrated shouts grew more distant. Ethan felt a strange… pull. A calming sense that he was in control, even when his brain screamed at him to keep moving, to keep running, to keep fighting for his life.

He heard one of the Ares kids cursing up ahead, swiping at his face, muttering about mud and broken branches. The distraction gave Ethan a small window to move faster, ducking under a thick cluster of bushes. His heart still raced, but the frantic, panicked rhythm had changed into a steady drumbeat of determination. The sunlight that filtered through the canopy above seemed to flicker, shifting oddly around him, as if he wasn’t supposed to be seen, as if the very light was veiling him.

But he wasn’t thinking about it. He couldn’t. All that mattered was Percy. He had to get back to him.

He slipped past a thick bramble, feet light and barely making a sound. The bushes around him parted, hiding him just as they had before. The Ares kids were getting farther away, their voices fading into the general hum of the forest. Still, Ethan couldn’t slow down. He couldn’t risk it. Not until Percy was safe. The thought of Percy—alone, vulnerable, and in danger—fueled him. It was a new feeling, a fierce protectiveness he hadn't known he was capable of.

Then, like a sudden realization hitting him all at once, Ethan felt it—a sharp twinge of discomfort in the pit of his stomach. He had been running on autopilot, his instincts taking over, but now, the weight of his choices and the bizarre events of the last few minutes hit him like a stone to the chest.

Did he just…? Did he just activate my power?

A strange, eerie calm spread through him. Something had shifted. It wasn’t just luck. It wasn’t just him being fast or smart. It was as if the universe itself had bent to his will, giving him the edge he needed, just when he needed it most. He was a son of Nemesis, a child of retribution and balance. What could his power be? A ripple of cold fear went through him, but it was quickly replaced by a surge of purpose. He had a duty, a goal, and a friend to protect.

But that wasn't important now. What mattered was Percy. Percy, who was still out there, probably wondering if anyone cared enough to save him.

Ethan pushed through the last stretch of forest, his feet barely touching the ground as the trees parted before him. And there, at the creek, he saw him. Percy. Alone. Fighting Clarisse, the very daughter of Ares who had made this mess.

Ethan’s pulse quickened, but this time, it wasn’t from fear. It was from something else. Something fierce and protective. He had found his friend, and he had done what he set out to do. He hadn’t failed. Not today.

Percy’s heels kissed the edge of the creek, the ground beneath him turning slick with water. Clarisse was on him, relentless, her spear jabbing so fast it was more like lightning than wood and metal. Each strike crackled past him, close enough that his hair stood on end from the static. He didn’t even bother swinging the sword anymore—there wasn’t time. He dodged, ducked, twisted, every instinct screaming that if she pinned him down in close quarters, it would be over.

Then his foot slipped. Cold rushed in as water filled his shoe—Clarisse had driven him into the creek.

Panic surged through him. No, not here. Water dragged at his limbs. It wasn’t the ocean. He’d learned that lesson the hard way—creeks and lakes didn’t sing to him the same way. Here, he wasn’t faster. He was just wet and cornered.

Clarisse lunged again, her face twisted with fury, spear flashing toward his chest.

No more.

Percy acted on instinct. As the tip of the spear darted toward him, he reached up, gripping it just below the blade. Clarisse’s eyes went wide, and she screamed—“Nooo!”—but he was already moving. With a cry of his own, he brought the sword down hard, slicing at the shaft.

The moment the blade connected, light exploded in his vision. Pain seared through his body, white-hot and blinding. The world fractured around him.

Then—blackness.

He gasped awake, coughing creek water, chest heaving. He was lying on his back, half in the water, half out, hair singed and armor scorched. His ribs ached like he’d been kicked by a hellhound, and the metallic taste of ozone coated his tongue. Somehow, he was still gripping the sword, knuckles white around the hilt.

He blinked through the haze. Across the creek, the remnants of Clarisse’s spear floated in the water, charred and splintered. Clarisse herself was struggling to her feet. Her body was still standing, somehow, though smoke rose off her armor. It was twisted, blackened—like she’d walked through an explosion. Her horsehair plume was aflame, a trail of smoke curling from the top of her helmet. The red sash across her chest sizzled as it burned through and dropped into the water.

She stood, dazed for a second, then her eyes locked on him—and narrowed to slits.

“Jackson, you fucking maggot!” she roared, ripping a short sword from her belt and barreling into the creek.

Percy didn’t think.

He couldn’t.

It was like the arena all over again—like the fight with Mrs. Dodds, the first time his instincts had screamed at him to let go, to trust something deeper.

So he did.

He let go.

Clarisse swung. Percy swayed. Her blade hissed past him, and when her shield came crashing toward his ribs, he didn’t step back—he stepped into it. His hand darted out, catching the rim of the shield. Time slowed. He twisted his body, dragging the shield off-center. Clarisse growled, trying to wrench it back—but she had to choose: keep the shield or keep her balance.

She let go.

Percy released it a second later, the heavy bronze disk flying into the muddy bank and burying itself deep.

Clarisse stumbled, half-turned, off-balance. Percy didn’t chase her. Not yet.

But he didn’t need to look around to know he’d just taken control of the fight.

And the creek, the water around him? It felt different now.

It wasn’t the ocean—but it was listening.

Shock flashed across Clarisse’s face, but Percy didn’t stop to savor it. Her shortsword hissed through the air again, this time slicing across his midsection. He stepped back—just barely fast enough. Bronze scraped bronze, sparking off his breastplate right above his navel.

She overextended. Left her chest wide open.

Percy didn’t think—he surged forward and slammed his shoulder into her sternum. The impact sent her stumbling back, armor clattering. But before he could pull away, she countered, slamming the butt of her sword into his helmet.

Pain burst behind his eyes like fireworks. His ears rang. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth—tongue, probably. Or a tooth, he thought grimly.

Dazed, head down, vision swimming, Percy fought through the pain. He dipped low and jammed the sword between Clarisse’s legs, hooking the flat of the blade behind her calf. Then he yanked upward.

She yelped—more surprised than hurt—and went flying, landing flat on her back in the creek with a loud splash.

Still reeling, Percy straightened just enough to point the tip of the sword inches from her nose. “Yeeild,” he slurred, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

Clarisse glared up at him, eyes burning. She lay there, water sloshing around her armor, face twisted in fury.

“Fine,” she growled through gritted teeth, slumping back in the creek.

Percy narrowed his eyes and jabbed Riptide a little higher, pressing it gently against her chin. “Sorry, Sewage Queen, didn’t quite catch that.”

Clarisse bared her teeth. “I. Yield,” she spat. Then under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear: “Fucker.”

Percy grinned. He was willing to let that one slide.

He stepped back to the muddy bank, boots squelching. Fingers sinking into the muck, he yanked her shield free and tossed it toward her. It landed with a wet thunk just as she was pushing herself upright.

Then the forest erupted.

Ten campers burst from the trees in a perfectly timed charge. Luke led the pack, wild grin splitting his face, Clarisse’s blood-red banner with the boar’s head and spear clutched in one hand, a bronze xiphos glinting in the other—longer than Riptide, sharp and deadly.

Behind him, chaos followed: crossbow bolts screamed through the air, hidden flames licked the underbrush, and vines slithered forward like living snakes, reaching for their targets. The Athena kids snapped into formation, shields rising as one. From the treeline, Apollo campers sent a volley of arrows singing toward the attackers.

Percy’s gaze locked on a familiar figure—Katie Gardner—stumbling from cover, pointing straight at Luke. The trees responded, branches twisting, reaching, as if trying to trap him.

Too slow.

Luke shimmered, his form blurring like heat on pavement. He vaulted across the creek—not brute strength like Clarisse, but speed. Inhuman speed.

A crossbow bolt whistled toward his back, and Percy’s breath caught.

The bolt passed right through him.

Not a graze. Not a dodge.

Through him.

It embedded in the same tree Percy had slammed into minutes before.

Luke landed with a splash, already grinning like he’d just stolen the lightning bolt.

Clarisse groaned from the mud. Percy just stared at Luke, stunned—and a little afraid. What was that?

Luke landed on the opposite creek bank with a victorious roar, brandishing the crimson Ares banner like a trophy. His team thundered after him, laughing, shouting, dripping with mud, sweat, and the high of near-victory. Percy couldn’t help grinning, despite the ache in his ribs and the taste of blood in his mouth.

From the forest’s edge, Chiron emerged, calm and steady, hooves silent on the soft earth. He lifted a silver conch to his lips and blew. The horn’s deep, resonant call rolled through the trees—a clear signal: game over.

From all corners of the woods, demigods began to appear. Some limped, others dragged friends, all exhilarated and half-wild from the skirmish. Ethan jogged toward Percy, flushed but grinning.

“Hey,” he said, breathless, concern flickering behind his smile. “Sorry I ditched you. Are you okay, dude? Your plume… looked like it was actually on fire. And, uh… are those scorch marks?”

Percy laughed shortly and clapped Ethan on the shoulder. “You didn’t exactly have a choice. Clarisse is a lot. How’d you do?”

Ethan brightened. “Made it back to the hill just in time. Soph said she’d lost track of you, but we held the line. And…” He leaned in, voice dropping with a grin. “I got two.”

“No way.” Percy offered a fist; Ethan bumped it proudly.

They were still grinning when Annabeth emerged, braid half-unraveled, armor scuffed but intact. She strolled up like she hadn’t just orchestrated half the battlefield. “Well, well. How’d you two like my strategy?”

Percy shot her a withering look. “You left me as bait.”

Annabeth didn’t blink. “A tactical sacrifice,” she said with a smirk. Then her eyes flicked to the blue end of Percy’s sash still tied around his arm. Her smirk faded into genuine surprise. “Wait—you’re still in? I thought Clarisse would’ve steamrolled you by now.”

Percy thumbed over his shoulder. “Tell her that.” Clarisse was sloshing out of the creek, armor blackened and dripping, for what had to be her second soggy walk of shame this week.

Annabeth stared. “You beat her?”

Percy finally stepped onto dry ground, knees buckling. Ethan and Annabeth caught him, steadying him as he groaned and spat a mouthful of blood into the grass.

“I don’t know how,” he mumbled. “She pushed me into the creek, I broke her spear, and then—boom. Something exploded. After that… I think she was off.”

“You broke her—” Annabeth started, then froze as the air shifted.

A sound rose from the trees: sharp, distant, low at first, then higher. Multiple voices joined in.

The howling had begun.

Annabeth’s head snapped west, across the creek—just like everyone else’s. The group hoisting Luke on their shoulders faltered, lowering him as the blood-red Ares banner shimmered and shifted, replaced by Hermes’s silver-and-bronze standard, gleaming with a Caduceus.

No one was laughing anymore.

Two dozen howls tore through the forest. Low. Bone-chilling. Familiar. Annabeth’s stomach dropped—she knew those howls. Suddenly, too many things clicked—but instead of answers, only more questions filled her mind.

Then the first hellhound exploded from the trees. The size of a car, jet-black fur drinking in the light, glowing red eyes fixed on them. Annabeth’s heart sank.

“Archers!” she shouted—just as Chiron bellowed the same. A storm of arrows and bolts ripped through the air, striking the beast in the snarling face and toppling it before it even reached camp.

More followed: a Great Dane, a Bulldog, a freaking Labradoodle. All monstrous, all barreling straight toward—

Not her. Percy.

“Form ranks!” Chiron yelled as another wave tore from the trees. “Hellhounds! Aim for the eyes!”

The campers moved like clockwork. Clarisse grabbed a spear and charged. Ares, Athena, and Hephaestus cabins locked shields, a practiced wall forming instantly. Shock faded, replaced by precision. Numbers—and skill—turned the tide.

But one hound, larger than the rest, shaped like a Rottweiler, leapt over the rotting pile of its fallen kin, flying straight at Percy.

“In the water, Percy!” Annabeth screamed.

When he didn’t move, she grabbed his arm and shoved him into the creek. He stumbled—then froze. Straightened. No longer pale or drained, but alert. Charged.

Like someone yanked a puppet string straight up.

In one fluid motion, Percy caught the hound’s jaw mid-air, yanked it down with supernatural strength, and slammed it into the creekbed. The ground rumbled.

He drew his sword, reversed his grip, and drove the blade straight between the hellhound’s eyes.

Its burning gaze flickered to coals. Then nothing.

The corpse crumbled. Dust. Blood. Gone.

It had landed less than a meter from Annabeth. Percy stood between her and the beast, chest heaving.

The final howls died. Every camper turned, eyes locked on him.

Percy spun toward Annabeth, incredulous. “What the hell did you do that for? You could’ve killed—”

“You’re standing,” she cut in.

Percy blinked. Considered it. “Yeah… what’s that about?”

Before anyone could answer, a sudden gust blew in from the north—briny, unmistakable. Sea air. The wind twisted around Percy, shimmering above his head, and a sea-green trident formed in midair.

Annabeth’s eyes widened. It was the exact shade of Percy’s own.

“What the—what is that?!” Percy yelled.

Chiron stamped his hoof sharply. The campers snapped to attention.

Only a few younger demigods whispered. Everyone else—those old enough to know—stood frozen, stunned.

“He has been Claimed,” Chiron declared.

“Claimed?” Percy echoed quietly, disbelief thick in his voice.

Annabeth’s voice was small, but certain. “Your father.”

Percy’s eyes went back to the trident, still glowing above him.

“Earthshaker. Stormbringer. Lord of Atlantis, of Horses, Sailing, and the Seas themselves,” Chiron intoned. “Hail, Perseus Jackson—Son of the Sea God.”

One by one, the campers bowed, as tradition demanded.

Silence fell.

Then Percy’s mind clicked. The Minotaur. The plumbing incident with Clarisse. Beating her in the water. Summoning literal sewage while staying dry. Of course.

He cursed under his breath—but the whole camp heard it anyway.

“Well, duh. Dumbass.”

Chapter Text

Percy trudged back to Cabin Eleven in silence, his shoes crunching against the gravel path. The night air clung to him—cool, damp, restless. He caught glimpses of other campers on their way to the pavilion, laughing and shoving each other, the kind of easy normal that Percy suddenly felt locked out of.

Chiron had promised to move him into Cabin Three in the morning, but the thought twisted his stomach into knots. He could already feel the shift in the air since the truth had slipped out—every look aimed his way carried an edge. Some eyes were curious, others wary, a few tinged with jealousy. And worse, some were simply disgusted. Percy felt them all the way a storm feels the buildup of static in the sky.

From what Annabeth had told him, he understood perfectly well what the older campers were thinking. He wasn’t just some new kid at camp. He was a Forbidden Child. His father had broken an ancient oath just to be with his mom, then vanished, leaving Percy holding the consequences like a curse branded into his skin.

He skipped dinner. The anxiety was too heavy, too loud in his chest. He didn’t want the stares, the whispers, the pity. He climbed into his bunk as soon as he could, face buried in the thin pillow, willing himself to disappear. The creak of the wood and the faint smell of old dust clung around him. Cabin Eleven had never been comfortable, crammed with bodies and belongings, but for the first time it felt like a cage.

When Ethan came back from the dining pavilion, he didn’t say a word. Percy heard the quiet shuffle of his boots, then something small landed beside him on the mattress with a muted thump. A wax-paper-wrapped sandwich. By the time Percy turned his head, Ethan was already climbing into the bunk below, wordless as ever.

A minute later, there was the soft, rhythmic rustle of pages turning. Ethan was reading. Letting Percy breathe. The silence between them wasn’t cold—it was deliberate, thoughtful. And Percy, curled on his side with the sandwich untouched in his hands, felt quietly grateful for that.

The quiet stretched on until Percy couldn’t stand it anymore. He shifted, voice muffled against the pillow, hesitant.

“Did anyone… say anything?”

The sound of pages stopped. A pause, then the snap of a book closing. Ethan’s voice was calm, even. “You want the good news or the bad?”

Percy rolled onto his back, staring at the cabin’s wooden ceiling where shadows pooled in the rafters. “Good first.”

“Annabeth and Luke tore into a bunch of people for whispering,” Ethan said. “Counselors from Apollo and Hephaestus backed them up. They told everyone it doesn’t matter who your dad is, or whether it’s forbidden—you didn’t choose this. Most of camp shut up after that.”

Percy blinked hard, his throat tightening. These were people he’d barely known a week, yet they’d stood up for him—loudly, publicly, when they didn’t have to. Somehow, that meant more than he could explain. He pressed his hand against his chest, like he could steady the aching swell there.

He exhaled shakily. “Okay. What’s the bad news?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.

Ethan shifted below, the bunk frame groaning softly. His voice, when it came, was low but steady. “People are scared. The hellhound—or whatever that thing was—shouldn’t have made it past the camp’s borders. Luke says the barrier’s held for decades, maybe longer. If it got in…” He hesitated, then finished, “That means someone had to let it in. On purpose.”

The words hung in the air like a thundercloud about to break. Percy stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, the sandwich forgotten on the blanket beside him. He’d already felt like the world was stacked against him, but now—now it seemed worse. It wasn’t just bad luck or bad blood. Someone out there wanted him dead.

And for the first time since coming to camp, Percy realized: tomorrow, when he stepped into Cabin Three, into his father’s name, the whole camp would be watching. Not just with suspicion. With fear.

Percy didn’t move. He just lay there, staring at the rough wooden ceiling, listening. Every word Ethan spoke settled on his chest like a stone, heavy and cold.

“And everyone…” Ethan’s voice faltered, almost swallowed by the shadows of the cabin. He hesitated, as if weighing each word against the risk of hurting Percy even more. “…Everyone’s saying you were the target.”

Percy’s body went rigid. He didn’t mean to start crying—not really. But the tears came anyway, slow at first, quiet, almost shy, before spilling freely down his cheeks, soaking into the pillow beneath him. He pressed his face into the pillow, trying to hide it, though he knew it wouldn’t matter. Ethan couldn’t see him from the bunk below.

He didn’t ask for this. Not the whispers, not the judgment, not the monsters. He had never wanted to be special. Never wanted to be chosen. Never wanted a curse or a destiny that felt like a noose around his neck.

If he could, he would have traded it all in a heartbeat to go back to his old life—even if it meant the same endless scrapes, the same small-town struggles, the same relentless, boring uncertainty. That life had been hard. Really hard. But it had been his.

This—this life of gods and monsters, of whispered stares and uneasy alliances—wasn’t something he had asked for. It had been forced upon him, like the currents of a river dragging him toward a cliff he couldn’t see. He had to fight. He had to survive. And yet, all he wanted right now was to close his eyes and pretend he could just drift back to the quiet misery of being ordinary.

He felt the bed shift slightly beneath him and a faint scrape of paper. Ethan was probably reading again, pretending to focus, giving Percy the space he needed. It should have made him feel better, but all it did was make the cabin feel larger, emptier, more isolating. The walls, the bunks, the shadows—they all seemed to press in, mocking him with how small he felt.

Percy tried to swallow, tried to steady his breath, tried to make himself tough like he had to be. But the lump in his throat wouldn’t go away. He could taste the salt of his tears, feel the tightness in his chest. He hated being weak. Hated being afraid. Hated the fact that the truth—the impossible truth—had finally found him here, even in the one place he was supposed to feel safe.

He rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket tighter around him. His fists curled into the fabric, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself feel all the fear, all the sorrow, all the loneliness at once. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just let it settle—this terrible, impossible weight—and waited for morning, knowing the world outside would never stop watching, never stop expecting, never stop judging.

Now he was a pariah. A threat. And someone out there wanted him dead.

Ethan’s voice broke through again, softer this time, like a hand brushing against Percy’s shoulder in the dark. “Mr. D was actually stunned when Chiron told him. Like… genuinely speechless. Then he just… vanished. Snapped his fingers, turned into a puff of purple mist. Smelled like wine.”

Percy sniffed, pressing the pillow harder against his face, trying to pull himself together. He could feel the sting of tears he hadn’t fully wiped away, the soreness in his throat from holding back sobs. His chest still felt tight, like he was carrying the weight of all the stares and whispers and monsters in the world at once.

“Luke thinks he went to Olympus,” Ethan continued, voice calm but edged with awe. “To tell Zeus. I guess… when someone breaks the rules that badly, even the gods can’t ignore it.”

Percy swallowed hard. He could picture it: Mr. D, flustered, fumbling, gone in a blink of purple smoke, leaving nothing behind but the sharp tang of wine. It should have been funny—or at least ridiculous—but all Percy could feel was the impossible, suffocating weight of it.

Silence fell again, thick and heavy, the kind that fills the space between two people without either of them speaking. Ethan didn’t add anything else. He just turned another page in his book, the soft scrape of paper against paper oddly comforting in its normalcy, like a tether to a world that still had rules, even if it wasn’t Percy’s world.

Percy lay there, staring into the dark, the shadows of the cabin pressing in like quiet judgment. His eyes burned from tears, and his heart ached as if it were bruised from being held too tightly. More than anything, he wished he could be invisible, unremarkable, just nobody. He wished he could crawl backward through time to the life he’d left behind—scraping by in school, struggling with homework, dodging bullies—but at least it had been his life. This one—full of monsters, gods, curses, and whispers—was not something he had chosen. Not something he had asked for.

He curled tighter under the blanket, the mattress creaking beneath him, and let the quiet of the cabin swallow him. Ethan’s steady presence, the soft turning of pages, the distant night sounds outside—they didn’t fix anything. But for now, they were enough. Enough to remind him that, even in a world that had thrust him into the impossible, he wasn’t entirely alone.

And maybe, if he could make it through the Ethan’s reply came a second later, voice slightly strained but laced with humor. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

That broke something. Percy’s chest tightened, then loosened in the strangest way. The tension, the fear, the heaviness of the past week—it all seemed absurd all at once. They both started laughing. Quiet at first, hesitant, as if testing the air, then louder, the kind of laughter that bubbles up uncontrollably when everything else feels too big to hold inside.

Percy couldn’t stop. His ribs ached from it, his cheeks hurt, and for a moment the cabin felt smaller, warmer, like it could actually hold him without suffocating. Tears slid down his face again, but this time they were lighter, the kind of tears that come from relief and release rather than sorrow. He laughed until his sides burned, until the sheer absurdity of the past week hit him all at once:

Demon math teachers, minotaurs in underwear, a summer camp full of magic kids, flying horses, a pen that turned into a sword, his Latin teacher turning out to be half horse—and, of course, the whole “Dad’s a god” thing that had rewritten his entire life.

By the time the giggles finally faded into silence again, Percy let out a slow, shaky breath, a little calmer now. The cabin smelled faintly of old wood and dust, the night sounds of crickets and leaves rustling outside threading through the quiet. He felt lighter, even if only by a fraction.

“Good night, dude,” he said softly, voice almost hoarse but sincere.

“’Night,” Ethan mumbled back, and the small, simple exchange felt like a lifeline, a quiet tether holding him steady in a world that refused to make sense.

Percy lay back against the pillow, closing his eyes. For the first time that night, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Percy slept badly that night. The sheets tangled around his legs like a net, clinging and pulling as if they had a will of their own. Every creak of the cabin floorboards sounded amplified, like a monster pacing just beyond the shadows. He turned this way and that, seeking comfort in the narrow bunk, but comfort was a stranger tonight.

His mind refused to rest. He replayed the day’s strange events in agonizing detail—the way the whispers had stopped when Annabeth and Luke spoke up, the way some campers still avoided his gaze, and the heavy weight of knowing someone had let a creature breach the camp’s defenses. Each memory twisted in his chest, tightening the invisible knot of fear and anticipation.

Percy thought of Ethan below, quietly reading, the soft rustle of pages still echoing faintly in his mind. Even that simple act—someone just being there without pressing, without prying—had been a comfort. And yet, it didn’t chase away the unease. The world felt like it was shifting around him, subtle cracks appearing in places he had once trusted.

He imagined the barrier, meant to hold for decades, now pierced. Someone had invited a hellhound inside, deliberately, and the thought made his stomach churn. Was it a prank? A mistake? Or something darker, something aimed at him? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. But the questions chased him relentlessly, like shadows stretching across the cabin walls in the flickering light of the moon through the windows.

When sleep finally began to tug at him, it came in fits and starts. Darkness wrapped around his eyelids, but it didn’t stay empty for long. Shapes formed in the corners of the room, whispers curled around the edges of his mind, and the faintest scent of smoke or brine—or something worse—clung to the air. He squeezed his eyes shut, telling himself it was just his imagination. It had to be.

Still, even with the rational part of his mind screaming for calm, a gnawing unease settled in his chest. Percy felt like he was standing at the edge of a storm he couldn’t see, waiting for it to crash down. And in the silence of Cabin Eleven, with Ethan’s steady breathing below him, he realized that some nights offered no comfort, no sanctuary—only the long, unyielding wait for morning.

He felt it first—an aura so heavy, so absolute, that it pressed down on his chest and stole the air from his lungs. The cabin seemed to shrink around him, shadows pooling in the corners, yet unable to touch the golden radiance that filled the space. It was ancient and all-consuming, a pure, divine presence that made the hairs on his arms stand on end, a vibration that thrummed through the floorboards and into his bones.

He didn’t need anyone to tell him who it was. The air itself seemed to bend under her will, charged with a regal authority that could only belong to one being:

Hera.

The Queen of the Gods stood before him, impossibly tall and flawless, her form wrapped in a gown of shimmering gold and silver that seemed to drink in starlight and scatter it across the cabin like liquid fire. Her presence radiated warmth and power, a blinding majesty that pressed against Percy’s senses with the weight of inevitability. The room—or perhaps the world itself—seemed to pulse in response to her, slowing, stretching, and holding its breath.

Yet when her gaze met his, Percy felt something unexpected. It wasn’t cruelty, not the cold vengeance of the Hera he’d heard about in stories or glimpsed in nightmares. There was no judgment, no fury, no condemnation for his father’s choices or the chaos he’d carried in his blood. Her eyes softened, and the weight of her presence shifted, not lighter, exactly, but… different. Almost tender. Almost motherly.

Percy’s chest tightened with conflicting emotions. Reverence. Fear. Wonder. And beneath it all, a strange flicker of relief. He had come to expect anger from the gods, or disappointment, or worse—indifference. But Hera’s gaze held none of that. It was like being seen, fully and completely, for the first time.

He swallowed, unsure if he even had a voice, but a single word escaped, trembling and almost lost in the gravity of her presence. “Hera…”

She inclined her head slightly, a motion so subtle it might have been mistaken for wind stirring the fabric of her gown. “Percy Jackson,” she said, her voice like sunlight cutting through mist—warm, sharp, and impossible to ignore. “You carry a storm in your blood, but you also carry something else. Something… unexpected.”

Percy’s stomach knotted. Every fiber of his being screamed to run, to hide under the blankets, to deny he had ever heard her name. And yet, he was rooted to the spot, caught between awe and terror, drawn forward by something he couldn’t name.

Hera’s gaze softened again, lingering on him in a way that made his chest ache. “Do not fear me,” she murmured. “I have not come to punish. I have come… to warn.”

And for the first time in a long, long time, Percy felt the impossible weight of destiny—and the faintest glimmer that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to face it alone.

“Child,” she said, and her voice rolled like thunder wrapped in silk. It wasn’t a command, but a statement of undeniable truth. “You will need strength beyond your years.”

She moved aside, and Percy realized she’d been standing in front of a tall, ornate mirror. Its frame was carved with writhing vines and stars, a tapestry of creation itself, but the glass didn’t reflect him. Instead, it rippled like water, as if the mirror were alive, and images bled through like ink spreading across a page. They whispered promises of a future he didn’t want to see, yet he couldn’t look away.

He saw himself alone on a storm-tossed sea, the waves lashing at his flimsy boat like angry fists. Rain stung his face, saltwater filled his mouth, and the wind screamed in his ears. At his side, a girl with gray eyes stood steadfast, her face a mask of weary determination. She looked as if she carried the weight of the world, and somehow he could feel it pressing onto him as well.

The scene shifted, and he found himself staring into a labyrinth that stretched into infinity. Twisting corridors curled like serpents, each shadow hiding a whisper, each turn promising peril. He could hear the faintest echoes of footsteps that weren’t his own, whispers that spoke of fear, of loss, of mistakes yet to come.

Then a Titan appeared. Its gaze was golden, burning with contempt, a power so immense it made the earth itself tremble beneath him. Percy felt the weight of that fury, raw and unyielding, pressing against his chest, making it hard to breathe.

A knife flashed in the dark—a betrayal so sudden, so sharp, it could pierce even a god’s heart. The memory—or was it a warning?—seared itself into his mind, and he flinched as though it had struck him.

And everywhere he looked, he saw faces twisted with anguish: his friends screaming his name, their fear echoing in his bones. Their hands reached for him, pleading, helpless, and Percy felt the cold hollow of panic settle deep in his chest. Each image pressed him further, the future spilling over him in relentless waves.

He stumbled back instinctively, eyes wide. “No… no, this can’t happen,” he whispered, his voice trembling. The mirror rippled at his words, showing nothing but distorted fragments—forests he didn’t recognize, battles that had yet to be fought, choices he hadn’t made.

Hera’s presence loomed behind him, unwavering. “It is not set in stone,” she said softly, her voice carrying both authority and a strange reassurance. “But the paths are not kind. The threads of fate are tangled, and each choice you make will pull at them, for better or worse.”

Percy’s hands shook, and he wanted to turn away, to close his eyes and pretend none of it had ever happened. But even in the quiet terror, even with his chest tightening under the weight of what he had seen, he couldn’t deny the truth. He had to face it—or someone else would pay the price for his hesitation.

The visions tumbled faster now, a maelstrom of chaos and despair that barely gave him a moment to breathe. They slammed into him like waves, each one more relentless than the last. He saw Luke—his face pale, almost ghostly, stripped of the healthy tan he always carried, his eyes dark and unreadable. Words he had never heard before spilled from his lips, venomous and older than the gods themselves, shaping the air like a blade.

Then Ethan Nakamura appeared, and Percy’s stomach twisted. What is he doing here? Scarred and furious, Ethan raised his blade with a defiance that shook Percy to his core. Every line of his face carried a broken promise, a simmering pain that Percy knew all too well.

And then Annabeth—her hand stretched toward him, grasping for a hold he could not reach, her body vanishing into a void that swallowed even sound. A silent scream froze in time on her lips, and Percy felt the hollow pang of helplessness claw at him.

The world shifted violently. Manhattan rose before him, towers of glass and steel looming over a battlefield set ablaze. Campers clashed with monsters in a symphony of destruction, swords ringing, shields splintering. He saw himself there, moving like a storm unleashed, drenched in blood and sweat, his face carved into a mask of grim resolve. Around him, the city teetered on the edge of annihilation, every second a razor balancing the fate of the world.

The mirror flared suddenly, a blinding white light so intense that Percy had to throw up his hands, shielding his eyes. The brilliance consumed everything—the visions, the cabin, even the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat—until all that remained was an empty, almost holy silence.

When the light finally dimmed, Hera stood before him once more. Her expression was unreadable, the divine calm of a being who had seen the rise and fall of empires etched into her features. Her gaze lingered on him, deep and unknowable, holding a secret he wasn’t yet ready to understand.

Percy’s chest heaved, his body trembling from the weight of what he had seen. He wanted to speak, to ask a thousand questions, but the words died in his throat. Instead, he could only stare, swallowed by the lingering heat of the visions and the quiet, impossible majesty of the goddess standing before him.

“You will carry more than you can imagine,” she said. “But remember, child—love your mother, and she will never abandon you. Even in the end.”

The weight of her words pressed into his bones, a promise and a warning all at once. Percy wanted to ask what she meant, what "in the end" signified, but before he could, the ground gave way. The mirror shattered, the glass exploding into a thousand shards of light. The visions collapsed into a deafening roar of white noise.

He fell—tumbling endlessly through the void, through a whirlpool of colors and sounds, until the camp’s familiar wooden rafters snapped back into view above him. Percy jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs, as if the whole world had just shifted under his feet. The dream was gone, but the feeling of falling remained, a cold emptiness in his gut that no amount of light could ever fill.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Chiron moved Percy into Cabin Three the next day. Percy felt like he had whiplash, going from Yancy Academy back to his mom’s apartment to Montauk to Cabin Eleven and now here, all in the course of a few days.

Cabin Three was laid out in a simple pattern. In the center of the building was a saltwater fountain that spilled a sea breeze even more potent than the one coming off of the Long Island Sound. Leading from the front doors to the fountain was a hallway lined by built-in benches. Navy blue cushions lay atop a white-paneled baseboard and a dark wooden seat.

The wall of the hallway behind the benches was filled with smudgy murals of the ocean: impressionism, Percy thought the style was called. As he entered the Cabin alongside Chiron, he noticed that the paintings were moving slowly, with waves rising and falling and clouds drifting across the sky. About halfway down the hallway were arched entrances. The one on the right led to a living room with a gently burning fireplace and navy blue, soft-looking couches. Shelves lined the walls, mostly empty, with a half-dozen intricate ships in bottles spread around the room.

Windows covered the walls straight ahead and to Percy’s right, looking out onto the wrap-around porch and the Camp beyond.

The coffee table in the center of the room was made of the same dark wood as the benches but with a great deal of glass. The bulk of the table was a sealed aquarium with coral, miniature sea grass, and a handful of small fish darting through the water. Getting close, Percy noticed that there was a hole in the center of the tank about a half-meter wide that opened up into a full coral reef.

Percy stared wide-eyed, and Chiron walked over and looked down. “Ah,” he said as he realized what Percy was looking at. “I believe it’s a portal connecting this tank with the Great Barrier Reef. I apologize, but no one has lived in this Cabin since its construction, so I do not know it well.”

“Like… Australia?”

Chiron nodded. “I believe there are ten or so tanks in the Cabin, all connected to different biomes, some more conventional, others more mythical in nature.” He walked—was that the right word for a horse?—over to a bookshelf with a few books, pulled one off the shelf, and opened it. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, this one is the Great Barrier Reef”—he nodded toward the coffee table—“in the kitchen is the view of Clymene’s Trench, and—” He cut himself off. “Another time. Let’s get you settled.”

Moving out of the living room, they crossed the dark wooden floors to the kitchen. Along the wall shared with the entrance hallway was a long tank showing a deep, dark body of water. Percy wasn’t sure, but something looking suspiciously like a dragon without wings seemed to be swimming through the gloom.

The kitchen looked like a time capsule of the nineteen-fifties, with baby blue appliances and white cupboards. Opening the cabinets revealed rows of cups, stacks of plates, and utensils galore.

It made Percy feel sick. It made him think of his mom and all she had suffered. If his dad had loved her as much as she said he did, then why hadn’t she been given something like this? His dad was a fucking god, after all. Percy had to swallow back a mix of sorrow and anger that threatened to make him cry or break something, whichever was more convenient.

Percy walked out of the kitchen and didn't look back. Beyond the central fountain were three corridors. The ones leading left and right led to white-trimmed doors with lots of glass leading out onto the porch. Between mostly empty bookshelves, some still populated by ships-in-bottles, were a pair of waist-high sideboards for each corridor. On each sideboard was a weapon propped in a stand: a bronze trident, a bronze sword, a bronze spear, and a circular shield. 

Ducking around the fountain, Percy continued forward into the far hallway, which was a mirror to the entry hallway. Here, however, there were four doors, all closed. Peeking his head into one, Percy saw a bathroom with a double vanity, a huge marble bathtub, and a shower. There was a smaller room tucked inside the bathroom, which Percy assumed was the toilet.

Crossing the hall, Percy poked his head into the other room and was met with a bedroom. Walking inside, there was a bed directly to his left, a wall of floor-length windows covered by navy-blue curtains on the wall opposite the door, and a desk, dresser, and bookshelf of the same dark wood as the floors on the wall beyond the bed. The wall nearest the door was painted with another slowly moving mural, this one of sea cliffs Percy didn’t recognize.

Chiron appeared behind him as Percy dumped his meager possessions—the box with the Minotaur horn and his two backpacks—onto the bed.

“The other two rooms beyond this one are identical. I believe…” Chiron walked over to the bed, which was dark wood with the same look as the other furniture. “Lovely style, this. Mid-century modern, I think they call it.” He stooped down and grabbed a lever Percy hadn’t seen on the edge of the bed frame. Pulling it, the entire bed rose, revealing another beneath it. A ladder appeared magically against the wall to allow one to climb up. “That would give you a lot more space, if necessary.”

“Not that I have anyone to share with,” Percy mumbled, and Chiron glossed over the complaint.

“Since you’re now Head Counselor of Cabin Three, you have a few more responsibilities.” Chiron pulled the lever again; the bed’s motion reversed, and the ladder vanished. He turned back to Percy. “You’ll need to attend the weekly counselor meetings on Wednesday nights. You call lights-out for yourself and schedule your own activities. I’ll get you the forms.”

“I was planning on asking Luke if I could just stick with Cabin Eleven for now. I need people to train with.”

Chiron gave Percy a sympathetic look. “Percy, I know this will be an adjustment, believe me, but you are not alone here.”

“You put me in my own cabin. Alone.”

Chiron sighed, then put a hand on Percy’s shoulder. “Percy. I won’t sugarcoat this. You will have a hard life. You don’t deserve it, you didn’t ask for it, but it is here. And you have a choice. You can walk out of this camp any time. Give me a day and I could get you a ride back to your mother’s apartment. You could even keep the sword. But I can guarantee this: if you try to live in the mortal world as you are, you will die an early death.”

Chiron suddenly seemed a dozen years older—immortal, yes, but the weight was there. His shoulders sagged, his face lined with exhaustion.

“Percy, perhaps we should sit down for the rest of this… No. Come, we need to speak with Grover,” he amended, leading Percy back out of the cabin.

Heading toward the Big House, Percy tried to avoid thinking about the stares he was getting and the murmurs and rumors that would spread because of him.

Reaching the strawberry fields, Percy saw Grover standing over a patch of berries, softly murmuring with his eyes closed, hands outstretched over the fruit. Percy watched, fascinated, as the berries grew in real-time, like watching a timelapse of months of growth.

Grover stopped chanting as the plant reached maturity and opened his eyes. “Chiron, sir, s-sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

Chiron gave Grover a small smile. “It’s all right, Grover. Come, it’s time to discuss the… situation with Percy.”

Grover’s face paled slightly. “Y-yes, sir,” he said, and fell in with Percy and Chiron as they made for the Big House. The trio sat at the table in the greenhouse, Chiron backing into his wheelchair to sit. They waited silently for him to speak. He looked conflicted and remained quiet, as if weighing how to begin.

“This is about the Solstice, isn’t it?” Percy opened, and Chiron’s gaze shot up to him.

“How did you—” he began, but cut himself off. “No matter. Yes, this is about the Summer Solstice.”

“Something was stolen, and the deadline for… whatever… is on the Summer Solstice.”

Chiron nodded and let out a deep sigh. “On the Winter Solstice the Olympians hold their annual council of all the major gods: Zeus, Poseidon, Hera, Demeter, Apollo, Artemis, Ares, Athena, Aphrodite, Dionysus, Hermes, and Hephaestus. Those are the current Olympians. At the Winter Solstice they are joined by Hades and Hestia, the two godly children of Kronos not on the Olympian council.”

“There’s also a gallery for guests—minor gods, nature spirits, and most importantly for us, demigods. Every year we send a field trip from Camp Half-Blood to Olympus for the year-round campers. Children like Annabeth, Luke, or Clarisse, who can’t or won’t live in the mortal world yet.”

“What does this have to do with—”

Chiron held up a hand. “I am getting there. During the most recent Solstice Council something was stolen: Zeus’s Master Bolt. Likely the most powerful magical weapon to ever exist. In the right hands it makes nuclear weapons look like pebbles.”

“Oh,” Percy said in a quiet voice.

“The gods cannot take each other’s symbols of power directly. Much like Anaklusmos, they are enchanted to return to the owner and need to be given up willingly. However, the mythical world is governed by magical laws. One of them is the Law of Challenge.”

“Challenge?” Percy asked, not following, his heart beginning to race as he started to draw conclusions about where this was going.

“In short,” Chiron explained, “demigods—or as the law calls them, Heroes—are able to circumvent some magical protections. They can go where they want, and are not bound by domains like gods, or territories like monsters. Heroes can fight anyone, steal anything, make binding deals with all. If a demigod has the nerve and the skill, they can do almost anything. This is not an encouragement, but a warning. If you give a being the chance to step outside their domain, or engage you directly, it can have terrible consequences.

“All that to say: while the gods could not have committed this theft, a demigod could have—likely under the orders of a god. This is the conclusion Zeus came to, and he blamed the theft on Poseidon.”

“Why?” Percy asked, dreading the answer.

Chiron sighed. “Poseidon and Hades have always followed their brother grudgingly. Zeus has never had much sway with either of them, especially in the past few centuries. After Poseidon’s favored nation, Britain, dominated the world for so long, Zeus’s authority over his brothers weakened further. He has been looking for a reason to put Poseidon in his place for years. And now—a theft that can be blamed on him occurs. Then, only months later, Poseidon claims a demigod child in defiance of their Oath on the Styx. A demigod who could have been used to steal the Master Bolt.”

Percy thought back to the museum, Nancy dumping the stolen goods onto his lap. His stomach churned. “So Zeus is blaming me for the theft—even if I didn’t do it—just as an excuse to fight with my dad?”

Chiron nodded gravely.

“If the Master Bolt isn’t found and returned to Zeus by the Solstice, the largest war between the gods in centuries will erupt. And not everyone will back Zeus. Demeter, Aphrodite, Hermes, and Hephaestus will likely side with your father. Demeter in hopes of balancing the sides and avoiding destruction. She fears what will happen to the environment if the sky and sea go to war.”

“All the weird weather,” Percy realized. “All the crazy stuff since Christmas.”

Chiron nodded again, but Grover spoke this time, his voice bitter. “I-It’ll grow even worse, with how c-climate change has destabilized the natural world.”

Chiron continued. “Aphrodite will side with your father because he claimed you in defiance of the Oath. That parental love and self-sacrifice will sway her—as well as her appetite for the stories that will come out of the war. Hermes has been on chilly terms with his father for decades, so I suspect he will side with Poseidon. Finally, Hephaestus has never held much love for Hera, who will back her husband. His alliance with your father regarding the Undersea Forges and the Elder Cyclopes will give him even more reason to support Poseidon.”

“But H-Hades and Artemis will probably stay neutral,” Grover added quickly. “Hades always does, and Artemis… she’s spent the last thousand years staying out of immortal conflicts.”

Chiron leaned back in his wheelchair and let out a deep breath. “The whole point of this conversation, Percy, is this: war is coming. A war that will tear nature apart. Poseidon claimed you now for a reason. I suspect—and I believe he does as well—that the mastermind behind the theft is Hades. A largely neutral god who would benefit immensely from watching his brothers weaken themselves in a war. So Poseidon has taken a risk… and given you an opportunity.”

Percy felt sick. He felt furious. “So my dad is just using me?” He scoffed. “Real mature.”

Chiron leaned forward. “Listen to me, Percy. Your father knows the Fury—Mrs. Dodds—was likely sent by Hades to kill you and cover up the theft. Zeus then tried to kill you himself during the storm on your way here. The Minotaur, a powerful monster, was almost certainly released from the Underworld to hunt you. And then there are the hellhounds—likely another attempt by Hades to end you.”

“So he puts me in even more danger by confirming to everyone that, yes, I am the target they’ve been looking for?” Percy asked, bitterness dripping from his voice.

“He’s taking a risk. He claimed you the same day I confirmed that your mother was transfigured using Chthonian magic—magic of the Underworld. He doesn’t have the Master Bolt, but he has his trident. So even after taking the backlash from the Styx for breaking his oath, he and Zeus remain on equal terms. By claiming you, he’s giving you an opportunity: go to the Underworld, find the Master Bolt, and, if you’re lucky, your mother as well.” Chiron finished, his words coming quicker at the end.

Percy nearly choked. “Oh,” he said in a small voice.

“If you can return the Master Bolt to Zeus by the Summer Solstice, he will be forced to back down. He won’t risk tarnishing his reputation by fighting without reason, and he’ll have to leave you alone—at least for a time—if you do him this service.” Chiron leaned back in his chair, looking suddenly very old.

Percy was silent, trying to sort through the storm inside him. Anger, fear, hope, confusion, grief—emotions tangled together until he could barely breathe. His dad trusted him enough to risk a war by claiming him. His dad was also using him as a political pawn. His mom might still be alive. She might be in the Underworld. The Underworld—the actual heaven and hell of this world.

When he finally spoke, it was softly, almost flat, as if any emotion at all would overwhelm him. “What do I do now?”

Chiron didn’t answer immediately. Grover picked nervously at the hem of his shirt, shooting Percy sympathetic glances. Finally, Chiron said, “You must visit the Oracle. It resides in the attic of the Big House. You will receive a prophecy regarding what you must do.”

Percy swallowed hard. “Like… the future?”

Chiron nodded. “I would recommend waiting a few days before beginning your quest. I’ll have Luke put you through a training regimen until then. For now, the attic—go, and receive your destiny.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The stairs creaked under his feet as Percy climbed, each groan of the wood echoing up the narrow shaft like a warning. The air was thick, stale, carrying the weight of decades untouched. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if gravity itself had grown impatient with him, tugging at his limbs, pulling at his chest. By the time he reached the landing, his heart was hammering, and his throat was raw and dry, like he’d swallowed sand.

The attic wasn’t just old. It felt wrong. Not in the way of harmless dust or cobwebs, but in a way that set his nerves on edge. The smell hit him first—a sour, moldy stench, sharp and clinging, like a basement flooded decades ago and never cleaned, mixed with the faint tang of something metallic, something almost alive beneath the rot. It stuck to his skin, coating the back of his tongue, filling his lungs with every careful breath.

Dust motes drifted lazily in the slanted light from the single, narrow window, illuminated like tiny golden spirits trapped mid-flight. Shadows pooled in the corners, sharp and uneven, as if they were alive, curling around the wooden beams. Everything here looked forgotten, abandoned by time, yet somehow aware—watching. The floorboards beneath his feet moaned in protest with each tentative step, and the air trembled with the faintest hint of movement, though nothing stirred.

Percy’s gaze swept across the cluttered space. Boxes stacked haphazardly teetered as if daring him to touch them. Old furniture, warped with age, bore strange scratches and gouges, like the building itself had memories it wasn’t ready to share. A trunk in the far corner was locked tight, its iron hinges rusted, but the faintest warmth seemed to radiate from it, a pulse beneath the cold.

Every instinct in him screamed to turn back, to flee down the staircase and out into the sunlit world below. And yet, something else tugged at him—curiosity, the same stubborn thread that had led him into trouble before. He swallowed the lump in his throat, gripped the railing, and took another cautious step forward, the wooden floor groaning under the weight of more than just his body, as though the house itself was aware of his presence.

Relics of past quests were scattered around the attic, each one a frozen echo of danger and adventure. A cracked shield propped against a dresser, stamped Athens 1236, its edges chipped as if it had barely survived countless battles. A spear with a broken haft leaned nearby, the jagged wood worn smooth in places where a hero’s hand had gripped it tightly, the tip still nicked from some long-forgotten clash.

Jars of murky fluid lined the shelves, some cloudy, some almost clear, but all containing things that moved just enough to make Percy’s skin crawl—a tiny reminder that even in death, monsters left traces behind. A golden bracelet, dented and tarnished, rested atop a stack of maps, marked at Circe’s island in the corner, its shine dulled but magical somehow, as though it remembered the spells cast around it. A bloodied, tattered shield leaned against a crate, the scuffs and scratches whispering of an Amazon lair, of warriors whose strength had been legendary, and whose courage had left a mark that time could not erase.

Rolled, yellowed maps were scattered across the floor and draped over boxes, tracing the paths of heroes who had traveled to Rome, the vast Roman Empire, Athens, Ithaca, and Chrysaor’s island. Some maps were pinned with rusted nails, others frayed at the edges, their ink faded but still legible—coordinates and locations that seemed eerily prescient, as if someone, somewhere, had known these places would matter again.

Even the air seemed thick with memory. Dust swirled in narrow shafts of light from the attic window, catching on cobwebs and highlighting the worn edges of every relic. Percy felt a chill as he walked between them, as though the objects themselves were watching him, waiting, reminding him that every step he took might lead him toward these same destinations, toward trials that had already shaped the hands of fate.

And in the middle of it all, in a rocking chair that looked like it hadn’t moved in a century, sat her.

At first, Percy thought it was just a corpse. Shriveled skin clung to bone like brittle parchment, and her body was wrapped in tie-dye cloth that had long since faded to dull, dusty colors. The chair creaked faintly, though no breeze stirred in the still attic, and the shadows clung to her in ways that made her seem almost alive.

The smell hit him next—a sour, cloying stench, half mold, half something he couldn’t name. It seemed to seep from her very pores, curling around him and settling in the pit of his stomach. His stomach flipped, bile burning the back of his throat, and a cold sweat broke out along his spine. His fingers twitched toward the railing, as if the wood could somehow pull him back to safety.

He wanted to gag. He wanted to bolt down the stairs, leave the attic—and this horrible vision—behind. But something kept him rooted in place, a magnetic pull in the air between them that made it impossible to look away. Even in death—or whatever she was—there was a presence, a weight, and it pressed against him like the attic itself was leaning in, watching.

Percy’s heart hammered, loud in his ears, drowning out the creak of the floorboards beneath him. The tie-dye cloth, though faded, seemed to shimmer faintly in the shaft of light from the narrow window, as if memories—or warnings—were stitched into its threads. And for a moment, just a fraction of a second, he thought he saw her eyes move, glinting with something alive beneath the decay.

Then he saw her aura.

It wasn’t light. Not exactly. It was pressure. A suffocating weight that pressed into his lungs, coiled around his ribcage, seeped into his bones. Sickly green mist curled around her, streaked with gray and black, twisting and breaking apart before his eyes, like words whispered but never finished, promises and warnings half-formed and floating in the air. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to leap back down the attic stairs, to escape, but his legs refused. He was rooted, frozen, staring at a figure that should not exist.

The corpse-woman’s head tilted. Her movement was slow, deliberate, a grotesque mimic of life. Her lips parted with the sound of dry leaves scraping together, a hiss of stale, ancient breath leaking into the air, carrying the faint tang of rot and something metallic beneath it. The shadows clung to her like loyal servants, twisting and stretching as though the attic itself obeyed her presence.

“Approach, omen.”

Percy flinched, startled by the word, the sharpness of it slicing through the fog of fear in his mind. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until the hiss forced it out, a shaky, trembling gasp that filled the silent room. And then, impossibly, his feet moved without his permission, dragging him forward one slow, reluctant step at a time. The floorboards groaned under his weight, their protests swallowed by the unnatural quiet that seemed to thicken around her.

“I…” His voice cracked, raw from disuse, from fear, from the effort of keeping himself upright. He swallowed, a dry, rasping gulp that made his throat scream in protest. “I’m supposed to—ask for a prophecy?”

The air around her shivered at his words, the green mist pulsing like ink dropped in water, responding, alive. It swirled faster, tendrils brushing his skin, cold as if frost had reached through the atmosphere itself. Percy’s stomach lurched; he felt sick, dizzy, and yet—he could not stop. Something in that aura, that awful, suffocating presence, held him as surely as chains. He wanted to back away, to flee, but the pull was stronger than fear.

And then, her eyes—hollow, glassy, yet piercing—fixed on him. In them, he saw everything and nothing. Past, present, and a hint of the paths he had yet to walk. A tremor of understanding ran through him: this was not a warning, not a judgment. It was an invitation. A command.

The woman’s eyes snapped open.

They weren’t eyes anymore. Green fire blazed from the sockets, rolling outward in a flood of mist. It poured from her mouth, her nose, her skin, coiling around him like snakes. His vision spun. The room dissolved. The attic, the relics, even the corpse vanished until there was only the mist, filling his world, pressing against his skin, worming into his lungs.

Then the voice came.

It wasn’t hers. It wasn’t human. It was layered, echoing, ancient. It felt like something was speaking through him, inside him, vibrating through his bones.

“You shall go west, though the dead now walk with you,

You shall face the god whose shadow clouds the world,

You have saved the lost, yet darkness lingers still,

A friend may falter, and a trust may be broken,

And the cost of the future will be heavier than the past.”

The last line landed like a knife in his gut. It wasn’t just words—it was a certainty, like chains snapping around his heart. Percy staggered back, his chest heaving, but there was nowhere to run. The mist coiled tighter, until he thought it might crush him.

Then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

The green fire faded from her eyes. The corpse sagged against the rocking chair, lifeless once more. Only dust and silence remained.

Percy stood shaking, his hands trembling so badly he had to curl them into fists. The words rang in his ears like they’d been branded onto his mind. Betrayal. Failure. Something he loved, lost forever.

He stumbled backward, knocking into a stack of shields. The clang shattered the silence, and the sound jolted him into motion. He lurched toward the door, each breath ragged, the prophecy burning through his chest like acid.

The stairs blurred. He barely noticed himself moving until he was at the bottom.

Chiron was waiting, hands folded tightly on his lap, his expression carefully calm. Grover hovered beside him, wringing the hem of his shirt, his wide eyes full of nerves and sympathy.

Percy froze. For a moment, all he could see were auras.

Chiron glowed faintly gold, steady and patient, threaded with gray that reminded Percy of storm clouds—ancient and heavy, but solid.

And then Percy’s eyes slid toward the porch.

Dionysus lounged in his Hawaiian shirt, a Diet Coke sweating in his hand. He didn’t look up, didn’t seem to notice them at all. But when Percy looked—really looked—there was nothing. No glow, no pressure, no shimmer of color. Just a blank outline where something should have been, like a missing piece of the world.

It made his skin crawl.

The prophecy’s words still rang in his ears, but now something else burrowed under his skin, cold and sharp. Something was wrong with Mr. D.

And Percy had no idea what it meant.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Percy sank into the chair, pressing his forehead into his shaking hands. Cold sweat clung to his skin, seeping through his shirt and chilling him to the bone. Chiron and Grover didn’t speak, and for once, Percy was grateful; he needed silence, a moment to piece together the fragments of what had just happened. The trip to the Oracle had been the most terrifying experience of his life, far beyond any chase through the woods or battle with a monster. His heart thumped violently in his chest, and each inhale felt like dragging air through a narrow straw.

It’s over. You’re safe. He told himself, but even as the words left his lips, he knew the lie. He wasn’t safe. Maybe he’d never be safe again. The prophecy had a weight that pressed down on him, heavy and inevitable, a chain he couldn’t slip free from.

When he finally lifted his head, he saw Annabeth sitting across from him, poised and alert on another chair. Her gaze was sharp, unflinching, as if daring him to leave her out of whatever terrible truth he had just learned. She had been asking, pushing for answers, and now, reluctantly, Percy understood that she deserved some piece of the truth in return for the day of the tour, though after the mess of Capture the Flag, he wasn’t exactly eager to hand over power—or worry—so freely.

“I spoke to… them,” Percy said, the words coming out stiff and uneven. Whatever the Oracle truly was, it wasn’t just some mummy or haunted figure. It was something older, darker, and far more powerful than anything he had encountered before. Not even Mr. D’s visions had shaken him this deeply.

“I’m supposed to go retrieve the stolen bolt,” he added, watching Chiron’s eyes flick toward Annabeth. She returned his gaze with a triumphant look, subtle but unmistakable. At least someone was pleased.

Chiron’s voice broke the silence, calm but edged with concern. “What did the Oracle say… exactly?”

Percy’s stomach twisted. The words of the prophecy had etched themselves into his mind like carved stone. He could feel them burning against the inside of his skull, impossible to shake, impossible to ignore. He drew a shaky breath, letting it out slowly, before whispering the words aloud.

“You shall go west, though the dead now walk with you,” he began, each syllable tasting like ash in his mouth. He felt the chill of the prophecy wrap around him, a cold hand on his shoulder.

“You shall face the god whose shadow clouds the world,” he continued, imagining the weight of that presence looming across everything he knew, a shadow stretching across the lands, darkening the sun.

“You have saved the lost, yet darkness lingers still,” Percy said, and he couldn’t help but shiver. The line gnawed at him. He’d saved people before—friends, strangers—but the memory of failure lingered, stubborn and accusing.

“A friend may falter, and a trust may be broken,” he added, his throat tight. He glanced at Annabeth, then at Chiron. The words carried a warning, a knife wrapped in silk. Betrayal wasn’t abstract here—it was coming, and there was nothing he could do to stop it from touching him.

“And the cost of the future will be heavier than the past.” The final words fell from his lips like stones hitting a frozen lake. They echoed in the quiet of the room, heavy with promise and dread. Percy felt a sick twist in his stomach, as if the air itself had thickened with the weight of what was to come.

He leaned back in his chair, trying to steady his breathing, but the prophecy hung over him like a storm cloud. Every instinct in him screamed that nothing would ever be simple again. The past might have been dangerous, painful, even tragic—but the future… the future would demand more than he had yet imagined. And somehow, somewhere along the way, he would have to face it.

Chapter Text

“That cocky dumbass,” Annabeth muttered under her breath, jaw tightening as she hammered the rivet into place. “Calling me Wise Girl like it’s some kind of joke.”

The metal bit down with a sharp clink, and for a fleeting second, satisfaction cut through her irritation. She leaned back, flexing her sore fingers, then held the sheath up to the lantern light. Every line, every curve had to be perfect. She turned it once, twice, eyes narrowed, and only when she was sure it would hold did she set it down beside the others.

Three dark leather sheaths lay gleaming on the worktable, their surfaces stamped with a cascade of bronze-feather patterns—precision work, not a single mark out of place. Together, they looked less like weapons’ gear and more like some carefully designed puzzle, waiting to be tested.

Annabeth clipped them to her belt, the weight settling with a familiar tug. One. Two. Three. She tightened the last strap, securing the trio against her thigh until they felt like an extension of her body. Her usual kopis still hung awkwardly at her right hip, throwing off her balance, but these weren’t normal circumstances. Symmetry could wait. Efficiency couldn’t.

She drew in a breath, brushing a streak of soot from her cheek. Somewhere out there, that idiot was probably laughing, tossing nicknames around like they meant nothing. She let out a sharp exhale, lips twitching into something between a scowl and a smile. Fine. Let him joke. When the time came, she’d be the one ready.

She crossed the workshop with glue and leather strips in hand, her steps sure despite the scattered clutter of tools and shavings on the floor. Celestial bronze thread lay coiled across her palm, gleaming faintly in the lamplight—thin as spider-silk, strong as eternity. She threaded it through her fingers as she walked, testing its give. The stitches would hold, yes, but they’d also catch the eye, the gold shimmer peeking from the seams. Practical, functional, but visible—because honestly, what was the point of enchantments if they didn’t look good?

At the grindstone station, Charlie worked steadily. His movements were rhythmic, almost too calm, each pass of the blade hissing against the spinning stone. Sparks spat outward like fireflies, briefly lighting the sweat on his brow. The knives waiting beside him gleamed in neat rows, works of deadly artistry: every blade curved like a bird’s wing mid-flight, feathers etched down into an edge sharp enough to slice the air. Their hilts were balanced and clean, marble inlaid at each pommel in streaks of red, blue, and green that caught the light whenever Charlie shifted.

“Are the others done?” Annabeth called, raising her voice over the shriek of metal.

Charlie didn’t answer right away. He pressed one last edge to perfection, then lifted the knife, studying it in silence. For a beat, the workshop seemed to hold its breath. Then, with a quiet finality, he set down his tools and turned.

By the time he offered the blade to her, Annabeth had already cleared space, ready for the wrapping. She took it carefully, weighing its balance in her hands, then began looping leather around the hilt, her fingers moving in practiced rhythm. The smell of glue, the faint tang of hot bronze, the steady rasp of her own breath—everything folded into the quiet.

And then, without warning, Charlie’s hand darted forward. He seized the knife she held—his knife—without hesitation, and in one single, deliberate motion, he drove the blade straight into his own chest.

Annabeth froze.

The bronze “wings” of the dagger unfurled outward, blooming against his Camp T-shirt like some grotesque accessory. The hilt stuck out neatly in the middle. Charlie, completely unbothered, strolled toward the forge.

“Time it,” he said.

Annabeth trailed after him, still processing. “Seriously?”

“Three, two, one—go.”

Charlie shoved his hand into the coals.

“One, two, three, four…” Annabeth counted, because apparently this was happening.

Charlie didn’t flinch. Knife in his chest, fist in the fire.

“Thirty-six, thirty-seven—”

At three minutes, thirty-seven seconds, Charlie yanked his hand out of the circle, perfectly calm, as if holding a half-transformed, semi-sentient weapon hadn’t just risked frying his arm to ash. “Safe to say it works,” he announced, grinning like a maniac. The dagger gave a metallic shiver before the bronze wings folded back in, neat as origami, until the blade looked whole again—ordinary, even.

He offered it to Annabeth hilt-first, like nothing unusual had happened. She took it without missing a beat, sliding the dagger into the top sheath. It fit with a clean click that sent a ripple of satisfaction through her chest.

“At this point,” she said, giving the arrangement on her belt one last critical look, “I don’t think we should call these prototypes anymore.”

Charlie snorted. “Please. This is just round one. With your dragon’s blood distillations? I’ll be busy for years. And don’t even get me started on the enchantments—you’re the only one insane enough to dig through Chiron’s dusty library for cross-references.” He gave a mock shiver. “I’d rather wrestle a chimera than read another scroll about pre-Classical metallurgy.”

Annabeth arched a brow. “Which is why you’d be dead by now without me.”

“Exactly,” Charlie said cheerfully.

Annabeth smirked, letting the corner of her mouth tilt up. “Will you have the rest done before we leave?”

“Yeah.” Charlie didn’t even hesitate, though his hands were already twitching toward his tools, as if answering her question meant doubling his workload. “What about you? You’re on micromail duty with Silena, right?” He tried for casual, but Annabeth wasn’t blind—there was a spark of interest tucked into the way he said Silena. Not much got past her. She filed it away, but didn’t comment.

“Yeah. But first I’ve got to get Percy’s measurements,” Annabeth said, flicking her gaze toward the clock. Eleven-thirty-one. She measured the time like she measured everything—down to the exact minute. “After lunch.”

Charlie nodded, lips already moving as he ran through a mental checklist only he could hear. “Smoke grenades will be ready by then. Maybe the tripwires, too. You wanted ten?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ll have half done,” he decided, like it was already settled. He clapped her on the back hard enough to jolt her forward—almost enough to make her stumble, even with her strength.

Annabeth shot him a glare sharp enough to cut bronze, but he only grinned wider.

“See you at lunch,” he called over his shoulder, already disappearing into his own corner of the workshop. The air still hummed faintly with bronze, leather, and ozone, and Annabeth found herself exhaling, steadying her thoughts. Measurements, micromail, grenades, tripwires. Lunch. She rolled her shoulders, already shifting into the next task. There wasn’t a moment to waste.

Annabeth steadied herself, grinning. “Thanks again, Charlie.”

She headed out of the forge, the weight of three new blades against her leg and the faint smell of bronze sparks still clinging to her hair.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“Again. And watch your footwork, Percy,” Luke called from his throne on top of the cooler.

Percy reset at the mark, exhaled, and clashed wooden swords with Ethan. He lunged forward, swinging in a wide horizontal cut. Ethan met it cleanly, blade snapping up in a tight parry before dropping down in a blur toward Percy’s forehead.

Even dulled wood would’ve hurt like Hades. Percy punched upward, the pommel of his sword slamming into Ethan’s crossguard. The move bought him a heartbeat—just enough. He leaned in and jabbed with his free hand, the strike catching Ethan square in the chest.

The hit shoved Ethan back a few feet, sneakers skidding through the dust. For a second they just grinned at each other. They were both getting it.

Ethan shifted his grip, bringing his sword up by his head, both hands tight on the hilt. His stance dropped, balanced, dangerous.

Percy kept idly spinning his sword in his right hand as they circled. Probably ADHD, he thought — he just liked spinning things.

He lunged, stabbing for Ethan’s chest, but Ethan sliced across, knocking the blade aside. Percy’s left arm dropped and, on instinct, he used the motion: he pivoted on his left foot, swung his right leg out, and caught Ethan’s ankle with his heel. Ethan went down.

Percy sprang up and slashed from left to right, clipping Ethan’s forearm. “Fuck — Percy, good one,” Ethan said, and his arm went limp. He grabbed his sword with the other hand and came down hard.

Percy fell backward, landing on his ass in the dirt. Ethan kept the pressure, hammering with his left as Percy scooted and parried, trying not to let him get on top. The blows rained like lightning; Percy was as much dodging as fighting.

After a few seconds Percy figured it out: Ethan had learned to watch his feet. So Percy changed it up. He kicked out, then drove his heel into Ethan’s stomach — maybe a hair low. “Sorry,” he panted, closing the distance. He planted his right foot against Ethan’s chest, grabbed the other ankle, and yanked. Ethan couldn’t step forward and went down with him.

“Stop,” Luke called from his cooler-throne. “That’s a loss for both of you.” He grinned. “You’re both dead in a real fight. Get water and reset. Again.”

Percy struggled up and held out a hand to Ethan, who took it with a grimace, “Did I get you in the soft spot?” Percy asked, a little abashed.

Ethan rubbed his stomach just above his crotch, “Close. Just close enough that I can really feel it,”

“Sorry about that,” Percy said, clapping Ethan on the shoulder as they walked over to Luke, and he threw them a water bottle.

“Percy, you’re still not thinking about exit strategy. I know your entire style is more about instinct, but you need to intentionally cultivate that if you ever want your instincts to be sustainable.” Luke chided, but his ever-present smile made the critiques easier to swallow. 

“Ethan, you’re playing too passively. If you’re unwilling to strike except as a counter you’ll have a hard time against human opponents, or against intelligent monsters,”

“Intelligent monsters?” Percy asked.

Luke nodded. “Cyclopes are the best example. Three main kinds. Elder Cyclopes are the friendliest—they mostly work for Pose—your dad.”

A jolt of emotion twisted in Percy’s gut. He had no idea how to process that.

“Then you’ve got Hyperborean Cyclopes,” Luke went on. “Aggressive. You’ll find them up north—Canada, the Dakotas, that kind of place. Keep an eye—heh—out for those.”

Ethan groaned at the pun.

“The last group are Southern Cyclopes,” Luke continued. “Pretty rare. I’ve never met one. Supposedly they’re huge, usually loners. Fishermen, herders. And, yeah—they don’t like demigods. We’re food to them.”

“Why do monsters want to kill us at all?” Ethan asked. Percy nodded, realizing he’d never really thought about it either.

Luke sighed. “Depends on the monster. Some think we taste good.”

Percy tried not to picture that.

“Others want revenge—demigods kill them, they come back, they hold grudges. Some are just territorial, like hellhounds or hydras. But honestly?” Luke’s voice roughened. “The real reason is they’re built that way. Same as the gods. Monsters do what they were made to do. For better… or worse. They don’t change.”

Percy studied him. The bitterness in Luke’s tone, the anger in his eyes—it didn’t match the guy Percy knew, the one who laughed easily and helped everyone at camp. How could both versions be real? The scar down Luke’s face caught the light, sharper, darker.

Then Luke looked up, forced a smile, and the mood shifted. “Anyway. The point is: some monsters can be reasoned with. Some can’t. You’ve got to trust your instincts to know which is which.”

From the arena entrance came a familiar voice: “Seaweed Brain!”

Percy turned. Annabeth strode in, looking like she owned the place.

He smirked. “Need something, Wise Girl?” If she wasn’t going to call him Percy, then fine—he wasn’t calling her Annabeth.

She scowled but pulled a roll of tape measure from her pocket. Percy noticed she had four knives now—three strapped along her thigh, one at her hip. “Let’s get this over with, Seaweed Brain. I need your measurements for the micromail before we leave.”

“Micro what?” Percy asked.

Annabeth plucked his water bottle right out of his hand, passed it to Luke, then hauled Percy’s arms up into a T-shape. She started measuring, jotting numbers onto her wrist with a marker like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Micromail,” Luke supplied. “Armor’s too obvious outside camp. Even with the Mist. Back in the day, people hid chainmail under cloaks.”

“Shame. Cloaks are cool,” Ethan muttered.

Luke grinned. “Yeah, well—cloak fashion died a while ago. So demigods started wearing celestial bronze chainmail under regular clothes. Heavy, sure, but that’s what super strength is for. It’ll keep you alive.”

Percy wrinkled his nose. “But why ‘micro’?”

Annabeth yanked the tape tight around his thigh, making him flinch. “Because normal chainmail doesn’t fit under jeans, Seaweed Brain.”

“Right,” Luke continued, “So during the Industrial Revolution, some children of Athena got really creative with Celestial Bronze and created the first micromail. It’s essentially a metal fabric where the rings are so small you can hardly see them. When demigods go on quests, they wear micromail clothing to stay safe. It kinda sucks wearing it in the summer because you’ll have to wear pants, but hey. I’d rather sweat than get stabbed, and nowadays we enchant it to keep you cool,”

“So it’s like kevlar?” Percy asked as Annabeth finished her measurements. 

“Yes,” She explained as she tucked her measuring tape and marker back into her pocket. “Micromail will stop most cuts or stabbing attacks for a time. But like all armor it degrades as it takes a beating. So don’t feel like you’re invincible. Plus it does nothing for bludgeonings, so if you take a sword in the shoulder you might not lose your arm, but probably will break some bones if it was swung hard enough.” 

“Why didn’t we use this stuff during Capture the Flag?” Ethan asked.

“Because monsters can’t use it.” Annabeth explained, “Monsters almost always use magical metals other than Celsetial Bronze because contact with it burns most of them. That’s the big advantage Celestial Bronze gives. We train against people wearing more typical armor because those are the designs monsters still use. Just in other materials.”

“Like what?” Percy asked. 

“Stygian Iron,” Luke listed, “It’s common among Chthonian monsters, Underworld types. Various enchanted leathers, Dragon Scale, Dragon Bone, Drakon  Scale and Bone, Meteorite Iron, Chalybs, and Blood Quenched metals to name a few.”

“So, we use Celestial Bronze because it’s the only one that burns monsters?” Percy asked and Annabeth wavered, then shook her head. 

Annabeth continued, “Moon Silver and Enchanted Gold, are the two I know of that function the same, though I’m sure there are more. Probably lots that haven’t been discovered as well,”

Luke smiled and gave Percy a grin, “It’s a big world out there. Now back to your marks. We’ve got enough time for two more spars before lunch.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Grover tried not to think about the quest too much, but that was a fruitless struggle. He  had  to think about the quest; otherwise, they’d fail. He swallowed down a lump in his throat.  I can’t fail again. I can’t fail them again , he told himself as he stuffed an apple core into his mouth and crunched down on it. 

“Dude, the core? Really?” Percy laughed, and Grover looked over at him. Percy’s Camp t-shirt was drenched in sweat, his hair a complete mess, and his body covered in bruises and dust, but the smile on his face was as genuine as ever.

“H-hey,” Grover stammered, “we’re not at Yancy anymore. I can f-finally eat whatever I want.”

“And you pick an apple core?” Percy laughed. Grover cracked up with him.

“It’s a satyr thing. I went a whole y-year without eating furniture. Exhausting.”

Percy blinked, then realized he wasn’t kidding. “Wait… is that what happened to the sofa in the common room? The teachers swore it looked like someone gnawed through the foam.”

Grover looked away, stabbing at his cheese enchiladas. “M-moment of w-weakness,” he muttered. Percy giggled.

Annabeth slid onto the bench beside them, brushing crumbs off her jeans. “So. I’ve got Percy’s measurements. His micromail should be finished by tomorrow. We can leave then, or wait a little longer. But the longer we wait, the bigger the risk.”

Grover said nothing. He’d been jittery since the quest started, ears twitching every time someone dropped a plate.

“It’s the eighth,” Percy offered. “That gives us, what, two weeks including today?”

“H-how are we getting there?” Grover asked nervously.

“What do you mean? We’ll just fly,” Percy said.

Annabeth scoffed. “Seaweed Brain.”

Here it came.

“You’re public enemy number one on Zeus’s Most Wanted list. The second we take the air, he’ll find us and zap us out of the sky.”

Grover had to resist the urge to start eating the tablecloth. 

“So…over ground then,” Percy agreed.

“What’s our best option?”

“I-I could drive,” Grover offered. He did have his driver’s license. 

Annabeth shook her head again, “Neither of us can manipulate The Mist well enough for you to pass for an adult. And Percy is completely inexperienced, so it’s not like he’ll help,”

“Hey, and by the way, I can drive too,”

“Y-you can drive?” Grover asked, and Percy nodded. 

“Yeah, my mom-“ He stumbled over the word, pausing for a fraction before continuing, “-Taught me how to drive as soon as my feet could reach the pedals. She said it’s better to know and not need it than need and not know it… looking back I think she was preparing me for being a Demigod, teaching me things that only make as survival skills,”

“Regardless, you’ve got the same problem as Grover: too young,” Annabeth replied. Grover nodded, she was right.

“So a train or bus, probably some of both,” Annabeth decided. “I’ll talk to Argus and iron out those plans. Grover, can you take care of getting Nectar, Ambrosia, and cash for the trip. I don’t think  we  can risk using the Camp debit cards.” 

Grover nodded again. “Y-yeah, I can take care of that. I’ll grab MRE’s too, you kow, i-in case.”

“Why can’t we bring the Camp plates?” Percy asked.

“W-we keep all the raw ingredients in t-the Camp kitchens. When you o-order something the plates just put it together instantly. B-but if it gets too far from the s-source, then the plates don’t work,”

Percy nodded and went back to his hot dogs. Grover tried not to gag. Meat was… gross. Hot dogs especially. But hey—satyr or not, to each their own.

“H-how’s training with Luke?” Grover asked.

Percy swallowed and shrugged. “Okay. I think Ethan and I are starting to get the hang of it. Luke’s great to spar with, but having someone closer to my size really helps.”

Annabeth smirked. “Ethan’s still, like, four inches taller than you.”

Percy felt his ears heat. “Close enough.”

After lunch, Percy headed back down to the arena. Annabeth and Grover climbed the hill toward the Big House.

“H-how’s he doing, really?” Grover asked quietly. “I k-know you’ve been watching his last few spars.”

Annabeth didn’t answer right away. Her brow creased as they walked. “He’s reckless. Impulsive. He throws himself at opponents without an exit strategy, and it keeps backfiring. Luke’s right about that.” She paused, exhaling. “That said…”

Grover waited as Annabeth seemed to consider. “He’s good, really good. So is Ethan. Percy seems to be leading them, but Ethan is matching him, balancing out the improvements so they both keep learning. He’s got great instincts, and his body moves like, well, water,” she shrugged. You understand that if you tell him any of this, I  will  kill you,” she hyperbolically joked. But with four knives on her, it didn’t feel like a joke.

“O-of course,” Grover managed as they reached The Big House. Ducking inside, Annabeth headed up the stairs to speak to Argus while Grover continued toward Chiron’s office. 

Grover tapped lightly on the door. A moment later, Chiron’s voice answered, “Come in.”

He eased it open and stepped inside.

“Ah, Grover,” Chiron said warmly, closing the leatherbound ledger on his desk. “What can I do for you?”

The office was enormous—had to be, with half of Chiron’s horse body behind the massive standing desk. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Leatherbound tomes, battered hardcovers, scrolls, and folios crowded every inch. Between them were trophies from slain monsters, jars of strange relics, and—most striking of all—portraits.

Hundreds of them. Photographs, paintings, sketches. Some modern, glossy prints. Others shot on grainy film. A few were sepia-toned, straight out of the nineteenth century. There were renaissance-style oils, charcoal sketches, even faded watercolors.

All of them were campers.

Grover swallowed. Thousands of years of faces preserved in art—heroes long gone, names erased by time, forgotten by gods and monsters alike. He had the uneasy sense that, for many of them, Chiron was the last soul alive who still remembered.

“Afternoon, sir,” Grover began. “W-we’re planning for the quest and we’ll need some nectar, ambrosia, drachmas… and cash. A-Annabeth pointed out that three kids using credit cards would look way too s-suspicious.”

Chiron nodded. “I’ll handle the cash.” He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a keyring. Circling the desk, he pressed it into Grover’s hand. “The rest, you’ll find in the vault. Have the key back to me in fifteen minutes.”

He gave Grover’s shoulder a reassuring pat before letting his hand fall. “Now—anything else I can do for you?”

Grover hesitated, shifting uneasily on his hooves, the tips scraping faintly against the floor. His fingers worried at the strap of his reed pipes, his wide eyes flicking between the room’s glow and Chiron’s unreadable face. For a moment, he almost kept the question locked inside—safer that way, less foolish—but the gnawing itch of his curiosity finally shoved past his nerves.

“S-sir,” he began, his voice low and trembling, “have you… have you found anything? About what’s been—what’s been disrupting our sense of smell? Our… our Sense?” The word seemed to echo, heavier than he’d meant it.

Chiron’s expression shifted, the faintest crack in his usual calm. He exhaled slowly, shoulders tightening as though the weight of the question pressed down on him too. When he finally spoke, his voice carried both authority and unease.

“Yes,” Chiron admitted at last, gaze darting toward the shadows beyond the firelight. “It is not a simple disturbance, Grover. It is… the Great Stirring.”

Chapter Text

Percy stood atop Half-Blood Hill and looked down toward the road. A sedan waited on the side of the road, not fifty paces from where Gabe's Camaro had crashed. The car had been removed and brought into Camp to be salvaged for the metal. He was so close to where his mother had been taken. Percy swallowed down a lump in his throat. She's alive. I'll find her. He told himself.

He tugged at the neckline of the micromail bodysuit beneath his clothes. It felt like a wetsuit or something, though Percy knew it was made of metal. A bronze coating from his neck to his wrists to his ankles. Over the micromail, he wore light jeans, a cream T-shirt, and a faded green hoodie. All were courtesy of Cabin Ten, hand-delivered by Silena Beauregard during dinner the night before.

Grover stood next to him, checking and double-checking the grey backpack he had packed for the trip. His hooves clacked nervously against the dry earth as he adjusted the straps for the third time, muttering under his breath about snacks, maps, and emergency tin cans. Ethan stood on Percy’s other side, arms folded and eyes distant, looking thoughtful in that quiet, unreadable way of his. He hadn’t said much all morning, and Percy was fine with that. He didn’t feel like talking either; his stomach was a tangle of nerves that made words feel heavy on his tongue.

The breeze carried the smell of pine and campfire smoke from the valley below. When Percy turned to glance back at Camp Half-Blood, the familiar sight made his chest ache—cabins gleaming in the late morning sun, campers milling around the strawberry fields, the faint shimmer of the magical boundary like heat on asphalt. Somewhere down there, laughter echoed from the archery range, and for a second Percy wondered if he was making a mistake by leaving, even for a short while.

Movement caught his eye. Luke and Annabeth were climbing the hill toward them, their figures outlined against the bright blue sky. Annabeth’s blonde hair flashed like a signal in the sunlight as she jogged to keep pace, her bronze dagger bouncing at her side. Luke moved more easily, hands shoved into his pockets, every step relaxed like he owned the hill. When they reached the crest, Luke’s easy smile found Percy immediately.

“Hey, dude,” Luke said, a little out of breath but grinning as if he’d just come back from a casual walk rather than a climb. “I just came to see you off.” He held out a slightly battered shoebox, the cardboard edges soft from wear. “And to give you these. I hope you put them to good use.”

Percy blinked, startled, and took the box. The weight of it felt oddly important. He lifted the lid to find a beat-up pair of white high-tops resting inside, scuffed and creased but clearly cared for.

“Thanks?” Percy said, his voice tilting upward with uncertainty. He couldn’t quite figure out if this was a joke, a warning, or just Luke being Luke.

“Maia,” Luke said clearly.

At once, the shoes twitched in his hands. Tiny wings sprouted from the sides with a sudden shimmer of silver light, flapping aimlessly like startled birds. The air around them stirred with a faint breeze, carrying the smell of leather and ozone.

“Oh—” Percy’s eyes went wide. “That’s so cool!”

Luke grinned at his reaction, but his shoulders stayed loose, casual. “Not doing much good in my closet, and you’re going to need all the help you can get.” He glanced at the shoes again, then repeated, “Maia.”

The wings folded neatly against the sneakers and vanished with a soft rustle, like feathers settling. Luke held the shoes out to Percy, the box balanced on one palm.

“They’ll obey the word. Say it to start them, again to stop. Don’t forget, or you’ll be chasing them across the country.” He gave a small, sheepish thumbs-up. “Look, uh… Percy, I’m sorry we didn’t get to train longer. And I know this is a huge burden for someone who just got here.”

Percy swallowed. Luke’s voice carried a weight that made the air feel suddenly heavier.

“But,” Luke went on, locking eyes with him, “I also know you’ve got this.” His smile broadened, that easy, confident grin that made people believe him without question. He swept a glance over Grover and Annabeth. “You all do. So, uh… go kill some monsters for me.”

Before anyone could answer, he stepped forward and hugged Annabeth. Percy thought she might explode with how red her face got, her arms stiff for half a second before she reluctantly hugged back.

Luke turned to Percy, giving him a sharp high five that stung pleasantly against Percy’s palm, then clasped Grover’s hand in a firm shake. “Good luck, heroes,” he said, already pivoting to head down the hill. He lifted a hand in a final wave, sunlight glinting off the curve of his sword strapped across his back. “Don’t make me come rescue you.”

Percy watched until Luke disappeared behind the crest, a strange mix of excitement and dread churning in his stomach.

Ethan shifted beside him and gave a small, crooked smile. “You do got this,” he said quietly. “Sorry I don’t have any cool magic items to hand over, but hey—when you get back, I’m gonna kick your ass, so look forward to it.”

Instead of taking the offered handshake, Percy stepped forward and pulled Ethan into a quick, fierce hug.

“No freaking way I lose,” Percy said with a smirk as they broke apart, giving Ethan a playful shove.

Ethan chuckled, dark eyes flashing with something between amusement and genuine pride. He turned to Annabeth and Grover, exchanging brief handshakes and murmured wishes of luck before he, too, headed down the hill after Luke.

The breeze shifted again, carrying new voices. Percy turned to see two more figures climbing toward them. Charles Beckendorf emerged first, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark skin gleaming with sweat as he carried what looked like a collection of small bronze contraptions that clinked faintly with every step. Beside him walked Silena Beauregard, her long, dark hair tumbling in soft waves over a pastel pink sweater. She balanced a neat stack of something—cloth? papers? Percy couldn’t tell from here—but her laugh rang clear across the slope, light and easy.

Beckendorf shot her a sideways glance as she spoke, the faintest, barely-there smile tugging at his usually serious mouth. Percy caught the look and almost snorted. So it’s like that, huh.

Silena reached the top of the hill with the grace of someone who could make climbing look like a runway walk. Without hesitation, she crossed straight to Annabeth and wrapped her in a warm hug, the faint scent of vanilla perfume trailing after her.

“Good luck, brainiac,” she said playfully, her voice soft but teasing. When she pulled back, her smile was radiant enough to make even the morning sun feel second-rate.

From the small stack she carried, Silena produced a ziplock bag full of neatly folded white bandages. “Nectar infused and sterile,” she announced proudly, like a general unveiling a secret weapon. “I got Lee to confirm.”

Annabeth’s eyes widened just a fraction—high praise from someone who rarely let surprise slip through. “Thanks, Silena,” she said, accepting the bag with the careful precision of someone who knew exactly how valuable it was.

Silena turned, her dark hair catching the light as she handed similar baggies to Percy and Grover. “For you two, too. Cuts, scrapes, arrow wounds—just don’t bleed all over your clothes if you can help it.” Her smile lingered on them, warm and unflinchingly kind.

Percy managed a grateful nod, though he couldn’t help noticing what Charles Beckendorf clearly already had: Silena was really pretty. Her makeup was flawless but subtle, her eyes bright with an easy confidence. Percy could absolutely see why Charles had a crush on her. Not really his type, but still—he wasn’t blind.

“Good luck, boys,” Silena said with a wink. “Listen to Annabeth, okay? She’s the only one here with an actual plan.”

Before Percy could respond, she turned and headed back down the hill, the hem of her pink sweater fluttering in the breeze. Charles’ eyes followed her for half a heartbeat too long, his usually composed face softening into something almost shy before he remembered where he was.

“Eh, um—right.” He cleared his throat and stepped forward, the metal clinking faintly in his arms. He held up a handful of small bronze cylinders, each slightly longer than a pencil and about as wide as a quarter. Their polished surfaces gleamed dully in the late-morning sun.

“These,” he said, shifting into a more confident, almost workshop-like tone, “are scent canisters. Basically…” He hesitated, lips quirking in faint embarrassment. “It’s a bunch of demigod B.O. in a tube.”

Grover wrinkled his nose. “That’s… gross.”

Charles chuckled, low and good-natured. “Yeah, but monsters love gross. If you need to shake one off your tail, press this button—”

He demonstrated, pressing a small circular switch on the side of one cylinder. A thin, cross-shaped stake popped out of the bottom with a satisfying snick.

“—and drive it into the ground or a tree, anything soft enough to hold it. Then press the button again, twice, to activate the release.”

He clicked the button once more, and the stake retracted with a smooth metallic slide. “It’ll leak concentrated demigod scent for a few minutes. Hopefully enough to distract anything chasing you.”

Percy took one of the canisters, feeling its surprising weight in his palm. The bronze was cool against his skin, faintly humming with some kind of magical charge. He wondered—briefly—how exactly Charles had collected demigod scent, then decided he definitely didn’t want to know.

Charles offered a small, reassuring grin. “Just don’t set one off near camp unless you want a pack of hellhounds crashing the strawberry fields. Trust me, cleaning up after that is not fun.”

Grover clutched his own canister like it might explode. “Noted.”

Annabeth slipped hers into her bag with a calm efficiency that made Percy feel like he was already behind. He tightened his grip on the high-tops Luke had given him, heart hammering as he realized their departure was no longer some far-off idea. It was happening—now.

Charles handed each of them a couple of canisters, the bronze warm from his grip. “They work best on places like hilltops or anywhere with a lot of wind,” he explained. “Monsters pick up scents faster when the air’s moving.” He gave a quick nod toward Annabeth, a teasing spark in his dark eyes. “Anyway, good luck, guys—and take notes on the feathers, Annabeth.”

Annabeth raised an eyebrow but allowed a tiny, pleased smirk. Charles grinned and pulled her into a brief hug, then turned to Grover for another and ended with a solid fist bump for Percy, the metal of his tool belt clinking softly as he stepped back.

“Stay sharp,” Charles said, his usual engineer’s composure softening for just a moment. Then he turned and jogged down the slope, the morning light glinting off the bronze cylinders still tucked under his arm.

As Charles disappeared into the trees, two more figures emerged from the trail below. Argus arrived first, silent as always, his many eyes scanning the group with the unblinking thoroughness of a living security system. He gave a single, approving nod as he passed and continued down toward the waiting sedan.

Chiron followed at a slower, steadier pace. The centaur’s hooves pressed deep into the grass with each measured step, his upper body as dignified as ever in a crisp camp shirt. The wind stirred his dark hair as he approached, and for a heartbeat Percy thought he looked older than usual—like the centuries he carried were showing through the careful calm of his face.

“I wish you all luck,” Chiron said, his voice carrying the quiet authority of someone used to addressing heroes and soldiers alike. “And I would leave you with a few things to remember.”

He turned first to Annabeth. “Annabeth, you are skilled—brilliant, even—but inexperienced in much of the mortal world. Remember that as you travel. Strategy is nothing without flexibility.”

Annabeth straightened under the words, nodding once. Percy could almost see the wheels turning behind her storm-gray eyes.

“Grover,” Chiron continued, his tone softening. “You lack the confidence you deserve. I hope that as you three overcome the challenges of this quest, you will see the strength that has always been yours.”

Grover shifted awkwardly, his hooves scuffing the grass, but Percy noticed the way his shoulders squared just a little.

Finally, Chiron faced Percy. For a moment, the centaur’s eyes—old, wise, impossibly deep—held a sadness so profound it made Percy’s stomach knot.

“Percy,” Chiron said quietly, “I am sorry you have been dragged into this. You do not deserve it, nor did you ask for it. But you are talented, and you are driven. I wish you the favor of the gods.”

The words landed like stones in Percy’s chest. Compliments, encouragement—things that should have lifted him—but instead they felt heavy, almost unbearable. He wasn’t some prodigy or hero. He was just a scared kid who wanted his mother back. And now everyone was looking at him like he was meant to save the world.

Chiron drew himself up, his expression settling into something almost ceremonial. “Go,” he said, each syllable deliberate, like a blessing and a command all at once. “And may your travels bring you back to us—victorious.”

The breeze shifted, carrying the distant sounds of camp life—laughter, hammering from the forge, the faint twang of a bowstring. Percy tightened his grip on the winged sneakers Luke had given him, the world suddenly too sharp, too bright.

This was it. No more training. No more delaying. Just the open road and the gods waiting at the other end.

And somewhere out there, his mom.

˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Argus drove the three of them into New York City, making for the Greyhound station. Annabeth sat in the shotgun seat with Grover and Percy in the back. Passing a mile marker on the highway, Percy exclaimed, "Woo! Ten miles and no monsters,"

Annabeth turned in her seat and gave him a level look, "You're gonna jinx us, Seaweed Brain,"

"Well, I'm sorry for being optimistic," Percy shot back, and Annabeth rolled her eyes, turning back toward the road ahead. Percy felt a spike of annoyance. If they were going to do this quest together, they should at least try to get along. "Remind me, why do you hate me so much?" Percy asked casually.

"I don't hate you," Annabeth replied after a moment.

"Could've fooled me. So friendly during the tour." He mused wistfully, then let his voice drop to a deadpan, "Then you set me up to get my ass handed to me during Capture the Flag. Almost immediately after that, you shoved me toward an oncoming monster, nearly killing me, and since then, you've been passive-aggressive." 

“I don’t hate you,” Annabeth doubled down, though her storm-gray eyes still felt like they could bore clean through Percy’s skull.

“Is this about the whole Poseidon and Athena rivalry?” Percy asked, one eyebrow raised.

Annabeth sighed, sharp and controlled. “No. That would be stupid. You’re not your father, and I’m not my mother.” Her tone carried a finality that said conversation over, and she turned back toward the windshield, shoulders stiff.

The van rolled into Manhattan’s morning traffic, skyscrapers rising like steel cliffs around them. Argus steered with calm precision, weaving through taxis and delivery trucks until they pulled up to the Greyhound station.

As they hopped out, Argus gave them a small smile and a two-finger salute before merging smoothly back into the chaos of New York streets.

Percy adjusted his backpack and scanned the crowd out of habit—years of dodging Gabe’s temper had made him alert to faces and movements. That’s when a flash of damp paper on a nearby pillar caught his eye.

It was his face.

Not a “Missing Cat” flyer. Not an ad. Him.

The bold heading screamed: HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

Below it was an old school photo of Percy—awkward hair, crooked tie—along with a police hotline and Gabe’s number.

“Great,” Percy muttered, his stomach tightening. He didn’t need to puzzle out the meaning. “Amber Alert, runaway report, whatever—you name it.”

He darted a quick look around: no cops in sight, no one staring too closely. He stepped over casually, tore the poster free in one smooth motion, and folded it into his jacket pocket before anyone could get a good look.

Grover’s eyes widened, his voice a nervous bleat. “I-is that going to be a p-problem?”

“Not if we stay ahead of it,” Percy said, keeping his voice low and steady. “But we need to assume my name is flagged. Tickets, IDs, security cameras—it’s all bad news.”

Annabeth crossed her arms, unimpressed but attentive. “What exactly did you do?”

“Vanished,” Percy answered briskly as they started toward the terminal. “Took my mom’s car with me when we disappeared. My stepdad probably convinced the cops I stole it. Missing person, possible grand theft auto. If Gabe really wants the insurance money, he’ll make it sound worse.”

He pulled a baseball cap from his bag and flipped up his hood in one fluid motion, adjusting the brim low over his eyes. “We keep our heads down, buy tickets in cash, and nobody says my name. Simple.”

Grover gulped. “I—I’ll grab a newspaper. Maybe there’s more info.” He trotted toward a nearby newsstand, keeping his own hood up.

Percy glanced at Annabeth as they stepped inside the crowded terminal. “Who still uses newspapers anyway?”

“People who don’t want a digital trail,” Annabeth replied dryly.

Percy gave a small, crooked smile. “Fair point. But seriously—why not phones? Burner numbers, encrypted apps, something.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes like it physically pained her to explain. “Because Zeus is the lord of the sky, Seaweed Brain. His domain includes electricity. Pretty much every internet or cellular signal you send passes through his territory. If we start texting or browsing, he’d know it was us in seconds.”

Percy frowned, thinking it through. “But what if we’re just… looking? Like checking websites, not sending anything important?”

“That still sends a request for information,” Annabeth countered immediately. “Every time you hit a site, you’re leaving a magical fingerprint on the signal. Anyone—god, monster, or demigod with the right tools—could trace it back. Even if we weren’t actively running from Zeus, it’s still risky.”

She shifted on the bench, warming to the topic like a professor who’d been waiting all semester for a decent question. “And that’s only half the problem. Anything magical interferes with the local electromagnetic field. Most modern electronics use magnetic storage for data or rely on delicate circuits to run programs. Enough magic nearby, and it acts like a giant magnet wiping a hard drive—resets everything. Think of it as… tipping a jar of ink over a letter before it’s dry.”

Percy tilted his head. “So… basically an EMP?”

Annabeth gave a reluctant nod. “Sure. Close enough for you to understand.”

“Close enough for anyone to understand,” Percy muttered, but he couldn’t help a faint grin. He liked it when she explained things—even if it came with an insult.

Annabeth, of course, caught the grin and smirked faintly in return. “Alone, out in the mortal world, you can use electronics. But every time you summon power, or a monster shows up, you risk scrambling whatever device you’re holding. At camp, forget it—too much ambient magic. You’d fry a phone before you even dialed.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “So that’s why the camp’s phone is basically an antique.”

“Exactly. We keep one landline, and it’s old enough to still be a spin-dial,” Annabeth said, like that fact offended her personally.

Percy leaned back against the bench, tapping a finger against his knee. “Okay, but hypothetically… if someone did figure out a way to shield a phone, like some kind of magical Faraday cage, would it work?”

Annabeth’s eyebrows rose a fraction—surprise, then intrigue. “Maybe. If you could insulate the circuits from the magical field. But you’d need celestial bronze, or at least an alloy that doesn’t conduct ambient energy.”

Percy smirked. “Good to know. Might come in handy someday.”

She narrowed her eyes, but there was a flicker of respect in her expression. “Don’t get any ideas, Seaweed Brain.”

“Too late,” Percy said, already filing the thought away.

For a second, the tension between them eased—two kids planning how to outsmart gods instead of running from them. Then the terminal speakers crackled to life, announcing their bus, and the weight of the quest came crashing back.

Grover rejoined them, a little out of breath from weaving through the terminal crowd, and held up the newspaper like it weighed fifty pounds. The headline wasn’t dramatic—just a thin black strip across the top of the Metro section—but the photo below it made Percy’s stomach twist. His own face stared back at him: school picture, stiff smile, hair a mess. MISSING—POSSIBLE RUNAWAY.

Percy dropped his head into his hands. “Fantastic. I’m a wanted fugitive. Exactly what I wanted on my summer to-do list.”

“I-It’ll be fine,” Grover said, trying for soothing but coming off more bleating. “We can dye your h-hair when we stop for the n-night. Maybe… cut it?”

Percy’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “We’re not cutting my hair.”

Annabeth smirked over the top of her apple. “What, you like your rat’s nest?”

Percy straightened dramatically, tugging off his hood and cap with a flourish. He sat up like a prince about to issue a royal decree. “I’ll have you know I’m quite proud of my rat’s nest,” he intoned in the most pompous voice he could manage. He flicked one hand beside his ear, making his messy black hair bounce for emphasis, then replaced his makeshift disguise with exaggerated care.

Grover choked on a laugh, folding the newspaper like he was afraid it might explode. “S-so… what do we do while we wait?”

Annabeth dug into her backpack and produced an apple, inspecting it with the kind of calculation most people reserved for blueprints. After a beat, she shrugged. “Hacky sack?”

Percy blinked. “With fruit?”

“It’s round enough,” Annabeth said simply, and lobbed the apple toward him.

Before Percy could decide if this was ridiculous or brilliant, Grover hopped up, and suddenly the three of them were standing in a rough circle near the far end of the terminal. They started kicking the apple back and forth, keeping it in the air.

Annabeth was terrifyingly good—controlled little flicks of her boot, spinning heel catches that made Percy wonder if she’d been secretly training for an underground apple-kicking league. Percy wasn’t half bad himself; years of dodging bullies and gym balls apparently counted for something. Even Grover surprised them with quick, springy kicks from his hooves, though every so often he’d bleat when the apple came too close to his horns.

They played for a few solid minutes, earning a few double takes from passing travelers. Then the apple drifted a little too close to Grover’s face. His pupils dilated. Instinct overruled game.

Chomp.

The apple vanished in a single bite.

“Grover!” Percy sputtered, half laughing.

“S-sorry!” Grover mumbled around the mouthful, cheeks bulging. “Reflex!”

But Percy and Annabeth were already doubled over, clutching Grover’s shoulders as they laughed. The sound cut through the station’s low buzz of announcements and rolling suitcases—bright and unguarded.

It felt good. Better than Percy expected. For a few minutes the weight of the quest, the wanted posters, the gods themselves—it all faded into the background. He doubted this journey would have many moments like this. The sky outside was already heavy with clouds, and the storm waiting for them wasn’t just weather.

Grover, cheeks still pink, unzipped his backpack and rummaged through with the air of someone who came prepared for every snack emergency. Percy caught a glimpse of a ziplock bag packed with tin cans, bottle caps, and other “foods” that would break a mortal’s teeth. Grover triumphantly produced another apple and tossed it into the air.

“Round two?” he offered.

Percy grinned, catching the apple with a quick flick of his foot. “You bet.”

Annabeth smirked, settling back into position. “Try not to eat this one, goat boy.”

Grover gave a sheepish shrug. “N-no promises.”

And for a little while, the three of them kicked an apple through the air as if the gods weren’t watching, as if the world wasn’t ending—just a trio of kids making a moment last.

When the bus arrived the three of them piled on and took a row to themselves toward the back. "Keep your backpacks close," Annabeth warned, "We can't risk losing anything if we need to make a quick exit,"

The three of them sat Grover at the window, Percy in the middle, and Annabeth on the aisle. Percy was just settling down, looking to get comfortable and pull out the Rubix cube the Stolls had lent him- though he suspected it wasn't theirs- when three old ladies climbed onto the bus. The hair on the back of Percy's neck stood up, and he saw Grover and Annabeth stiffen. "Shit," He cursed, and his companions followed his gaze. Grover whimpered.

"T-that's definitely h-her,"

"What?" Annabeth demanded as she looked at the three old ladies.

"The middle one," Percy said, looking back down and trying not to be noticed, "Is the Fury I killed in December,"

"Fuck," Annabeth cursed.

"I thought monsters took a lifetime to reform?" Percy hissed, and Annabeth looked at him with a pained expression.

"If you're lucky," She replied, and Percy wanted to break something. 

"Of course, and with my life…" Percy trailed off as the bus doors closed, and the old ladies sat in the front rows. Directly behind the driver, Mrs. Dodds and one of the other Furies crossed their legs in the center aisle and seemed to settle into a conversation. The bus rolled out of the terminal.

“We need a way out,” Annabeth whisper-yelled, already tearing through her backpack with quick, practiced motions. “You caught them off guard once. They know better now—they won’t play with you this time.”

Percy’s fingers closed around the familiar weight in his pocket. Riptide. He uncapped the pen with a soft click and felt the comforting hum of celestial bronze. Across from him, Annabeth’s left sleeve shifted ever so slightly as she freed the pommel of her kopis. In a single fluid motion she palmed one of her razor-edged wing knives and slipped it up her opposite sleeve, her movements so subtle Percy almost missed them.

Beside him, Grover reached into his own bag and produced a twig no longer than a pencil. Percy raised an eyebrow.

“I-It becomes a c-club,” Grover whispered.

Percy gave a sharp nod. “Good enough.”

The bus rattled through the tunnel entrance, the dim overhead lights flickering. The sudden darkness stretched every shadow. Far up the aisle, three pairs of eyes began to glow—red, molten, unmistakable.

The Furies.

No mortal passenger reacted. The old lady across the aisle kept knitting. A businessman snored into his briefcase. Only Percy, Annabeth, and Grover seemed to feel the air tighten like a drawn bowstring.

“Percy,” Annabeth said softly, her voice a blade wrapped in velvet, “you need to get out. Grover and I will buy you time.”

“Not happening,” Percy shot back, his voice low but solid. He tightened his grip on Riptide. “I’m not leaving either of you.”

“Those things want you,” Annabeth hissed. “They need a scapegoat for the lightning bolt. We’re just collateral.”

The words slammed into Percy like a flash flood. His mind snapped back to the night of the car crash—his mom’s voice, the pounding rain, the Minotaur bearing down. It’s after you, Percy, not me. Her scream, the blinding light as she dissolved in his arms.

Never again.

He would not let someone else pay for him.

The bus plunged deeper into the Lincoln Tunnel, darkness swallowing the windows. The Furies rose from their seats with eerie synchronicity, glowing eyes fixed on the trio. Their human disguises flickered like faulty holograms.

“I think I have to use the bathroom,” one hissed, voice too smooth.

“Me too,” said another.

Mrs. Dodds smiled—a slow, poisonous grin Percy had seen a hundred times in nightmares. “I do as well.”

They started down the aisle, step by deliberate step, the air around them shimmering with heat.

Annabeth leaned in, whispering so low Percy barely caught the words. “Plan: we stop the bus and run. Get the scent canisters out to throw them off. You two distract; I reach the driver and pull the emergency brake. Got it?”

Percy swallowed hard. “Got it.”

Grover nodded so fast his horns nearly poked through his cap. His twig trembled in his hands, but his jaw was set.

The Furies closed in. The tunnel lights flickered again, and the air smelled faintly of ozone and sulfur. Percy tightened his grip on Riptide. Whatever happened next, he wasn’t running.

Annabeth moved first. One heartbeat she was beside Percy, the next she was a blur of gray and bronze. Her backpack slid onto her shoulders mid-leap as she vaulted off the headrest ahead of them, sprinting across the tops of the seats like a gymnast on a balance beam.

Percy was right behind her, yanking his own pack tight and uncapping Riptide in one smooth motion. The pen flared into three feet of celestial bronze, its glow carving thin lines of gold across the shadowed cabin.

The mortals finally reacted. Screams erupted like a chain reaction as passengers bolted for the front and back of the bus. Someone pulled the stop cord in panic, but the driver only shouted and kept the bus barreling through the tunnel.

The Furies hissed in unison. Their sweet-little-grandma disguises sagged and melted like wax under a blowtorch. Pastel dresses and lace gloves blackened, then sloughed away to reveal leathery, batlike skin stretched over bones that seemed too long for their frames. Their spindly bodies stretched until each loomed nearly eight feet tall. Enormous wings unfurled with a leathery snap, blotting out the emergency lights and throwing the cabin into a storm of shadow and sulfur.

Their eyes blazed like molten coal, pupils twisting into spirals of fire. Perfectly painted nails lengthened into hooked talons wet with blood. Their jaws cracked wider than any human’s should, revealing double rows of jagged shark teeth. The dainty handbags they’d carried reknit into iron-laced whips, the leather strips dripping sparks and spitting flames.

One of them pivoted sharply toward Annabeth, wings buffeting the air as she made for the emergency brake.

“Where is it, Jackson!” Mrs. Dodds’ voice split the air like a lightning strike. The sound carried an almost physical weight, a command meant to drive mortals to their knees. Percy felt it slam into his chest, a cold spike of terror that tasted like copper. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to curl up, to submit.

He forced himself to blink, to breathe, to stand. No. Not this time.

Beside him, Grover materialized, gripping what looked like an ordinary meter-long branch—until it began to change. The wood twisted on itself, curling into a perfect circle at one end, the bark knitting together like living muscle. Ancient Greek spilled from Grover’s lips in a low chant, the words thrumming through the air. Sparks of green light pulsed along the branch, the circle tightening until it resembled a giant bubble wand.

Percy tightened his grip on Riptide. His voice came out steadier than he felt. “Where is what?”

“Perseus,” Mrs. Dodds hissed, her jaw distending with a wet crack. “You have offended the gods—” Her whip flared with a surge of fire. “—and now you shall die!”

Percy caught the whip on his sword and yanked it free. He tried to think about footwork, he tried to make an exit strategy, but his mind was caught up in the moment. 

As they exited the Lincoln tunnel, the driver shouted, trying to calm down the panicking mortals and figure out what was going on, presumably while keeping his eyes on the road. Rain began to plink against the vehicle, then grew to a downpour in the space of a few seconds. Thunder rumbled in the air.  

Mrs. Dodds and the other Fury facing them rushed forward, whips snapping, claws reaching for them. That's when things took a turn, literally. The driver yelped, and suddenly, the entire bus was thrown to the left as the vehicle took a hard right, grinding against the concrete barriers on the shoulder of the highway.

Percy regained his balance just in time to dodge an attack from Mrs. Dodds. Out of the corner of his eye, Percy could see Grover battling the other Fury, branches leaping out of his staff like tentacles, looking to ensnare the demon. The Fury was batting them away with her claws, her whip, burning foliage thrown across the bus, setting a couple of seats on fire. 

Percy deflected a swipe from Mrs. Dodds’ claws and jabbed her stomach with Riptide, pouring every ounce of demigod strength into the strike. It wasn’t much—but it was enough. Dodds grunted, stumbling backward. Percy pivoted, sliding his left arm behind her back and planting his leg in front of hers, using leverage to trip her. A sharp strike with Riptide’s pommel to the small of her back sent her sprawling across the aisle.

Sliding past, Percy caught sight of Annabeth dueling the other Fury. Her movements were almost impossible to follow. She vaulted atop the seats, knives flashing, each strike precise. Yellow-green blood splattered the upholstery as she carved shallow cuts across the creature’s stomach. With a well-timed fist to the chin, she sent the Fury crashing into the ceiling, only for it to regain its footing on the way down.

“Fire? Against a Fury?” it mocked, snapping its iron-and-flame whip toward her. But Annabeth was faster. She stabbed herself with the wing knife, bronze wings blooming across her chest. Using one knife, she caught the whip mid-snap, and with her bare left hand wrenched it free, sending it flying toward the driver’s console, where it landed directly above the wheel. Smirking, she pulled the knife free from her chest—no wound—and leapt again, ready for the next strike.

Percy glanced back at Grover. The satyr was on the ropes. The spell animating his branch was faltering, leaving him to bat at the Fury with only enough strength to annoy. Percy grit his teeth. Exit strategy, he reminded himself.

Mrs. Dodds was still struggling to rise. Percy lunged at the Fury targeting Grover, slashing downward and catching her at the back of the legs. The creature screamed, blood spraying across the seats beside him. It swung its talons, forcing Percy to stumble backward.

“Grover, get behind me!” Percy shouted, charging the Fury between them. The whip lashed, red-hot iron biting into Percy’s shoulder, searing through clothing. Pain exploded up his arm, but then a dull pressure spread across his back. Using the brief window, Percy twisted and flung the fiery whip away, sparks scattering across the aisle.

He dared a glance back. Grover had leapt to the front, moving to assist Annabeth. That’s when Percy noticed the hilt of her wing knife sticking from his shoulder—her reflexes saving him from worse. A thin trail of smoke rose from the spot where the discarded Fury’s whip had landed.

The bus swerved violently. Percy caught the driver wrestling with the wheel, but it was too late. The vehicle barreled straight through the tunnel at seventy miles an hour, honking and clipping lanes of traffic. Concrete barriers approached fast.

“Shit!” Percy shouted, bracing as the front of the bus slammed into the wall. Metal screamed, glass shattered, and the cabin erupted into chaos as the massive vehicle crumpled, twisting forward with unstoppable momentum.

Percy was thrown onto his stomach, tumbling alongside the Furies and other loose passengers toward the back of the bus. Percy didn't even get to moan in pain before something crashed into the back of the bus, sending them spinning. The back end of the bus swung out, and everyone was thrown to the right this time. Again, a crash rocked the bus, this one in the center of the right side, the metal crumpling as the entire vehicle was thrown into the air and sent squealing on its side. Glass broke, and sparks flew as the entire population of the bus crashed downward to the left wall of the bus.

Percy hauled himself upright, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. The tunnel of sound hit him all at once: moans, screams, car horns, the downpour hammering steel, and the grinding, scraping crescendo of wrecked vehicles. Then he realized—he was on top of the Fury he had just fought. With a grunt, he scrambled off as the creature staggered to its feet, dazed.

“Percy! Roof exit!” Annabeth shouted, a cut streaking blood across her forehead, dust and scratches smearing her skin. He turned just in time to see the small hatch above his left shoulder, rain pouring through the cracks in the ceiling windows.

He lunged for the exit, forcing it open. Grover scrambled after him, and Annabeth followed, plucking her wing knife from Percy’s shoulder. The bronze wings folded neatly back into the blade as if nothing had happened.

Percy stole a glance at the ruined bus: the Fury Annabeth and Grover had been dueling was disintegrating near the driver’s seat. Yellow-green blood faded as the corpse flaked away into nothing.

The three of them spilled onto the shoulder. Rain lashed against them, wind tearing at hair and clothes. Percy’s eyes swept the chaos: the semi that had hit them first lay on its side near the median. Other cars and trucks were twisted across the highway. Hazard lights blinked from vehicles scrambling to clear the lanes, engines revving and tires spinning on slick asphalt.

The moment the water hit his skin, Percy felt strength surge through him—as though he’d been injected with pure adrenaline. His cuts and scrapes stung and then eased; the mix of rain, monster blood, and his own healing powers began to work instantly.

Annabeth cursed and darted toward the shoulder. “Overpass! Head back the other way!”

Percy and Grover followed, weaving between scattered vehicles. Other passengers were crawling from wrecks, some screaming, some limply dragging themselves out. Then a guttural howl erupted from the twisted bus, the sound deep and enraged.

“She’s calling reinforcements,” Percy muttered. “We have to move now.”

Rounding the back of the bus, Percy’s jaw dropped. The bus and first semi blocked all but two lanes. A second semi had slammed into the chaos, its front crumpled like a soda can, flames licking at the rain-soaked asphalt. A dozen other vehicles were twisted, broken, or abandoned, glass and metal scattered in every direction.

Percy’s heart ached at the carnage. People were injured, some already dead—bodies mangled, trapped under debris, blood pooling around shattered windshields. The urge to help nearly stopped him, but the howls of the Furies drove him onward.

He ran, faster than he thought possible, his boots slapping against wet asphalt, Riptide clutched tightly in his hand. He didn’t dare stop, didn’t dare look back. The rain pounded him, the fire seared the air, the screams tore at his chest—but he ran. He ran for Grover, for Annabeth, for himself, for the living—and for those who couldn’t.

The highway was chaos incarnate, but Percy pushed through, each step a defiance against the storm, the monsters, and the devastation. Survival wasn’t just instinct anymore—it was a choice. And he wouldmake it.

Ducking between two speeding cars, Percy scrambled toward Annabeth, who was peering over what they’d assumed was a median—only to curse when she realized it was the edge of an overpass. Below them, traffic rushed like a river of metal, headlights cutting through the rain.

“Perseus!” Mrs. Dodds roared. Percy turned to see the two remaining Furies, battered and bleeding but very much alive, swooping toward them.

“Jump!” Annabeth shouted, leaping across the three-meter gap with a grace Percy could only envy. Grover followed, branch extended, ready to catch him if needed. Percy’s chest hammered, Sense screaming Danger! Death! every second. He couldn’t stop to think.

He backed up, ran, and launched himself at the gap—but instead of soaring like Annabeth, his chest slammed into the opposite wall.

“Fff—” He tried to curse, but the breath was knocked out of him. Fingers slipping on wet concrete, he teetered, weightless.

Annabeth and Grover lunged. Hands clamped around him, yanking him over the edge and into a sprint across the highway.

Cars screamed past, tires throwing misting water. Percy barely noticed them, focusing on keeping pace.

“Die, honey!” Mrs. Dodds snarled. Percy spun just in time as her whip cracked across the rain-slick asphalt. The flames hissed when they met a passing car, sending plumes of steam and smoke into the stormy air. The whip wrapped around the wheels, yanking Mrs. Dodds down the highway. She skidded along the pavement, scraping, sparks flying as metal and flesh collided.

The other Fury lunged. Percy slashed and parried, Riptide a glimmering arc of bronze in his hand. He ducked under talons, shoved off a car bumper, and created just enough space to keep running.

The three of them barreled forward, rain blinding and lightning splitting the sky, each step a gamble over wet asphalt, metal, and fire. Every heartbeat screamed: Survive. Move. Don’t stop.

Percy barely registered the Fury’s talons raking his shirt, shredding the outer layer of his micromail without breaking it. Before he could react, a car thundered past where his back foot had been, sending a splash of rainwater across his shoulders.

Annabeth appeared like a blur, leaping onto the Fury’s back. Both knives stabbed deep, her legs wrapped tight around its waist, riding the creature as it thrashed. It wailed in guttural fury, thrashing wildly. Annabeth shoved off, tucking into a flip and landing nimbly a few steps back, narrowly avoiding a speeding sedan.

Percy’s eyes scanned the chaos, looking for his opening. The Fury snarled and lunged toward him, claws extended. At the last possible second, a car slammed into the monster. Its legs snapped under the force, flipping it onto its back. Percy didn’t hesitate—he reversed his grip on Riptide, plunging the Celestial Bronze blade into its chest and carving a widening wound.

The Fury’s claws tore at Percy’s arm but only shredded his clothes before it fell still. A delirious grin crept across his face. “Get frogger-ed,” he muttered, teeth chattering from a mix of adrenaline and exhaustion.

A horn blared. Percy scrambled as another car barreled down the wet asphalt. The collision sent Riptide flying through the air, spinning, as the vehicle tore through the Fury’s remains, scattering monster dust and debris.

Time slowed. Riptide arced perfectly through the chaos, point-first, landing squarely on Mrs. Dodds. The blade pierced cleanly through her head. Her body, already battered and torn from the fight, shuddered violently, yellow-green blood seeping from her mouth and flowing across the pavement. Her limbs twitched once before her form began to dissipate into nothing.

Percy froze, staring, heart hammering, until Annabeth shouted over the rain, “Come on, Seaweed Brain!”

The spell of shock broke. Percy yanked Riptide free, sprinting after Annabeth as the storm continued to batter them. Cars swerved past, sirens wailed in the distance, and thunder rolled overhead. Rain plastered his hair, chilled him to the bone, but he ran, alive, fighting, and unbroken—at least for now.

Chapter Text

Annabeth hurled the scent canister, grinning as the aerosol can was sucked into the grill of a passing semi. Perfect. That would drag their trail straight back into the city. She vaulted the guardrail and skidded down the slick hillside, mud splattering as she angled for the underpass.

A pickup rumbled by. Annabeth yanked out another canister, clicked once—pause—once, twice—then lobbed it into the road. It clattered into the truck bed and vanished from sight. Northbound trail: handled.

She scrambled back up, pointed toward the trees. “Go! Go!” Percy and Grover bolted into the underbrush. Annabeth followed, quick but careful, every step an effort to put distance between them and the wreckage behind.

“T-three. Three K-Kindly Ones,” Grover stammered, eyes wide.

Annabeth clenched her jaw. She couldn’t let the panic show. They’d been absurdly lucky—again. If not for the rain, Percy would’ve been fried. He’d barely been standing before they got outside. The Furies had tried to pin them in a box, and only the crash had given them a chance.

Lucky. Right. How many mortals had died because of that crash?

She shoved the thought down. Not her fault. Not entirely. The image of her whip cutting through the steering column still burned in her mind. That mistake would stay with her. A lesson carved deep: don’t screw up again.

But blame didn’t belong to her alone. Percy had refused to run. Grover hadn’t scented the Furies. Someone had scrambled The Sense. Zeus was on the warpath. Hades wanted Percy framed. Monsters wanted them dead.

Too much fault to pin on any one of them. But Annabeth would carry her share—whether she liked it or not.

Annabeth scanned the dripping forest, rain plastering her hair to her face, until she spotted a narrow game trail leading south.

“How the hell are we supposed to get to L.A. now?” Percy groused. His tone grated on her nerves, but—annoyingly—he wasn’t wrong.

“Well, if you’d just run when I told you—” Annabeth snapped, only for Percy to cut her off.

“Leave you? I’m not ditching people just to save my own skin.” His huff made it sound like the most obvious thing in the world.

“And what if you had died, Seaweed Brain? You’ve been at this what—two, three weeks? You’re green. I’m not carrying a newbie’s death on my conscience.”

Percy squared his shoulders, meeting her glare head-on. “And what about you? You’re just as beat up as Grover and me. Look me in the eyes and tell me you could’ve handled it.”

Annabeth spun on her heel, jaw tight. “I don’t need you to protect me, Jackson. I would’ve been fine.”

“S-sliced like bread, b-but fine,” Grover muttered.

Annabeth shot him a withering look as she brushed past Percy. “Shut it, goat boy.” Then, just for good measure, she tossed the words over her shoulder. “Both of you—keep moving.”

They hiked in silence. The rain softened to a mist, dripping from the branches overhead. Annabeth kept her eyes on the trail, southbound, but beyond that… nothing. No plan. That fact gnawed at her. She always had contingencies—missed buses, broken routes, injuries, monster attacks of every flavor. But not this. Not a flaming bus wreck in the middle of New Jersey with thirteen days left on the clock and no way west.

Footsteps matched hers. Percy had drawn even. Annabeth stiffened, her scowl automatic. She owed him an apology, maybe, but the words stuck in her throat. Mistakes weren’t her thing.

“I’m sorry,” Percy said first.

Her eyes flicked to him. He was staring at his shoes, brow furrowed, voice low. “I know you don’t need me to protect you. You’re the best of us, Annabeth. It’s just…” He hesitated, then looked down the dripping game trail. “When you told me to run, I thought about my mom. One of the last things she said before the Minotaur got her—‘It’s after you, not me.’ I couldn’t just—” His voice cracked. “I can’t do that again.”

Annabeth swallowed, then gave a slow nod. “You won’t abandon people when you can help. That’s… brave.”

Percy nodded back, but Annabeth’s thoughts twisted. Brave wasn’t her way. She had plans. Strategies. And sometimes—sometimes—people had to take one for the team.

Still, that tug stirred again, the one she had learned to trust—her instincts whispering: trust Percy.

She searched for words. “It’s just—at Camp, we train and train. But it’s a bubble. Out here?” She waved toward the dripping forest. “This is the real test. Out here’s where we find out if we’re any good.” Her voice faltered, doubt creeping in before she could stop it. That old fear again: that she’d never be enough.

Percy’s gaze sharpened. “You haven’t left Camp in five years, right?”

Annabeth tensed, every muscle taut. Forcing herself to relax, she managed.

“No. Apart from the odd field trip, I haven’t left since I was seven.” Annabeth hesitated, searching for the words. “It’s just… if I don’t take quests, if I don’t do something, I’ll be stuck at Camp until I’m old enough to live on my own. Then Chiron will pull strings, get me a college, a job—whatever. And that’s it. My life, decided.”

“You’ve never had a normal childhood,” Percy said quietly.

Annabeth nodded. “I know what normal looks like. Movies, school lockers, shopping malls, video games, fast food. Kids who don’t carry knives everywhere. But me?” Her voice softened. “I’ve never had that. And I probably never will.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the patter of rain.

Then Percy blurted, “So you haven’t seen Star Wars?”

Annabeth turned, ready to scold him for not listening—until she caught his grin. A laugh escaped her, short and reluctant. “No. I haven’t.”

Percy pumped his fists like he’d just won a prizefight. “Yes! Finally. Okay, listen—this is perfect. The originals came out in the seventies and eighties, then the prequels in the late nineties and 2000s, plus all the shows. You’re the first person I’ve met who actually gets to watch the whole saga in—uh…”

“Chronological order?” Annabeth supplied, one eyebrow arched.

“That!” Percy pointed at her, triumphant. “The c-word order.” He swung toward Grover. “Dude, how have you never shown her Star Wars?”

Grover gave a sheepish bleat of a laugh. “I-I haven’t seen them either. I just know that Darth Vader—”

Percy slapped a hand over his mouth. “Shhh. No spoilers.” He wagged a finger. “Okay, picture this. We return the Master Volt—”

“Bolt,” Annabeth corrected automatically.

“—to the big guy in the sky—”

“T-technically there are a lot of big guys in the sky,” Grover added.

Percy plowed ahead. “—and then we take the best vacation ever. I’ve got all the DVDs, all the tapes. We go to Montauk—remember the spot, G-man?—and just… chill. Movies, popcorn, sleeping bags. No monsters. No gods. Just normal people, no knives required.”

He bumped Annabeth with his elbow.

She huffed again, but this time the sound came closer to a real laugh.

She smiled, repeating softly, “Normal people with no knives.” The wistfulness slipped through before she could stop it.

“Not that I’ve got anything against totally abnormal people with lots of knives,” Percy said with a crooked grin. “Anyone who piggybacks a Fury just to stab it is a certified BAMF in my book.”

Annabeth giggled despite herself. “Bam-ff? That’s not even a real word.”

Percy wagged his finger like a teacher. “B-A-M-F. Bad. Ass. Mother. F—” He stumbled over the syllables, but finished strong. “And you, Wise Girl, are a BAMF among BAMFs.”

Her first instinct was to volley back with sarcasm, but Percy had been right in the car. If they were going to survive this quest, they needed to start working with each other. She sighed, offering a reluctant olive branch. “You’re a BAMF too, Percy. That move with the car was… smart.”

“Luck,” he said quickly, brushing it off.

But Annabeth wasn’t convinced. Luck didn’t explain the instincts she’d seen in him. He moved like someone born for this. Whether he realized it or not, Percy Jackson was already a warrior.

A sound like a strangled owl made them whip around. Grover was happily puffing into a pan flute. “Hey, still works. I was worried it cracked. Now if I can just remember the find-a-path song…” He tried a few notes that suspiciously drifted into California Dreamin’.

Annabeth rolled her eyes. Percy, still looking back, promptly ran face-first into a tree. “Owwww,” he groaned, clutching his forehead. Annabeth sighed, reconsidering her assessment. Maybe it was just luck.

Then the scent hit her. Grease, fried dough, something golden and salty. The kind of junk food Camp never replicated, all lean protein and fresh produce. The kind she only tasted on field trips—or while running away.

Percy’s nose was already twitching, his eyes half-lidded like a dog catching the smell of steak. A bit of drool edged from his mouth before he swiped it away with the back of his hand. “That smells like junk-food paradise.”

The three of them pushed forward, the forest thinning until the trees gave way to asphalt. At the edge, they stopped.

The building ahead looked like someone had mashed a fast-food joint, a tourist trap, and a garden nursery together. A giant neon sign buzzed over the entrance in elaborate cursive, glowing against the misty air.

“Stupid cursive,” Percy muttered. “Can either of you read that? It’s giving me a headache.”

Grover squinted and sounded it out, “A-Aunty Em’s: Garden, Gnomes, Grub… and Gas.”

Annabeth exhaled in relief. Thank the gods they had one member of the party who wasn’t dyslexic.

“Garden?” Annabeth asked.

Grover pointed across the country road. To their left, a warehouse sat behind a sprawling garden. Topiaries, flowers, fountains, and statues filled the space—probably the size of a soccer field. Hundreds of smooth, stone works of art dotted the yard.

“Gnomes,” Percy giggled, pointing at the hundreds of painted figurines scattered among the greenery.

“Well, I don’t care about the gas part, but food sounds amazing,” Annabeth said, stomach growling in sympathy. Percy’s answered with an audible rumble.

“G-guys… I’m not so sure about this,” Grover said, shifting uneasily. “This place s-smells… weird.”

Annabeth frowned. “Like… monsters?”

Grover hesitated. “I-I’m not sure… whatever is a-affecting my sense of smell.”

Percy’s grin widened. “Come on, man. Smell that,” he said, waving toward the buildings. “I want a double cheeseburger and fries.”

“I’m v-vegetarian,” Grover reminded him.

Percy waved him off. “They’ll have something. Besides, it’s a gas station—maybe they’ve got hair dye.”

Annabeth blinked. He had a point. They needed to change Percy’s appearance fast, or the cops would complicate their quest even more.

“Come on, Grover. Let’s check it out,” Annabeth said, tugging at her olive cargo pants and grey hoodie. Both were ripped, dusty, and spattered with blood—human and monster—slowly washing out under the rain.

Percy pulled a pair of high-tops from Luke’s backpack. “Take these. Can’t have your hooves out,” he said, holding them toward Grover.

Grover looked down and muttered a string of curses. “Oh, Pan’s pipes… I don’t even have the styrofoam feet—they’re gonna twist right off.”

“We can fix that later,” Annabeth said firmly. “Besides… I need to get dry.”

Annabeth peeked through the door. Inside looked like a convenience store, bright but oddly quiet. To her left, an open archway led into a nursery filled with more plants and the familiar stone garden statues.

Percy, heedless of caution, strode in first. The bell jingled over his head as he began scanning the shelves. Annabeth followed more carefully, rifling through snacks, while Grover lingered in the doorway, double-checking his pants and styrofoam feet to disguise his hooves before stepping inside.

Percy held up two boxes of hair dye. “Blonde or ginger?” he asked, grinning mischievously.

Annabeth rolled her eyes. “Blonde. It’s the farthest thing from your hair right now.”

“I think I’d make a good blonde,” Percy mused.

“You definitely act like one,” she shot back.

Percy pouted dramatically. “Do not,” he said, tossing the ginger box aside. “Besides, you’ve got half your hair dyed blonde already.”

Annabeth glanced over her wet curls. “Oops!” she said in a mock airhead voice, then quickly returned to her usual tone. “But seriously, are we really doing a dumb blonde bit? That’s kinda dated.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “I just called you the pot to my kettle. You’re the guilty one here.” He quickly checked for cameras before slipping the dye into his backpack.

Annabeth opened her mouth to protest when a soft, clipped voice interrupted.

“Good afternoon, children, welcome to—”

She cut herself off as Annabeth turned toward her. The woman looked middle-aged, wearing an old-fashioned hat with a delicate veil over her eyes, pale blue dress belted at the waist with a silver clasp. She might have stepped straight out of the fifties.

“Oh my,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her mouth. “Your clothes… what happened to you, children?”

Annabeth fumbled for words, but Percy beat her to it. “We were in the woods and got caught in the rain… accidentally walked through some thorn bushes,” he lied smoothly but she could see his fear filled face. Annabeth had to give him silent credit—he sounded convincing.

The woman turned to Grover, studying him for a long moment. Perhaps his clothes, perhaps him, she didn’t say. Then she extended a hand toward them. “Please, come in and dry off, children. I am Aunty Em. Let me give you a meal—I have food just down the hall.”

Percy and Grover started to protest, but Annabeth held up a hand. Any free meal meant saving money, and with their plans derailed, every bit counted. “If it’s not too much trouble, ma’am,” she said politely.

Aunty Em’s veiled smile broadened. “Of course not. Wise of you to accept.”

Percy’s eyes flicked around the room, scanning every shadow, every corner. He froze mid-step, his breath catching. Slowly, he leaned closer to Annabeth, his voice dropping to a cautious whisper.

“Uh… guys, do you see that?”

Annabeth tilted her head, frowning. “See what?”

Percy’s hand hovered nervously over the hair dye in his backpack, as if it could somehow protect him from what he was seeing—but his gaze wasn’t on the supplies. His eyes darted back to her, wide. “Her… aura. It’s… snakes. Big, writhing snakes. Totally snakes. I mean—like, moving, alive, ready to strike.”

Annabeth crossed her arms, her brow furrowing as she leaned closer. “Percy… what are you talking about? Snakes?”

He shook his head, voice barely audible. “No, seriously. Look at her. Can’t you feel it? That… that electric, dangerous vibe? That’s not just a mood. It’s—it’s literally snakes. Everywhere around her.”

A flicker of something sharp—anger, fear, maybe hunger—passed over her face, but she remained still, her gaze locked on Percy. He could swear he heard a faint hiss, almost like it was coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Annabeth’s frown deepened. “Percy, are you—”

“I’m not crazy!” he cut in, stepping back instinctively. “I mean… maybe I’m a little freaked out. But look! Look at how they’re moving! Snakes! Everywhere! You’re… you’re like Medusa or something!”

Grover’s ears twitched nervously. Annabeth’s stomach tightened.

The woman, Auntie Em, froze mid-step. Slowly, her veil lifted , leaving her eyes protected. Her eyes narrowed, glinting with a sharpness that made Percy instinctively step back. A low, deliberate hiss slipped through her lips, soft and venomous, yet disturbingly controlled.

“How dare you…” she murmured, her voice smooth, eerily calm, a stark contrast to the fury it carried. “You now know who I am and my history, the gods have wronged me.” Her voice furiously calm like a passionate ballet dance.

She took a step forward, each movement deliberate, slow—like a predator circling prey. The calmness in her voice did not soothe; it unnerved Percy. It made the hair at the back of his neck stand up, the edges of fear pricking at his skin.

“You think I won’t eat you?” Her lips curved into a faint, almost polite smile that did nothing to hide the menace behind it. “I will eat you.”

Percy’s grin, half-nervous and half-defiant, stayed plastered on his face, though his heart thumped wildly against his ribs. His mind raced for something—anything—to keep her off balance. Finally, he blurted it out, letting the words carry the weight of both curiosity and challenge.

“Uh… okay… so, aren’t you—” He hesitated, searching for the right angle, “Aren’t you… born a Gorgon?” Sally always told him that Medusa was born a gorgon.

The reaction was instantaneous. Her entire body froze as if struck by lightning. The hiss turned into a sharp, startled intake of breath. Memories long buried surged to the surface, jagged and unbidden. Her hands twitched, the veil trembling slightly in her grip. Her eyes, once an unwavering storm of menace, now flickered with the other gorgon she had been before the myth of Ovid took her—the girl twisted into legend, the wronged priestress of the gods, the monster born from anger.

For a heartbeat, she looked almost… human. Vulnerable. But the darkness lingered at the edges, threatening to reclaim her with every slow blink. Percy, sensing the shift, kept his grin, careful not to show how tightly he gripped the control he barely had over his own pulse. He had poked a sleeping storm—and now, he had to face whatever it would do next.

Percy held his stance, forcing his shoulders to stay loose, though every instinct in his body screamed at him to run. His eyes flicked to the shadows behind her, imagining fangs or serpents that weren’t there—or maybe were. He forced his voice into casual tones, trying to anchor the conversation in something human.

“You know… it’s okay. I don’t want to hurt you. I just… want to understand.” He took a careful, deliberate step backward, as if offering her space, his gaze steady despite the adrenaline hammering in his chest.

Auntie Em’s eyes wavered, the feral sharpness dimming just enough to let a flicker of something else show—a storm of rage colliding with deep sorrow. Her veil barely hid the tight line of her jaw, the way her nostrils flared with each quiet hiss of breath. It was a battle waging across her features: the immortal fury of a woman wronged versus the memory of the monster she once was.

“You… you don’t understand,” she whispered at last, the words fragile yet cutting. “The gods… they made me this way. And now… now their children walk in my home, unafraid, expecting kindness…kindness from me” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying the exhaustion of centuries of being feared and hunted.

Percy’s hand hovered near his backpack, thumb brushing against the pen, not ready to draw anything but prepared to defend himself if needed. His mind raced, weighing every possibility, trying to find the right words to reach her. “Well… I don’t care about the gods. I’m just… me.” He gave a small, careful smile. “And I think we can talk this out, right?”

The silence stretched. In it, Percy thought he heard the echo of a laugh she had once carried—light, human, gone long ago. Auntie Em’s eyes softened, just a fraction, as if the memory of who she was before vengeance had the chance to seep through the cracks. Her hands twitched at her sides, the urge to lash out warring with a strange curiosity, a spark of something human she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in centuries.

Percy’s heart thumped harder. He didn’t know if he was about to make a friend… or a very angry enemy.

For a heartbeat, time hung between them—the calm, cold resolve of a gorgon, the quick, deliberate breathing of a demigod playing with fire, testing the edges.

Auntie Em’s eyes narrowed, the hiss still curling like smoke around the edges of her words. Percy raised his hands slowly, palms open, letting every movement speak of caution. “Okay, okay. I get it. You’re… angry. Right? Totally justified. But we’re not here to mess with you.” His voice was steady, even if his pulse drummed like war drums in his chest.

She tilted her head, the veil throwing shadows across her sharp features. “Not here to mess with me… yet.” Her tone dripped with a cold precision that made the air feel heavier. “But the gods… they make me angry. And children of gods? You are temptation—wrapped in flesh and arrogance. You should not have walked out of here alive.”

Percy tilted his head, forcing an innocent, almost boyish expression. He stepped back a fraction, careful not to provoke her further. “Well… I don’t exactly look like Poseidon, do I? And Annabeth here…” He gestured subtly toward the girl behind him, “…she’s scary, sure, but not scary in the wrong way.”

The words hung in the air. A low, slow hiss escaped Auntie Em, resonant and sharp. Her step forward was deliberate, measured, each movement echoing centuries of lethal intent. “Do you think flattery will save you?” Her voice was ice over steel, each word calculated to chill. “Do you think words will change what the gods have done?”

Percy swallowed hard, his grin faltering for the first time. But he kept his tone light, even playful, though every fiber of his being screamed caution. “No… I don’t think words can change the past. But maybe…” He paused, letting his gaze meet hers fully, “they can help us figure out the future. Together.”

Auntie Em’s eyes flickered, the briefest shadow of curiosity—or perhaps disbelief—passing over them. The hiss faded to something quieter, almost hesitant. For a heartbeat, Percy could swear the monster and the woman were in a fragile, delicate standoff, neither daring to fully strike, yet both weighing the cost of every next move.

Percy’s grin stayed fixed, though inside he was calculating every possible move. “Nope. I don’t think they can change things. But maybe… maybe talking can. Look, I don’t want to fight you. I want to understand. And, honestly? I don’t really care about the gods’ grudges. I’m me. You know?”

For the second time that day, the woman hesitated. Her hand twitched at her side, curling slightly as if grasping at a memory she’d long buried. Percy caught it—the fleeting shadow of the gorgon she once was, the girl who hadn’t yet been twisted into legend, now buried beneath centuries of fear and misunderstanding.

“You… do not know what you speak of,” she said, though the hiss at the edges of her words had lost its sharpness, replaced with a strange, almost reluctant curiosity. There was a tremor in her voice, the faintest crack that suggested the mask she’d worn for so long was starting to falter.

Percy tilted his head, stepping forward one careful foot. “Maybe. But I can tell you this—I’ve seen a lot of dangerous stuff, and I’ve learned that screaming at each other usually doesn’t work.” He offered a small, crooked grin, the kind that carried both humor and sincerity. “So… maybe we start there?”

Auntie Em’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp and searching, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. The centuries of wrath, fear, and solitude seemed to press against the walls, but Percy didn’t flinch. He held her gaze, steady, patient, offering something she hadn’t seen in decades: someone willing to see her, not the monster she’d been told she was.

Annabeth shifted beside him, brow slightly furrowed, noticing the subtle but undeniable shift in the room. Even Grover, who normally carried an edge of nervous energy around threats, straightened slightly, realizing that Percy’s ridiculous grin and casual, joking tone weren’t just bravado—they were a lifeline.

Auntie Em’s breath wavered, a faint hiss escaping, but it was quieter this time, almost like a sigh. The tension lingered, thick and dangerous, but in that fragile pause, Percy could feel it—the tiniest opening, the first crack in her armor. And he knew that how he stepped next could either shatter it completely… or let something human shine through the centuries of legend.

Aunty Em’s eyes flickered between the three of them, the hiss quieting to a murmur. She sank into a chair behind the counter, fingers drumming lightly against the worn wood. “You… speak strangely. But perhaps… there is merit in your insolence. The gods… always the gods…”

Percy lowered his hands slowly, letting his grin soften just enough to be disarming. “Yeah. Always the gods. But we’re not gods. We’re just… kids trying to survive.”

The tension hung for a heartbeat, a fragile line between predator and prey. And for now, at least, Percy had bought them a little breathing room.

“Go. Before I change my mind.” Medusa said.

Chapter Text

Annabeth slumped into the booth across from Grover and rubbed her temples. Gods, why did they have to deal with this shit so early in the morning. The vinyl squeaked under her weight, sticky from years of syrup spills and bad cleaning jobs. A flickering neon sign buzzed in the corner, casting an anemic glow over the chipped Formica table.

Like her, Grover wore all-new clothes, courtesy of Perry Johnson’s safe-cracking escapade the night before and their impromptu shopping spree through a nearby abandoned mall. His jeans still had a security tag dangling from one belt loop, which he had tried to disguise under his hoodie. Annabeth hadn’t bothered to point it out. She was too tired.

Percy slid into the booth beside Grover, balancing a paper bag that smelled faintly of grease and salt. He looked annoyingly chipper, all things considered, as if breaking into malls and dodging monsters was just another Tuesday. He passed out the breakfast sandwiches and hashbrown patties with a grin that should’ve been illegal this early in the day. Annabeth took hers reluctantly, tearing into the wrapper while nursing her rapidly cooling coffee. (Auntie Em’s coffee, ew. She tried not to think about it.)

“So, what’s the plan?” Percy asked, his mouth already half-full.

Annabeth let out a sigh sharp enough to cut glass. They’d been too tired to strategize last night, collapsing into whatever passed for beds after their mad sprint through the city. And now here they were—burning daylight, wasting time, sitting in a diner booth like normal kids instead of fugitives on a quest that could decide the fate of the world.

She pushed her food aside and drummed her fingers against the tabletop, her brain already pulling threads together. Trains, buses, safehouses, exit routes. Monsters tracked by scent, gods by whims. Everything was a moving equation she had to balance before someone—one of them—ended up dead.

Percy chewed contentedly, oblivious. Grover fiddled with the paper napkin dispenser, clearly anxious but trying to hide it.

Annabeth pinched the bridge of her nose. “The plan,” she said finally, “is that we don’t get killed before lunch. After that, we’ll work on dinner.”

Grover gave a weak laugh. Percy just smirked, because of course he thought she was joking.

Annabeth stared down at the grease-smeared map she’d unfolded between the hashbrowns and coffee cups. Her mind sharpened like a blade. Backup plans, contingencies, probabilities. That’s what will keep us alive. Not luck. Not hope. Me.

She took a long sip of her bitter coffee and forced herself to focus.

“Okay,” she said. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

“Our best bet is to head to a train station and take it as far as we can,” Annabeth said, tapping the map with one finger. The paper was already smudged with grease from their breakfast, but it didn’t matter. “There should be a train headed from New York to Chicago leaving today, so with luck we catch that. We ride it out of the city, then get a connecting line down to St. Louis.”

“C-can we afford that?” Grover asked, chewing nervously on his straw.

Annabeth nodded, though grudgingly, and waved toward Percy. “Thanks to our resident safe smasher here—”

“Safe cracker,” Percy corrected proudly, straightening in his seat.

“You literally threw it off the roof repeatedly until the thing broke open,” Annabeth said flatly.

“Yeah, it cracked,” Percy shot back with a shrug, as if the logic was airtight.

Annabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes so hard she saw her own brain. “Anyway,” she pressed on, “we can at least get to St. Louis with what we’ve got. Hopefully we’ll figure out some way to scrape together more money to keep moving west. In total it’ll take three, maybe four days on the train. That gets us to LA by the fourteenth—fifteenth at the latest.” She sat back, folding her arms. “That gives us just under a week to find a way into the Underworld, recover the Bolt, and travel back to New York. If we’re short on time, we’ll have to risk a plane. I doubt Zeus would shoot us out of the sky if we were bringing back his superweapon.”

Grover’s frown deepened, his hand tightening around his paper cup. “T-that seems…” He didn’t finish.

The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the diner’s ancient fluorescent lights and the low hiss of the griddle behind the counter.

“Well, we just have to find it fast,” Percy said finally, his voice cutting through the unease. “That way we can stick to the trains.”

Annabeth didn’t reply. She kept her expression neutral, but her mind was running at full speed. That’s what I’m worried about. Not finding it in time.

Because if they failed—if they wasted even a day too long—the consequences weren’t just “quest failed, try again.” No, they would have doomed the world to a war that would rip it apart from the inside out. Storms. Earthquakes. Floods. A climate disaster that would flatten human civilization before anyone had the chance to recover.

No pressure, Annabeth thought bitterly, draining the rest of her terrible coffee in one go.

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

“Hi, wild-one. Why here?”

Grover froze mid-step, his goat hooves half-sinking into the pine needles. The woods around them were quiet except for the hum of cicadas and the distant hiss of cars on the highway beyond the tree line.

Annabeth glanced up sharply. “Was that a bark?”

Grover turned, scanning the underbrush, and sure enough, out waddled a poodle. Or at least, something that had once been a poodle. Its curls were matted with burrs and dirt, its ribbon collar dangling like it had lost a fight with a bramble patch. The pink dye in its fur was patchy and faded, as if it had been out in the wild for weeks, surviving off scraps. Yet the little dog carried itself with a kind of dignity, as if daring them to laugh.

The poodle sat primly in front of them, curling its tail over its paws.

“Hello,” Grover said, and his voice shifted mid-sentence, slipping from awkward human tones into the cadence of the wild. A mix of bleating, braying, and soft trills carried the deeper resonance of the speech of animals. “I am Grover Underwood, Keeper. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

To his relief, the poodle inclined her head and raised a paw. Grover bent to shake it carefully, mindful of her fragile bones. Her grip was surprisingly firm for such a small creature.

Behind him, Percy blinked. “Grover, are you—are you talking to the poodle?”

Grover nodded, not breaking his concentration.

Percy and Annabeth exchanged a look and plopped down onto a fallen log nearby, grinning like this was the best entertainment they’d had all day. Percy tore into the last of his hashbrown and offered Annabeth half, and she accepted absently, both of them watching Grover like they’d stumbled onto a magic show.

The poodle cleared her throat with a delicate ruff. “I am Gemma. But the stupid two-legs call me Gladiola.” The sound was half-bark, half-thought, carrying directly into Grover’s head. A wave of resentment pulsed at the mention of the name, so sharp he nearly flinched.

Grover winced in sympathy. Gemma, he thought. That suited her far better. Gladiola was the kind of name an owner gave when they wanted to parade their dog like an accessory. And judging by the bitterness in her tone, that’s exactly what her “two-legs” had done.

“We are on a quest,” Grover explained patiently, his voice still carrying the rhythm of the wild. “Heading west, to the city before the Sunset Sea.” He used the animal name for the Pacific, instinctively translating the vastness into something Gemma would understand. “And what are you doing out here in the woods? Does it have to do with your name?”

Gemma scratched vigorously behind one ear, then shook out her matted curls with a growl of distaste. “Yes. Two-legs name me poorly. Make me pink. Put bows on me. Stupid.” She spat the word like it tasted foul. Her gaze shifted past Grover, to Percy and Annabeth sitting on the log. She sniffed. “Why do you travel with stupid ones?”

It took Grover a second to realize she was talking about his friends. He blinked, then laughed, the sound braying out in a way Percy had never heard before.

“They are not as stupid as some,” Grover reassured, glancing back at the two demigods. Percy was making mock-offended faces, while Annabeth looked like she was biting her tongue to keep from agreeing with the dog. Grover continued, lowering his voice. “They are kind. The green-eyed one seeks the Father of Lightning to stop a great battle. But…” He hesitated, the words heavy in his throat. “We may not find it in time.”

At that, Gemma’s ears drooped. She whimpered softly, the sound carrying genuine sorrow. “That is hard. Do you need my help?”

Grover gave her a weak smile. “Not unless you can get us a lot of money for the trip.”

“Money?” Gemma tilted her head, confusion rippling through her like a shiver.

“The green paper the two-legs exchange for things,” Grover explained.

For a moment, there was silence. Then Gemma’s ears shot up, her tail wagging for the first time. “The green they put in their pockets? Yes, I can help!” She barked excitedly, bouncing on her paws with a burst of unexpected energy.

Behind Grover, Percy sat up straighter, suddenly interested. “Wait, is the dog saying she can get us cash?”

Annabeth groaned into her hands. “Please don’t tell me we’re about to be rescued by a runaway pink poodle.”

Gemma ignored them both, her eyes shining with determination. “Two-legs look for me. Two-legs pay many green papers if I return. Too many green papers to carry.” She barked again, almost smug now. “If you bring me back, you will have enough to cross your Sunset Sea.”

Grover’s jaw fell open.

Percy, on the other hand, was grinning ear-to-ear. “Best. Quest. Ever.”

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

It had taken some maneuvering and a lot of careful scratching at Gemma’s dog tags, but when they finally returned her to her family for the promised reward, Grover had handled the whole thing with a diplomat’s finesse. He made it seem like they had always thought the dog’s name was Gemma—and sure enough, the poodle had responded eagerly when he called her that. The family, overwhelmed with relief, had instantly started cooing “Gemma” instead of “Gladiola,” and the dog had spun in happy circles, pink curls bouncing, proud as a queen finally being addressed by her true name.

“Good luck, wild-one, and thank you for convincing the two-legs,” the poodle had barked after them, her voice ringing in Grover’s ears even as the suburban house faded behind them. Grover carried her blessing like a little ember in his chest, something warm and rare.

The three of them walked away with a handful of crumpled bills stuffed into Percy’s jacket pocket.

“Well,” Annabeth said, exhaling like she still couldn’t believe it, “that’s one way to get money.”

They turned down a side street, then cut through a patch of trees, slipping back into the safety of the woods. The leaves crackled underfoot as they picked their way through brambles and uneven ground. According to Annabeth’s map book, they were less than a mile from the nearest station.

“Dude, that’s gotta suck though,” Percy said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Having your family just ignore how unhappy you are.”

Annabeth didn’t answer. At first, Grover thought she hadn’t heard him. But then he felt it—the subtle shift in the air, a ripple of emotion. Regret, sharp as glass. Anger, coiled tight. And beneath it all, a weight of sadness so heavy it almost made him stumble. Her emotions poured out like a cold wind brushing his fur, carrying unspoken memories.

Grover gave her a significant look, one that said I understand, but she turned her face away, her gray eyes hard as stone.

“Come on,” she snapped. “We’re wasting time.” She shoved the map book into her bag and led the way, her pace brisk enough to discourage further questions.

Grover swallowed the urge to press, and followed. Percy, sensing the tension, stayed quiet for once.

By the time they reached the train station, all three of them were quiet. The squat brick building wasn’t much, just a tired depot with flickering fluorescent lights and a faded vending machine humming in the corner. A tired-looking clerk sat behind a counter, only glancing up briefly as the kids stepped inside.

They let Annabeth do the talking. She was the only one who could project the kind of sharp confidence that made people think twice about asking questions. She explained their need for one-way tickets in clipped tones, sliding the bills across the counter with steady hands.

Grover agreed with her plan: pay in chunks, not for the full trip. It was safer that way—if they missed a train or had to abandon a route, they wouldn’t be burning through all their cash at once. Besides, three twelve-ish-looking kids traveling alone and flashing wads of money was bound to raise suspicions. This way, they looked like kids being sent to visit relatives one stop at a time.

Soon enough, they were aboard, tucked into a worn-out coach to sleep car rattling south toward Philadelphia.

The seats were scratchy with decades of use, and the air smelled faintly of old coffee and diesel. Percy sprawled sideways across his chair, flipping through a snack wrapper with idle boredom. Annabeth had already pulled out an old architecture book—translated into Ancient Greek, because of course she’d rather challenge her brain than relax. She had her nose buried in the dense text, gray eyes flickering rapidly as she devoured the words.

Grover sat by the window, chin propped on his hand. He watched the world roll by in a blur of gray towns, sprawling highways, and endless forests patched with winter bare branches.

But instead of marveling, his heart sank with every passing mile. He didn’t see triumphs of human civilization. He didn’t see the wonder of bridges or railroads or neighborhoods buzzing with life. All he saw was trash littering the edges of streams, plastic tangled in tree branches, old tires rusting in ditches. He saw smoke belching from factories, chemical-colored runoff staining the earth.

It gnawed at him, how broken everything was.

The humans lived stacked on top of one another, boxed in by asphalt and steel, convinced this was progress. But they didn’t see what Grover saw—the wounds in the soil, the muffled voices of trees choking under smog, the quiet suffering of the wild things forced into shadows.

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, closing his eyes briefly. The world doesn’t have much time left, he thought. Not with gods on the verge of war. Not with the earth already crying.

When he opened his eyes again, Percy was leaning toward him, a curious expression on his face.

“Hey, G-man,” Percy said. “What’s wrong?”

Grover started, voice hesitant. “Y-yeah… what’s up?”

Percy gave him a concerned look. “You were scowling, dude. I never see you scowl.”

Grover forced a weak smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just thinking…”

“About?” Percy pressed, leaning a little closer, curiosity softening his usual grin. Grover sighed, letting his gaze drift to the window. Outside, a rundown shack sagged on rotting stilts, trash spilling out into the grass like forgotten memories.

“That… you can barely see the stars anymore,” he murmured, “and the earth is dying. I guess… with the stakes of this quest, I’m thinking about it even more than usual.”

“Oh yeah,” Percy said, nodding. “Nature spirit, environmentalist—kind of go hand in hand.”

Grover flushed, half-annoyed, half-grateful. He opened his mouth to respond, but then saw Percy’s profile, eyes fixed on the passing landscape, and decided silence was better.

“Yeah… kinda simplistic, but yeah,” Percy admitted, voice softer now.

There was a pause, a rhythm set only by the steady clatter of wheels on tracks. Then Percy spoke again. “Now that I think back… hindsight and all that… I remember walking near the Hudson and East Rivers in the city. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I felt… their pain. Does that make sense?”

Grover’s chest tightened. His breath caught in his throat. “Y-yeah… I can feel it too. A lot of places are like… t-that now.”

Silence stretched over them, only broken by the dull vibration of the train. Grover sank deeper into his thoughts. Uncle Ferdinand. His father. The Searchers who had gone out and never returned. Two thousand years of wandering and searching for Pan, no answers, no whispers of hope.

Percy broke the quiet after what felt like ages. “I’ve always been a city person—or, no, maybe that’s not right…” He paused, as if weighing each word. “I think it’s people. I like the bustle because it keeps my mind busy. It seems counterintuitive, but it keeps me from being overwhelmed. But when I’m at Montauk… just me and the ocean… I should feel manic, I guess, but I don’t. I feel… at peace. I can lose myself in the waves. Is it like that for you? With nature?”

Grover nodded slowly, words caught in his throat. “Y-yeah… watching how humans have d-destroyed things… well…” He trailed off, letting the motion of the passing trees carry the weight of his despair.

“So you want to become a Searcher. What does a Searcher do?”

“We l-look for Pan,” Grover said quietly.

Percy blinked. “Like… a frying pan?” he asked, the goofy grin returning despite the gravity of the conversation.

“Way to r-ruin the mood,” Grover muttered, a faint edge of amusement in his voice.

Percy held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. Impulse.”

Grover sighed, forcing himself to return to seriousness. “We look for the Great God P-Pan… God of w-wild places. Two thousand years ago, a sailor off Ephesos heard someone shout: ‘Tell them the Great God Pan is d-dead.’ He went home… told humans. And ever since, they’ve been pillaging Pan’s kingdom.”

“So Searchers go out and look for Pan, to bring back his protection of the wild?” Percy asked, leaning forward, intrigued.

Grover nodded. “Y-yeah… and it’s been two thousand years…”

Percy’s voice softened, awed. “Two thousand years? That’s… wow…”

“I’ll find him,” Grover said suddenly, his tone sharp with certainty. “No one’s ever come back from their search—but I will. I’ll find Pan.”

Percy looked at him, shocked. “No one? In two thousand years?”

Grover gave him a tired, wry look. “Gonna try and talk me out of it?” Then, under his breath, almost to himself, he added, “Just like mom.”

The train rattled on, carrying them through Pennsylvania fields mottled with winter-bare trees and forgotten barns. Grover stared out at the muted landscape, feeling the weight of generations pressing down on him, and yet… for the first time in centuries, a spark of determination warmed him. He would find Pan. He had to.

Percy studied him for a moment before replying, his goofy smile popping onto his face, “No, man, it’s your life, and you’re trying to do something good with it, something hard,” Percy’s face grew more contemplative as he continued, a strange sight on Percy, “I just think that if Satyrs haven’t found Pan in two thousand years, maybe they’re looking in the wrong places,” He paused, then laughed as he waved dismissively, “I don’t know man, I just want you to be the one to do it. It’s your dream…” Percy trailed off momentarily, a hint of sadness in his eyes as a wave of sorrow rolled out from him. “Not like my dream is any less unlikely,”

Grover leaned over and smiled at Percy, “We’ll get her back. And the Bolt. I’ll get my license and Annabeth will get her quest, and It’ll be great.” He gushed. It was hard at first, trying to be upbeat when things had already gone off the rails, but hey. There’s always hope, right?

 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 

Percy tried not to get antsy, but hey, with everything that had happened in the last few days, he was on edge. A hundred little details ran around in his brain, things that didn't add up, things that didn't make sense. Percy wasn't a smart guy, but he knew when something was wrong. And this, all of this, felt wrong. 

"Annabeth, what were the Furies looking for on the bus?" He suddenly asked.

Annabeth looked up from her book and frowned, "I-" She paused, "That doesn't make sense, does it,"

"If Hades already has the Bolt, then what were they looking for? They said 'where is it', looking for something. But if Hades stole the Bolt that doesn't make sense."

Annabeth closed her book and adjusted Grover's beanie in the seat next to her, ensuring his horns were covered while he snored beside her. "'The city of angels holds the path of descent,' that was the line from the prophecy, and the first line included the phrase, 'distant west.' So regardless, I think we're headed the right way."

"So if Hades wants something from me, or us, then what is it?"

Annabeth didn't speak for a while. "He took your mom, or someone from The Underworld did. He benefits the most if Zeus and Poesideon go to war, and remember our dream, where we saw the horse and the eagle. There was a Cerberus, a three-headed dog, on the porch of the cabin, when the animals representing Zeus and Poesideon started fighting the Cerberus went inside. The Cerberus is the gatekeeper of The Underworld.

“So we need to find out what Hades wants from us,” Annabeth said, leaning back in her seat. “It’s probably an object, I assume, because they said it—not some other pronoun. And maybe… we need to sacrifice whatever it is. Like, it’s something important to our quest.”

“So what do we have that’s worth sacrificing?” Percy asked, scratching the back of his neck. “We’ve got the magic high-tops, but those are Luke’s. Riptide, my magic sword—your knives, Annabeth. They’re beautiful and super cool, but… they were made after Hades started trying to kill me in January…” He threw up his hands in frustration. “I don’t know, dude.”

Annabeth was silent for a long moment, brow furrowed as her mind worked through possibilities. “Maybe it’s something he thinks we have but don’t. Like… the real thief convinced him you got the Bolt from them. A kind of double theft.”

Percy frowned, rubbing his chin. Still, something didn’t add up. He leaned against the window, watching the landscape of Illinois blur past. Rolling hills, patches of forest, barns and farmhouses scattered across the plains… and then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something unusual.

“Are those… Centaurs?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

Annabeth lifted her gaze from her book. “Yeah. Doesn’t look like Party Ponies, though—probably one of the more feral kinds.”

“Party Ponies?” Percy snorted, making Annabeth smile despite herself.

“Descendants of Ixion and Nephele,” she said, lips twitching. “They’re the pretty typical type of Centaur. The technical term is Lapithian Centaurs, but no one calls them that. You usually find them at major sporting events, college frats, and… well, stuff like that. They’re wild. Love to party. Hold a convention every year. Chiron goes sometimes.”

Percy’s grin spread. “Oh yeah! I think I saw some at a Yankees game years ago!”

Annabeth shrugged. “Probably. There’s a lot of them—maybe a few thousand in total. What you’re seeing now, though,” she nodded toward the distant figures in the hills, “those are Northern Centaurs. More nomadic. Don’t really interact with mortals much. Can be reasoned with… but less than the Party Ponies. Honestly, it’s best to avoid them if possible.”

“They’re aggressive?” Percy asked, leaning closer to the glass.

Annabeth’s face grew serious. “Sometimes. They don’t like demigods all that much. Your half-brother, Theseus, helped kill a lot of them when they tried to invade Lapithae. So yeah… you’ll probably need to avoid them more than most other demigods.”

Percy made a face. “Great. Just… what I needed. Feral, grumpy centaurs stalking the Illinois countryside.”

Annabeth smirked, returning to her reading. “Just remember: most of them are territorial, but not mindlessly violent. If you stay calm, don’t act like prey, and avoid their herds… you should be fine.”

Percy pressed his forehead against the glass, watching the Centaurs as they trotted through the hills, muscular torsos glinting in the pale sunlight. For once, he wasn’t thinking about snacks or pranks—he felt a strange respect. These weren’t Party Ponies. These were creatures of the wild, stubborn and untamed… and maybe, just maybe, proof that not everything in the world had been lost.

Grover, sitting a few seats down, let out a soft sigh. Even from here, he could feel the faint threads of the Centaurs’ thoughts and moods, and they were tense, watchful, like a tight bowstring ready to snap.

Percy muttered, mostly to himself, “Okay… definitely don’t want to make them mad.”

Annabeth just gave him a sharp look. “Good plan, Seaweed Brain. That’s the only one you’ve got right now.”

“Wait… I have a question,” Percy said, frowning. “Can you… become a monster?”

Annabeth nodded slowly. “Though I guess the whole ‘monster’ thing is a misnomer. They’re cyclical beings, just like other immortals. Take the Cyclopes, for example. Elder Cyclopes, the oldest type, are cyclical beings that don’t reform in Tartarus, but Hyperborean Cyclopes do.”

“Elder Cyclopes?” Percy echoed, eyebrows raised.

“They’re the descendants of the original members of their race, born from Gaea and Ouranos,” Annabeth explained, her voice steady, precise. “They forged Zeus’s Bolt, Poseidon’s Trident, and Hades’s Helm of Darkness. Basically, they were the gods’ blacksmiths before Hephaestus was born, and they still work for the gods. When killed, they reform in Atlantis.”

Percy leaned back, digesting this. “Okay… but how do you become a monster?”

Annabeth’s gray eyes darkened. “Right. Essentially, if your deeds are dark enough and you have magical blood, you get sent to Tartarus after death. There, you reform as a cyclical being.”

Percy frowned. “But… who decides that?”

Annabeth shrugged. “I’m not sure anyone does. The gods can curse people to become monsters—like Procrustes or Medusa—but most of the time, it just… happens.”

Percy shifted uncomfortably in his seat, remembering a dream that had left him shaken all morning. “Annabeth… last night I dreamed of a voice. From a pit. It… taunted me with my mom. Said I should make a deal.” He swallowed hard, the memory making his stomach twist. “Then… it asked me to bring it the Bolt.”

Annabeth’s eyes widened, the faintest tremor running through her hands. For a moment, she looked almost afraid to speak, her usual composure fraying at the edges.

“Do you know what that pit was? The voice?” Percy asked, leaning forward.

Annabeth shook her head, her jaw tight. “No… I think… we need more information.” Her gaze shifted to the passing scenery outside the window, but her mind was already deep in contemplation. Her hands tightened around the edges of the seat, and her brow furrowed as if the answers were trying to force themselves through sheer willpower.

Percy watched her, feeling the weight of their situation settle over him like a heavy fog. They were three kids on a train, miles from anything safe, and yet the stakes felt impossibly high. He knew better than to interrupt her thought process. Annabeth was the best person to figure this out—and right now, she was the only one who could.

So he leaned back, arms crossed, letting the rattle of the train and the blur of the countryside soothe his nerves. Questions burned in his mind, and shadows of the dream clung to him, but for now, he had to wait. Wait for answers.

 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 

Percy had insisted on staying at the station to watch their bags. The marble benches were warm from the sun, almost too warm, like heat soaking through armor. Above him, the high glass roof of the station caught the sunlight and fractured it into shifting panes of gold and white. It was all so ordinary it almost felt like a dare—the hum of vending machines, the hiss of a train pulling in somewhere down the tracks, people drifting past with their suitcases rolling, shoes clacking on the tile. Voices rose and fell in casual arguments, phone calls, laughter. Perfectly normal.

And yet something skittered along the back of his neck. That old prickling feeling, the one he’d learned to trust, the one that always whispered: You’re being watched.

He shifted on the bench, trying to shake it off. It didn’t help. His hand drifted to his pocket where Riptide rested, disguised as a pen. He didn’t pull it out—no reason to panic anyone—but his thumb ran over the ridges of the cap.

A toddler squealed as a pigeon fluttered down near the steps. Somewhere an announcement buzzed through the PA system, garbled words about Track 5 and departure times. The ordinary hum of mortal life went on, oblivious. But Percy’s stomach knotted.

He scanned the crowd. Businessmen, tourists, a woman in a straw hat reading a newspaper. A guy in a faded Mets hoodie asleep against his duffel. No one looked out of place. And yet… there was a shimmer to the air near the far column, a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision. He turned his head sharply—nothing. Just a man pulling a suitcase.

Percy exhaled slowly. Maybe it was his nerves. Or maybe Annabeth’s conversation about monsters had gotten under his skin. He’d been imagining fangs and claws behind every corner since she’d said the word “Tartarus.”

Still, the feeling didn’t go away. It pressed heavier now, like the air before a thunderstorm. He shifted the bags closer to his feet, glancing again at the far end of the concourse. Was that the same guy in the Mets hoodie walking past again? Or just someone who looked like him?

He reached for his water bottle but didn’t drink. His eyes kept scanning, flicking from doorway to doorway, exit to exit. Something was here. He could feel it, like the tide pulling at his ankles before a wave.

“May I sit here?” a voice hissed.

Percy turned so fast his neck protested, snapping toward the sound. For half a second, his brain went straight to Medusa. Then, almost worse, it went somewhere darker—shadows crawling, teeth glinting, whispers from pits.

A woman slid onto the bench beside him. She smiled, a slow, catlike curl of lips that felt wrong in the way only some people can manage without seeming obviously sinister. Her teeth were just a little too sharp, like tiny shards of bone, and her fingers ended in hooked nails that clicked against her purse as she set it down. Even the way her shoulders moved had a predator’s grace, fluid and deliberate.

On a leash, a tiny chihuahua yapped like it had a sales pitch to deliver, high-pitched and constant, prancing around her feet as if on cue. Its eyes glinted unnaturally bright under the station lights, too aware, too clever, like it could see the edges of the world that Percy couldn’t.

Percy swallowed, trying to remember the last time he’d felt this prickling on the back of his neck—the warning that something wasn’t just wrong, it was actively dangerous. He shifted his backpack closer to him, hand brushing over Riptide’s disguised pen form.

“Do you mind?” she asked again, voice honeyed but carrying a subtle undertone that made Percy’s stomach tighten.

He shook his head, forcing a casual shrug that felt anything but casual. “Uh… sure. I guess.”

Her smile widened just slightly, and Percy had the distinct, sinking feeling that she knew exactly what he was thinking—and that he was already trapped in her game.

The chihuahua yapped again, and this time Percy thought he heard something almost… human in its tone, a high, nagging insistence that made him glance around as if the little dog might start walking on two legs next.

Percy’s heart hammered. This wasn’t normal. It wasn’t supposed to be normal. And yet, the station carried on around them, ordinary commuters hurrying to tracks, voices scraping against the tiled walls, the sun catching in the glass above. No one else noticed.

He looked at her again. Sharp teeth. Hooked nails. That smile. And a tiny, impossibly alert dog.

Somehow, Percy knew, very clearly, that whatever she wanted… It wasn't just small talk.

“Perseus,” she said, slow and deliberate, every syllable curling around him like smoke. The way she said it—the intimacy, the amusement—it set his skin on fire, crawling along his spine. She knew his real name. His real name. That shouldn’t matter to anyone here, in a normal train station, and yet it did. Every hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

“Who the fuck are you?” Percy snapped, voice louder than intended. His hand went automatically to his pocket, brushing against the cool metal of Riptide in its pen disguise. Instinctively, the other hand palmed a throwing knife tucked into his waistband. Habits like that, learned over years of close calls, were lifesavers.

“Guess, little one,” she purred.

The words hit him like a sucker punch. Little one. That tone—sharp, condescending, intimate—rang in his head like Gabe sneering, calling him child in that way that made him feel small, like he didn’t belong in the world he was fighting to protect. He felt himself shrink in his seat, shoulders curling, instincts screaming at him to either run or strike.

Her eyes glinted in the sunlight, sharp and unreadable, catching the gleam of the train station tiles. Her smile hadn’t faded. If anything, it widened, subtle and dangerous. Her hooked nails tapped lightly against the edge of her purse as though she were testing him, measuring how much fear she could draw out with a single touch, a single word.

Percy’s heart hammered. He could feel it in his throat, his fists tightening. Everything in him wanted to react—to fight, to run, to do something—but part of him froze. This woman wasn’t just some ordinary mortal. He knew that instantly. She radiated danger the way a bonfire radiates heat: undeniable, inescapable.

And then there was the dog, little Chihuahua at her side, yapping with an intensity that felt almost strategic, as though it were scanning him, calculating, aware of every shift in his posture. Percy’s gut twisted.

He swallowed hard, letting his eyes flick to the exit doors behind her. Then back. She had already claimed this bench, this space, this encounter. And for some reason, he knew that whatever game she had started… he was already playing by her rules.

She rose, deliberately, and the space around them seemed to contract. Percy felt the crowd blur into an impenetrable wall of motionless shapes, sounds muffled, colors dulled, as if the entire station had been erased except for him and her. Every instinct screamed that he was trapped, every muscle tensing for something he couldn’t yet name.

The woman’s smile widened into something feral, sharp and unearthly. “Prove it,” she breathed, low and intimate, yet carrying across the river of invisible space between them. “Prove the gods care. The omen—” She tilted her head, eyes glittering with something ancient and terrible. “—dies today.”

Percy’s stomach lurched. He couldn’t explain why he knew, but the air smelled suddenly metallic, like blood and ozone before a storm.

The chihuahua yawned.

At first, it was a small, inconsequential gesture. Then the yawn stretched—elongating, twisting—and Percy’s stomach dropped straight through his shoes. The tiny dog split and reknit itself in real time, morphing into something utterly impossible. Its body swelled, fur bristling unnaturally, limbs elongating and reforming. A goat’s bleat fused with a lion’s snarl, and a serpent’s flicking tongue replaced where the tail should have been. The creature’s three heads snapped in different directions, sniffing, growling, and snarling all at once. Percy’s mind screamed the word he didn’t dare speak: Chimera.

He stumbled backward, chest tight, fingers brushing against the hilt of Riptide. Every rational thought fled. This wasn’t some mortal trick, a hologram, or a costume. This was raw, living chaos, stitched together by some inhuman will.

“I am the mother of monsters,” the woman said, her voice colder than the river glinting beyond the station’s glass walls. Each word cut through the air, precise, inhuman. “I am Echidna. And you, child—omens die by my hand.”

Percy’s knees went weak. His hand hovered over Riptide, but even that didn’t feel like enough. The city around them hummed, oblivious, the ordinary commuters unaware of the living nightmare that had just stepped into their midst. Percy could only stare, heart hammering, mind racing. The prophecy, the pit, the dream—everything had led here.

Echidna’s eyes glinted again, sharp and predatory, and Percy realized the truth with a shiver: this wasn’t a test. This was the beginning.

The Chimera’s tail whipped through the air like a living whip, each scale jagged as razors and glistening with black, venomous poison. They spun outward in a metallic storm, glinting as they caught the light, scattering across the marble floor like deadly hail.

“Ah, stop, bitchass!” Percy cursed, ducking instinctively as a volley of poisoned scales hissed past his ears. He flung a knife from his belt, metal ringing sharply as it collided with one of the spinning shards, redirecting it back toward the beast. Sparks flew where the poisoned scale struck, and the Chimera recoiled slightly, letting out a feral, multi-toned roar that rattled the windows of the station.

Percy’s chest pounded, his breath coming in ragged bursts. He could almost hear Annabeth’s voice, calm and precise: Don’t panic. But calm didn’t come. Not when scales the size of daggers rained down from a tail that shouldn’t exist, not when three heads snarled in different languages of terror and fury, and not when the air smelled of ozone and death.

He twisted, blocked, rolled—anything to avoid the next strike. A poisoned scale thudded against his shoulder, sliding down his arm and leaving a faint, burning trail. Percy barely had time to duck another volley. And then—one slipped past his guard.

He didn’t see it coming. Didn’t expect it.

It struck high and hard, punching into his stomach with a shockwave of pain that knocked the wind out of him. His vision blurred at the edges as fire bloomed through his gut. He stumbled backward, dropping a knife, teeth gritting against the pain as his fingers dug into the marble for leverage.

The Chimera hissed triumphantly, tail coiling for another strike, while Percy’s mind scrambled. He needed to act. He had to act.

And yet, in that instant, the world narrowed to the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the heat of pain radiating through his core, and the impossible, unnatural gaze of Echidna, watching, waiting.

He drew a sharp breath, forcing his vision back to the three-headed nightmare in front of him, and gritted his teeth. You can do this. You have to.

Heat flared behind his eyes, a burning pressure that made his vision swim. He tasted iron—not quite blood yet, but the metallic aftershock of being struck where he was most vulnerable, where instinct screamed that no armor or skill could fully protect him. His knees trembled, threatening to fold under the sudden weight of pain and adrenaline, and his stomach churned as if the strike had cracked something deep inside him.

His eye widened.

Something flickered in the corner of his vision—a blur of gold, blue, and red. Someone—or something—was fighting for him. The scales of the Chimera still glinted, still spun, still hungered, but now they clashed against flashes of color that darted through the air like living streaks of light.

One head snarled low and wet, dripping poison that sizzled against the marble floor. Another hissed, serpent-tongued, eyes locked on him like predatory lasers, every flick a threat. The third roared, a horrifying mix of goat bleat and lion snarl that rattled his teeth and made his ribs ache from the vibrations alone.

But through the chaos, the blur of gold and red—fast, precise, alive—intercepted some of the tail’s lethal strikes, deflecting shards of poisoned scale. Sparks flew with each collision, ringing sharp against the marble like tiny bells of warning. Percy’s heart jumped; he could feel that this wasn’t just luck—it was protection. Someone had come into the storm with him, and for the first time since Echidna had revealed herself, hope flickered in his chest.

Percy’s fingers tightened around the hilt of Riptide, the familiar metal a lifeline against the chaos. He drew a shallow, shuddering breath, the pain a hot line through his body, and forced himself upright.

He couldn’t fall. Not now. Not here. Not with Echidna’s gaze boring into him, calm and cold as the river beyond the station.

Something snapped in his chest—a mixture of fear, fury, and the stubborn survival instinct that had carried him through countless battles. His muscles coiled, ready to spring, his mind spinning through every trick, every reflex, every fragment of training.

He had to move. He had to fight.

He had to.

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

Athena’s gaze burned like fire as she watched him dance with death. At first, a dark whisper in her mind urged her: Let him die. Her fists clenched, the knuckles whitening, and her chest tightened with a grief she had never truly mourned, a loss that had calcified into cold discipline over millennia. Let this insolent boy, son of Poseidon, fall and rot where he belongs. Let the reckless blood he carries be snuffed out before it can burn any brighter than it already did.

And yet… he moved with uncanny precision. Every parry, every strike, every twist of his body against the Chimera’s unnatural assault was smooth, instinctive, and lethal. Athena’s breath caught. Too skilled. Far too skilled for a boy his age, for someone so untested by war—yet he looked like him. The resemblance was subtle but undeniable: the set of his shoulders, the fire in his eyes, the fluidity of motion that could only come from blood tied to the sea and storms.

Her heart clenched. Memories crashed in like waves she had long tried to hold at bay. Pallas… her dearest friend, gone. The companion who had understood her like no god or mortal ever had, lost to time, lost to war, lost to the cruelty of a world that never paused to honor what she had cherished.

And now, in this reckless, untamed boy, she saw that fire again. That spark she had loved, long ago, carried in a stranger’s body, alive and defiant against impossible odds. Fury, courage, recklessness—all mingled in him, and Athena felt an unfamiliar pang of hope and terror.

He could fall. He could fail. But if he survived… if he lived… then perhaps some fragment of what she had lost might endure.

Her eyes narrowed, sharpened by strategy and awe. Fight, boy. Show me what you are.

Her first instinct was anger—sharp, cutting, a rush of resentment at the boy, at Poseidon’s favor, at his very existence. How dare he live? How dare he survive when so many others, so many worthy, have fallen? She clenched her fists, the muscles in her arms rigid beneath her armor, her mind sharpening into cold calculation.

And then—suddenly—one of the Chimera’s poisoned blades slipped past his guard.

It stabbed deep into his stomach.

A raw, searing cry of something ancient and motherly tore through Athena’s chest. Her eyes widened, breath catching in a way that startled even her immortal lungs. No.

The desire to let him die evaporated as swiftly as it had arisen, replaced by a new, overwhelming force: a fierce, aching love she had buried beneath centuries of strategy, discipline, and grief. Not him. Not now. Not this boy, reckless, untamed, infuriating—and yet alive.

Before she could consider the consequences, before strategy had a chance to assert itself, Athena’s hand shot out.

The aegis shimmered into being, a radiant shield of golden light that wrapped around Percy like a cocoon. The tail of the Chimera struck it, and the force of the lash slammed against Athena’s outstretched arm, sparks of dark poison scattering harmlessly across the marble floor. The poisoned blade that had cut into Percy’s gut was deflected, redirected just enough to graze the Chimera’s flank instead of his body.

Percy gasped, chest heaving, eyes wide with shock as the pain that had seared through him faded to a manageable sting. He turned just enough to glimpse the shimmer, the impossible presence, and for a fleeting heartbeat, recognition passed between them.

Athena’s gaze was fierce, unyielding, and yet it carried a warmth that had no place in the station—no place in the battle, no place in the world of monsters and prophecy and death. You survive. You will not fall—not while I breathe.

The Chimera snarled, tail lashing again, but Athena’s aegis flared brighter, a living barrier of gold and power.

Athena descended from the shadows, swift and resolute, a figure of gold and steel weaving through chaos. The Chimera’s tail lashed again, scales whistling through the air like blades of black glass, but Athena was faster. Her aegis flared, a shield of shimmering light that wrapped around Percy for a heartbeat, and then she pivoted, precise, lethal, every movement a deadly dance.

You will not die—not like this, she whispered, voice breaking only for herself. I will not let you. Not you… not the echo of her.

Each parry, each protective deflection, each carefully timed intervention carried the weight of centuries of grief. Every motion was a tribute to the friend she had lost—Pallas—the companion who had understood her like no one ever could. She reached across the void of time and death, pouring her love, her loss, her fierce need to protect into every strike.

Percy, still reeling from the earlier wound, could barely comprehend what was happening. One moment he had been alone, desperate, cornered by impossible odds. The next, Athena was there, a living, breathing barrier between him and annihilation, and yet not merely a shield—an extension of his own instinct, guiding him, urging him to survive.

The Chimera reared, its three heads snapping, tongues flicking, snarling a cacophony of goat, lion, and serpent. Athena’s eyes narrowed, calculating, striking. She lunged, sword drawn, and drove her blade through the creature’s chest. Poison sizzled against her aegis, but her grip held, her strike unwavering. The Chimera’s body convulsed violently, letting out a roar that was more terror than pain, and then, with a flash of molten light, it tore itself apart, a violent unraveling that sent shards of blackened scale spiraling into nothingness.

Percy watched, wide-eyed, as the Chimera vanished—not destroyed, but reborn in Tartarus, exiled back to the realm of endless torment where it belonged. The echo of Echidna’s rage shimmered in the air like a faint heatwave, but Athena did not flinch.

She turned to him then, eyes burning with intensity and a strange tenderness he had never seen in a god before. “Live,” she said, voice low, almost a growl. “Because if you die here, I will never forgive myself.”

Percy’s chest heaved, pain still radiating through his side, but he nodded, understanding, somehow, that he had been spared—not because of Poseidon, not because of luck—but because Athena had chosen, in that fractured, aching moment, to rewrite fate itself.

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚

Percy woke slowly, blinking against the harsh sunlight streaming through the high glass windows of Union Station. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, golden and unreal, and the hum of distant announcements and rolling suitcases felt muted, as if the world were still catching its breath.

His body ached everywhere. Muscles stiff and protesting, a dull throb in his head, and a burning, persistent pain in his stomach that refused to fade. Every breath reminded him of the Chimera’s poisoned strike, of the heat of its tail and the unnatural weight of its snarling heads.

He realized, with a jolt, that he was lying on the bench he had been sitting on before the attack—not the sidewalk bench outside the station, not anywhere safe. The world felt… wrong. Displaced. Time and space had folded strangely around him, leaving him suspended between the terror of moments ago and the calm of ordinary commuters walking past, oblivious.

Percy pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing, feeling the ache in his gut flare in protest. He glanced around. The station was normal—or as normal as a train station in a bustling city could be. People drifted past, suitcases rolling, conversations scraping through the air. Nothing in their eyes betrayed the shadowed chaos he had just survived.

His hand instinctively brushed Riptide in its pen form. Familiar, comforting, and yet… it did nothing to erase the hollow pit in his stomach, the memory of the Chimera’s snarling heads, the feel of Athena’s aegis flaring around him.

He took a shaky breath, trying to collect himself, and noticed the faintest shimmer near the bench across from him—subtle, almost imperceptible, like heat rising off asphalt. A reminder that what had just happened wasn’t over. Not really.

A figure stood beside him, unmoving, almost statuesque. At first, Percy squinted, trying to focus, trying to reconcile the exhaustion and the sudden disorientation. The woman had the same commanding presence that Annabeth always carried—intellectually sharp, instinctively precise—but there was something… otherworldly about her. Her posture radiated authority, every line of her body a warning. Her eyes were sharp, unreadable, glinting with a depth that made Percy’s gut twist. Her shoulders were set with a stern tilt, and the aura around her screamed, do not cross me.

Percy’s throat felt dry. He swallowed and tried to speak carefully, testing the fragile calm he felt in her presence. “Lady Athena?” His voice came out steady enough, though a little hoarse.

She did not immediately respond, merely studying him, and in that instant Percy felt the weight of her intellect, her judgment, pressing down on him. He could feel her assessing every inch of him: strength, fear, potential. She was someone to fear, intellectually and physically, and he knew—instinctively—that crossing her, or underestimating her, would be a grave mistake.

Mentally, he made a note. Do not tell anyone she reminds me of Annabeth. Not ever.

“Perseus Jackson,” she said, her voice cold, measured, each word falling like a blade of judgment. “Your father sent a message through a naiad while you were unconscious.”

Percy frowned, trying to make sense of it. A message? Through a… naiad? His mind buzzed, fragments of Gabe’s training sparking unbidden—how to read intentions, how to sense when someone hid more than they revealed. He could feel it in her: the layers of thought, the currents of divine strategy swirling just beyond his comprehension. There was so much going on inside her mind, more than he could ever hope to understand, even from a goddess.

“Go to Santa Monica. That is the message,” she continued, eyes flicking briefly toward the horizon, sharp and distant, as if reading threads of fate that stretched beyond him, beyond the city, beyond time itself.

Percy hesitated, his voice uncertain. “Lady Athena… why… why did you save me from the Chimera?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her face softened, a fleeting shadow of something human cutting through the iron of her divine presence. Grief pooled in her eyes, deep and incomprehensible, like a storm he couldn’t navigate. It was the same kind of grief humans carried for years without knowing how to name it—but multiplied, magnified a hundredfold by the weight of immortality. Percy swallowed, sensing that whatever she carried, it was old, ancient, and yet intimately tied to him now, tangled with the fate he couldn’t yet fully grasp.

He shifted, wincing as the lingering ache from the Chimera’s strike reminded him he was still very much mortal. “I… I don’t understand,” he admitted quietly. “I—”

Athena’s gaze sharpened again, the storm receding just enough to let the steel of command return. “You will understand,” she said, voice quiet but firm. “When the time comes, Perseus, you will understand. For now… go to Santa Monica. Your path begins there.”

Percy’s stomach twisted. He wanted questions, explanations, guidance—but all he could do was nod, the weight of her presence and the echo of her grief pressing down on him like a tide he couldn’t swim against.

Before he could ask another question, a shiver ran through her form, subtle at first, like the wind brushing against water. And then she began to dissolve. Light fractured around her edges, a shimmering aura that pulsed and stretched as if reality itself struggled to hold her shape.

Yellow-white feathers drifted into the air, glowing softly, twisting and tumbling like snow caught in a gentle breeze. Percy’s breath hitched as he watched, frozen, the figure of Athena disintegrating before his eyes. Each feather seemed impossibly alive, radiating warmth and power, carrying the lingering echo of her presence. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the last of her form vanished, leaving only the drifting feathers and the faint scent of ozone and ancient wisdom behind.

Percy sat up abruptly, his stomach screaming in protest, and rubbed at his eyes, trying to process what he had just seen. The bench felt too small, too ordinary, and the sun streaming through the Union Station windows seemed too bright and normal, too mundane after the impossible moment he had just lived through.

What the hell just happened? he muttered under his breath, wincing as he clutched his side. The dull pain from the Chimera strike throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, reminding him that he was still mortal—fragile, bleeding, human.

And for the first time, he realized something heavy and undeniable: some things—even gods—carried secrets heavier than any monster he had ever fought. The weight of centuries, of grief, of love and loss, pressed down on him in Athena’s absence, and Percy’s chest tightened under the realization that the world, and the gods themselves, were far more complicated—and far more dangerous—than he had ever imagined.

He exhaled shakily and looked toward the horizon, the faint glimmer of those drifting feathers still dancing in his mind. Santa Monica. That was his next step. And somehow… somehow he had to survive long enough to get there.

Chapter Text

“The mysterious case of the Jacksons, and specifically Perseus, ‘Percy’ Jackson, continues to astound law enforcement around the country,” the newscaster intoned, his voice calm but edged with urgency. The camera cut to a second reporter, a young woman with straight brown hair, sharp features, and a professional yet concerned expression.

“Thanks, Dan,” she said, addressing the camera directly. “Percy Jackson, age twelve, was reported missing on June sixth by his stepfather, Gabe Ugliano, after he and his mother, Sally Jackson, failed to return from a planned vacation at a remote cabin in Montauk. The couple’s nineteen-seventy-eight Camaro vanished along with them and has yet to be recovered. Authorities are still piecing together events leading up to their disappearance, but the timeline is… unusual, to say the least.”

She paused for a moment, shuffling papers and glancing at notes. “Citing Percy’s past behavioral issues, Mr. Ugliano has theorized that the boy himself might have had a hand in the disappearance. The child has a documented history of learning difficulties, most notably ADD and dyslexia, which, according to school records, have contributed to multiple disciplinary actions—six expulsions in as many years. While these behaviors have sometimes manifested violently, interviews with peers and teachers paint a more nuanced picture: Percy was known for standing up to bullies rather than instigating fights himself.”

The camera cut back to the original male newscaster, a man with meticulously styled black hair, a sharply trimmed beard, and light-brown skin with golden undertones. “Authorities reviewing red-light camera footage from Long Island confirm that someone—whether Sally Jackson, Percy himself, or an unknown third party—was behind the wheel of Mr. Ugliano’s Camaro on the night of June third into June fourth. What makes this incident extraordinary is that it occurred during a freak hurricane that swept through the region. The vehicle was captured moving at high speed, expertly navigating flooded streets and powerful gusts, despite extremely limited visibility. Captain Joshua Morin of the New York State Police, who are assisting with the investigation, described the driving as ‘remarkable—bordering on impossible for a civilian driver.’ At some point along Sunrise Highway, the car disappeared entirely. No trace of it has been found.”

The camera returned to the young woman, her face taut with seriousness. “The case remained unresolved until June ninth, when Percy Jackson suddenly appeared in New York City. According to Port Authority Bus Terminal security footage, he was delivered by an unmarked white van along with two other children. One of the companions, Grover Underwood, is a classmate from Yancy Academy. The other, a girl with a striking mix of brown and dyed blonde hair, remains unidentified. Footage shows Percy reacting to a missing persons poster featuring his own face—he tore it down before quickly pulling a baseball cap and hood over his head, seemingly to avoid recognition. The children waited calmly for a bus headed west toward Chicago and boarded without incident. From here, the details become sparse, shrouded in uncertainty and speculation.”

The camera cut back to the male newscaster, his voice deepening as he continued. “Eyewitnesses report that while aboard the bus, the trio was confronted by three elderly women. A physical altercation ensued, during which all three children drew baseball bats from their bags. The ensuing chaos reportedly caused the bus to veer dangerously off Interstate Ninety-Five, though no fatalities have been confirmed at this time. Beyond this point, the trail grows increasingly unclear, leaving authorities—and the public—puzzled and concerned about the events surrounding the Jackson case.”

He leaned slightly forward toward the camera. “Investigators are urging anyone with information, no matter how minor it may seem, to contact local authorities immediately. While the case has captured the nation’s attention for its sheer improbability, the true story behind Percy Jackson’s disappearance—and apparent reappearance—remains a mystery.”

The feed cut back to the young woman, who gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh. “This is a developing story. We’ll continue to bring you updates as they become available. For now, the Jackson case remains one of the most perplexing and unusual investigations in recent memory, leaving both law enforcement and the public asking the same question: How did a twelve-year-old boy survive a hurricane, vanish without a trace, and return seemingly unharmed?”

The camera cut back to the white-haired woman, her expression solemn as she addressed the camera. “What appears to have happened during the chaos aboard the bus is that the driver, identified as Mickey Mann, did not notice a critical failure in the vehicle’s steering column and power steering system, compounded by a simultaneous brake-line malfunction. The bus, now uncontrollable, veered across three lanes of traffic, striking four other vehicles before colliding with the wall of an overpass at a speed estimated well above the legal limit.”

Her tone grew graver as she continued, “Immediately afterward, a semi-truck collided with the rear of the bus, sending it spinning violently and toppling the semi onto its side. A second semi then struck the middle of the bus, causing it to flip entirely onto its side. The resulting fifteen-vehicle pile-up tragically claimed six lives and injured fourteen others, with three victims remaining in critical condition.”

She paused for a brief moment, letting the weight of the tragedy sink in. “In the aftermath, the three children—Percy Jackson, Grover Underwood, and an unidentified girl—fled the scene. Eyewitnesses confirm that the women who had accosted them aboard the bus also left the scene, unaccounted for by authorities. The New Jersey State Police immediately contacted the NYPD and the Port Authority Bus Terminal to request security footage of the incident. Upon review, officials realized that one of the children was Percy Jackson, a missing twelve-year-old, which escalated the investigation to a national level under the jurisdiction of the FBI.”

The camera shifted slightly, bringing her even closer. “Agent Black and his team have since led the investigation, uncovering key details regarding Percy’s time at Yancy Academy, his behavioral history, and his connections to the other two children involved. The case, already extraordinary, continues to baffle authorities and has drawn the attention of law enforcement across the country.”

Another subtle cut brought the frame back to her, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying a weight that demanded attention. “Now, the trio has been spotted again—this time in St. Louis, Missouri, at the Gateway Arch. Details are scarce, but security cameras confirm the same three children were present near the base of the monument yesterday afternoon. Local authorities are monitoring the situation closely, though attempts to approach or identify the children have been unsuccessful. What their intentions are, or how they remain consistently one step ahead of law enforcement, remains unknown.”

Her gaze shifted off-camera for a moment, then back. “This case, initially a local missing-person report, has grown into one of the most unusual and closely watched investigations in recent memory. From a hurricane on Long Island to a catastrophic interstate crash and now to sightings halfway across the country, the mystery of Percy Jackson and his companions deepens with each passing day.”

The camera cut back to the white-haired woman, her expression shifting from solemn to incredulous. “Eyewitnesses at the scene in St. Louis report a highly unusual incident involving the same trio of children, including Percy Jackson. According to multiple accounts, Percy was observed in what appeared to be a physical confrontation with a small dog—a chihuahua—wielding a baseball bat. One particularly frightened witness described the animal as something far more dangerous, calling it a ‘chimera,’ though authorities caution this may have been a hallucination or exaggeration caused by shock.”

She continued, voice steady but tinged with disbelief. “Security footage confirms Percy swinging a bat in a defensive stance, falling to the ground mid-struggle. At that moment, a woman dressed in what witnesses described as Greek goddess cosplay intervened. She apparently confronted the animal—or, as the witness insisted, the chimera—forcing it to retreat. The woman’s identity remains unknown, and neither Percy nor his companions have spoken publicly about the incident.”

The camera panned slightly, giving viewers a still image captured from the security footage, blurred but showing Percy on the ground, the small dog—or creature—near him, and a figure in flowing white and gold stepping into the scene. “Authorities have been unable to verify the nature of the threat or confirm whether the woman was acting in self-defense, as part of a coordinated effort with the children, or independently,” the reporter continued.

“While the incident may sound surreal,” she added, glancing at her notes, “law enforcement stresses that the unusual events surrounding Percy Jackson, from his disappearance to his reappearances and this confrontation, remain part of an ongoing investigation. The FBI and local police are urging anyone with additional information to come forward, especially regarding the mysterious woman who intervened.”

The camera cut to the male anchor, who leaned forward with a furrowed brow. “To recap, this extraordinary chain of events—from Long Island, to the interstate crash, to St. Louis—defies conventional explanation. Whether hallucination, coincidence, or something far stranger, the behavior exhibited by Percy Jackson and those around him continues to baffle authorities nationwide.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

“Well, fuck,” Percy muttered, yanking his hood up over his head. They’d been keeping an eye on the small TVs in the corner of the diner, hoping no one else had been paying attention to the news segment that had just flashed his face across the screen.

“Y-you can say that again,” Grover mumbled, his eyes wide and ears twitching nervously as he fiddled with his backpack strap.

“Well, fuck,” Percy repeated, matching the cadence of his first expletive, then tugged the drawstrings of his hoodie tight, looping them into a bow so that only his eyes, nose, and mouth were visible. He glanced around the diner, half-expecting someone to be staring back at him.

Annabeth poked at her sandwich with a finger, brow furrowed. “So, trains aren’t an option anymore,” she said, voice low, “and we’re running out of money fast.”

Percy rubbed the back of his neck, unease creeping into his voice. “So… what do we do now?”

Annabeth closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The noise of the diner—the clatter of plates, the low murmur of conversations—felt heavier than usual, like it was pressing down on their tiny, precarious bubble of safety. They were in Denver, Colorado, still nearly a thousand miles from Los Angeles, and options were running thin. “We call camp,” she finally said, opening her eyes, which were sharp and calculating, “report in to Chiron, and get some advice.”

Percy tilted his head, confused. “Wait, I thought you said we couldn’t use phones. Zeus—he’s, like, the sky guy… won’t he know?”

“We won’t use a phone,” Annabeth assured him, voice firm. “We’ll use an Iris Message.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Iris Message?” he asked, waving his hand for explanation.

Grover spoke up, fumbling nervously as he tried to explain. “I-It’s like a video call… but through a rainbow,” he said, nodding at Annabeth, who gave him a grateful glance.

Annabeth leaned forward, lowering her voice so only Percy and Grover could hear. “Iris, the Goddess of Rainbows, carries messages for immortals and demigods… through rainbows. There’s an offering, of course—one Golden Drachma per message.”

Percy stared at her, blinking. “One… golden… what now?”

Grover nudged him with an elbow. “Drachma. It’s like… demigod money. Very official.”

Percy groaned and sank back into the booth, running a hand through his messy hair. “Great. So we’ve got no train, almost no cash, and now I’m supposed to trust a rainbow goddess with our lives.”

Annabeth smirked, a small glimmer of humor breaking through the tension. “Yep. Pretty much. But it’s the fastest, safest way to reach Chiron without alerting every mortal and immortal in the country.”

Percy muttered under his breath, “Yeah… perfect. Just perfect.” He glanced at Grover, who looked equally worried. “Well, I guess it’s raining messages then.”

Grover groaned at the pun, but Percy just grinned behind his hood, a tiny spark of his usual chaos returning.

“Sure,” Annabeth smirked, though her mind was only half on the conversation. “Reductive, but sure.”

Grover and Percy chatted idly as they ate, voices low and filled with nervous energy, but Annabeth barely registered their words. Her thoughts were elsewhere, circling the problem of getting them west. Worst-case scenario, they could probably stow away on another train—but that wouldn’t be ideal.

Her mind wandered further, slipping back to memories she couldn’t afford right now—memories of Thalia and Luke. She set down her sandwich and rubbed her temples. She couldn’t let herself get lost in it.

In her mind’s eye, Thalia’s face appeared, sharp and electric, lined with dark makeup around striking blue eyes that almost glowed. Her grin mirrored Percy’s mischievous one, yet it was sharper, colder, a little crueler. Annabeth realized, painfully, how much they were alike: reckless, violent, and fiercely loyal to those they called friends.

The longing tightened in her chest, threatening to spill over, but she pushed it away before tears could form. Gods, she missed Thalia.

A sudden sound jerked her from the memory—a motorcycle engine cutting off outside. Grover stiffened, ears twitching as he craned his head toward the door. “G-God…” he stuttered, voice barely audible.

The diner door swung open, and the figure outside stepped in. The room seemed to freeze. Conversations halted mid-word, and the eyes of every mortal present flicked toward him, unable to meet him directly for more than fleeting, terrified glances. It was like some invisible gravity forced them to bow in his presence.

Annabeth’s heart hammered as the figure moved closer. A wave of primal rage surged through her, an instinctive, almost uncontrollable urge to destroy, to purge, to shed blood over everything weak and undeserving. She gritted her teeth and focused, forcing herself to rein it in, honing her awareness on the man’s features rather than letting instinct take over.

He was massive, clad in camo cargo pants and black combat boots. Over a bulletproof vest hung a black leather jacket, open to reveal a white shirt spattered with red. His skin was tan and weathered, scarred in places. A trim black beard outlined his jaw, teeth bared in a menacing smile—or was it a snarl? His teeth, unnervingly sharp, were stained red.

The sides of his head were shaved, the remaining hair short with sharp, patterned grooves etched into it. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, yet Annabeth could feel their glow behind the lenses, penetrating, alive.

He scanned the diner, and the room seemed to shrink around his gaze. Then, his eyes locked onto Annabeth and her friends. The snarl curled into a smile—predatory, dangerous, calculated—as he began walking toward them.

Every step left a streak of blood across the wooden floor. Annabeth’s gaze flicked down to his hands: dripping red, gleaming, lethal. At his belt hung an arsenal: four knives, two pistols, and a sword—she lost count of what else was hidden beneath the folds of his jacket.

The mortals likely didn’t see most of it—certainly not the full trail of blood or every weapon—but even what they did see made them shrink back in fear.

As he approached their table, he spoke, his voice gravelly and heavy, like a hammer falling on stone. “Well, well, little Questers. I’d say it’s a pleasure… but I’d be lying.”

He paused, letting his words settle, then turned his gaze on Grover. “Move, goat.”

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Percy’s fingers twitched. He wanted—no, needed—to reach across the table and gut this guy. Take Riptide and tear him apart. The thought of the man sitting next to a trembling Grover, speaking with that smug, cruel smile, made his blood boil. No one talked to Grover like that. No one.

The man—Ares, Percy realized, though it didn’t make him any less infuriating—leaned in toward Percy. “So, you’re Old Seaweed’s kid, eh?” His gaze swept Percy up and down, appraising, sneering. “I expected more, to be honest.”

“You got a problem?” Percy spat, the words sharp but uninspired. The irrational rage flooding him was like nothing he’d ever felt. It was all of them—Nancy, Gabe, every jerk who’d made his life miserable—condensed into one person. And all it would take was one punch. One swing of Riptide, one slash, one release, and the years of anger, humiliation, and frustration could spill out in a glorious tide of blood, bruises, and broken bones.

He flexed his fingers, itching to act. Gods or not, this guy was just another target.

“Percy,” Annabeth’s voice cut through the storm in his head, calm but firm. That’s Ares. Keep cool. His aura… it’s amplifying our anger.

The aura. Percy’s teeth ground together. That was the source of the heat, the wildfire in his chest, the urge to snap. Right. Focus.

Ares leaned forward, the grin twisting into something more sinister. “Attitude. I like it. Just remember who the big dog is.”

Percy blinked, then let a smirk crawl across his face. “Is that a reference to a lack of brains? Or an inability to open doors?” His tone was casual, but his pulse was hammering. “One of your kids thought she was tough shit, and I’ve put her ass down twice in a week.”

Ares barked a laugh, leaning back in the booth. “I heard you broke Skypiercer. That was a good toy.”

“Oh, please,” Percy shot back, hand sliding toward his pocket where Riptide waited. “I broke the shaft. She’ll get over it.”

Annabeth’s grip clamped down on his arm beneath the table, holding him still. Shut the fuck up, Seaweed Brain. My mom respects logic. This guy? He’ll smite us the second he gets the chance.

Percy clenched his jaw, breathing through the fury. Every instinct screamed to attack, to let loose, to let the rage that had been simmering for years explode. But Annabeth’s voice anchored him, a tether in the storm of his anger. He looked at Ares, matching the glare as best he could without moving a muscle, fingers curled tight under the table. Soon. Soon we’ll have a chance. But not now.

The god leaned back, still smiling, still predatory. And Percy’s teeth ground harder. One day… one day, he’d get his release.

Ares’ false smile, all jagged and bloody teeth, twisted into something closer to a snarl. The air in the diner thickened, gravity pressing down with a weight that seemed to multiply—five times, ten times the normal force—crushing them, compressing their chests, making every breath a struggle.

“She will, punk,” Ares growled, voice low and lethal. “But you broke one of my gifts, see, and I don’t like it when people break what’s mine.”

Percy blinked. A paternal side? He hadn’t expected that—yet the revelation was immediately poisoned by the god’s follow-up.

“I don’t give two shits about Claire—or whichever one of mine you laid out,” Ares snarled, leaning closer. “I care that you disgraced my honor. My blood. You broke something of mine, so you’re going to do a little errand… to even things out.”

Annabeth’s voice pierced his mind, urgent: Percy, let me—

“Shut up,” he snapped, cutting her off, returning his full glare to the god.

Clarisse. Percy’s jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists beneath the table. He didn’t like Clarisse much, but the sheer arrogance of Ares, not even knowing which child Percy had tangled with yet using it as an excuse to order him around, made his blood boil hotter than ever. He could feel it—the faint tremor of the diner’s floor beneath them, a ripple radiating outward, a subconscious effect of Ares’ presence.

“Clarisse,” Percy spat venomously, voice low and dangerous. “You fucking asshole. Her name is Clarisse. And as much as I despise her, you could at least get your kid’s name right. What? Is keeping them straight too much for that walnut between your eyes?”

Annabeth’s grip around his wrist tightened—a vise of bone-crushing force that screamed stop—but Percy didn’t care. His rage overrode reason.

Ares leaned forward, the weight of him pressing down in palpable waves. Percy forced himself to stay seated, muscles coiled, letting the pressure roll over him while keeping his balance. Slowly, the god lifted his sunglasses, revealing eyes that were empty sockets filled with fire. Flames licked the edges of the void, leaking blood and smoke, carrying faint screams, distant roars, and the booming echoes of war straight into Percy’s mind.

“There is a place,” Ares said evenly, a cold, measured tone that contrasted the chaos burning in his gaze, “an abandoned water park a mile west on Delancy. In a ride known as the Tunnel of Love, you will find my shield—and return it here from its little guardians.”

Percy noticed a flick of Ares’ gaze toward Annabeth, calculating, assessing. “A quest,” the god added, as if pronouncing judgment.

Percy’s jaw tightened. He wanted to explode, to let his words shred the tension in the room. “Too lazy to get it yourself?” he spat, venom dripping from every syllable. “And we already have a quest.”

Ares’ voice shifted, unnaturally calm and smooth, as though Percy’s insults had never happened. “In exchange,” he said, voice low and measured, “I will get you transportation west. All the way to LA—and back again, if you survive that long.”

Annabeth’s words cut through Percy’s spiraling thoughts like a knife, sharp and controlled. “Thank you, Lord Ares. We will do that as soon as possible.” Her voice trembled just slightly with barely-contained fury, but her posture remained firm.

The War God’s gaze shifted to her, expression neutral, almost unreadable. “You have until sundown. Now get out of my sight. Your satyr friend here stays, though—collateral.”

Annabeth’s jaw tightened, body trembling with barely contained rage. “Most generous, Lord Ares,” she managed through gritted teeth. Then, with a sudden push, she nearly threw Percy out of the booth. The two of them stumbled across the diner floor, the subtle tremor of Ares’ presence slowly fading, gravity returning to normal.

Without warning, she slapped him—hard. Percy went sprawling onto the asphalt outside, tasting blood in his mouth. Shock and pain washed over him, and along with it, the searing, uncontrolled anger that had burned so hot inside moments ago drained away.

“Do you have a fucking death wish, Jackson?” Annabeth snarled, stalking west with purposeful strides, voice tight with fury and disbelief. Percy scrambled to his feet, dazed, following her in silence.

Her voice cut deeper than her hand ever could. “I don’t think you get it, Jackson. That being we just spoke to is the literal embodiment of war and slaughter. One of the most destructive forces in the world. And you think it’s a good idea to insult him?”

Percy’s chest tightened. Memories of school flashed unbidden—his rage spilling over, hitting everyone around him while he escaped unscathed. Grover had been a constant target for that misdirected fury. And now… Grover. Call it what it was—hostage. Just like Mom.

He nearly choked back tears, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. Another person put in mortal danger because of him.

“I’m… sorry,” he managed, voice cracking. Annabeth spun on him, eyes still blazing with anger. Then, slowly, her expression softened just slightly as she exhaled, frustration giving way to annoyance.

“You’ve got to get your tongue under control, Seaweed Brain. The only reason you’re still alive—we’re still alive—is that Ares won’t risk your dad’s wrath before the war starts. So let’s just get this shield and get the fuck out of here.”

Percy frowned as they walked, rubbing his jaw where her slap had landed. “Wait… isn’t Ares siding with Zeus? Then why would he help us?”

Annabeth didn’t answer immediately, keeping her pace steady. Finally, she said, “I have two guesses. First, he wants us to find the Bolt, then steal it from us and take the credit—further framing you for the theft. But the second is more likely: Ares is hoping our quest fails in the Underworld. If Poseidon gets angry… it splits his attention between Zeus and Hades. Chaos benefits him.”

Percy clenched his fists, letting the words settle. Chaos… that sounded just like Ares. And somehow, despite everything, the only thing Percy could do was follow Annabeth west, toward whatever disaster—or opportunity—awaited at that abandoned water park.

“He doesn’t seem smart enough for something like that,” Percy replied, thinking back to their encounter with Ares. Truthfully, without the adrenaline and anger pushing him forward, the god had scared him more than he’d realized—but still, Percy didn’t get the sense that Ares was particularly cunning.

Annabeth veered off the side of the road, pulling into a self-service car wash. She led Percy into one of the empty stalls at the far end of the line, closing the metal chain-link door behind them. “Look,” she sighed, leaning against the cold, wet concrete wall, “I’m really not sure. Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe Ares is just in it for his shield… or the thrill… or whatever. But if he is the one sending us, it probably involves a feat of strength, or cunning. My bet? Cunning, because Ares isn’t doing it himself—he’s hampered by his domains.”

“Domains?” Percy asked, frowning.

Annabeth paused, searching for a way to explain. “It’s pretty obvious once you think about it, but the Gods aren’t all-powerful. They’re tied to their powers—their Domains. Your dad, Poseidon, is the Sea God. In the oceans, he’s near-limitless. Storms? Same thing. Earthquakes? Huge power. Even abstract domains—like horses—grant him incredible abilities when he’s on a horse or Pegasus. But take him out of his domain, like into the skies or The Underworld… he’s limited. Half strength, maybe less, depending on the situation.”

Percy’s eyes went wide. “So the further Gods get from their domains, the weaker they become?”

Annabeth nodded. “Exactly. If Poseidon wanted to teleport to The Underworld, he could, and technically be in Hades’ throne room instantly. But outside his domain, his power drops. He could still defeat almost anything mortal… even some immortals, maybe. But in a place where another god has all their strength, he’d be at a serious disadvantage.”

Percy’s brow furrowed. “So… the Gods send Demigods on errands because they’re scared of being weak?”

Annabeth winced and glanced at the sky, which seemed to darken just a fraction. “Yes and no. Zeus, for example—he could go find his Bolt himself, but he’d be at risk on land, and especially in The Underworld. If someone were to kill him—”

Percy’s voice cut her off. “Wait. What? You can kill Gods?”

Annabeth hesitated, biting her lip before replying. “Yes… but they function like monsters. Remember our whole… Medusa—‘what the hell’ conversation? If Poseidon were ‘killed,’ he would reform in the oceans after some time, like the Elder Cyclopes. It could take decades, centuries even, depending on how much damage is done to their Shell.”

Percy’s head tilted. “Shells?”

Annabeth nodded. “Some gods have tens of Shells, like multiple bodies running around at once. Damage to one Shell can be healed by the essence of the others. But if you reduce them to just one Shell, and then do enough damage… the god can be ‘dead’ for a time.”

Percy ran a hand through his hair. “So… they risk death when they do things themselves, but they can reform. Then why use Demigods?”

Annabeth looked at him, sharp and patient. “Because Demigods—us—can operate where gods are limited. We can sneak, fight, and improvise in ways gods can’t. And if we die, the consequences aren’t eternal. It’s a way for them to get results without risking their own immortality.”

Percy let that sink in, glancing out at the empty car wash bay. “So basically… we’re expendable.”

Annabeth smirked wryly, though her eyes remained serious. “You’re not wrong. But we’re also… the best chance the gods have of winning their little games. That’s why they keep sending us.”

Percy groaned, dropping into a crouch on the wet concrete floor. “Great. Just great. I always wanted to be cannon fodder for immortal war games.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “Try not to get killed on the first mission, Seaweed Brain. It makes the rest of us look bad.”

“First, there are the Ancient Laws,” Annabeth began, her voice low, measured. “All immortals are bound to them…” She trailed off, pursing her lips as if weighing how much to say. “Do you know about The Black Death?”

Percy frowned. “A plague in Europe, back in medieval times, right?”

Annabeth nodded, stepping closer to the spray gun mounted on the wall of the car wash. “It was a bubonic plague pandemic that swept across Europe between 1346 and 1353. About fifty million people died—half of Europe’s population at the time. And it got out of hand because Asclepius, the Minor God of healing and medicine, was dead. Apollo tried to contain the pandemic, but he got into some argument with his father—I don’t know what it was about—and Zeus ended up killing him in 1344. By the time Apollo reformed, the plague had already spiraled out of control.”

Percy’s mouth went dry. “So… nothing good came out of that.”

“Exactly,” Annabeth said, voice quiet. “The gods maintain the world by controlling parts of nature and the human experience. If they die… things go chaotic. Kill Poseidon, and you’d get hurricanes, rough seas, sea monsters everywhere. Without Apollo or other medicine gods, diseases spread unchecked.”

Percy rubbed the bridge of his nose, frustration and disbelief mixing in his gaze. “So… they need demigods because they made some promise not to intervene directly, their deaths cause massive chaos, and we’re expendable?”

“In a sense,” Annabeth said, flipping a switch on the spray gun.

Percy let out a huff. “That doesn’t explain why they’re such assholes. They need us, but treat us like pawns.”

Annabeth didn’t answer, her mind focused on the task at hand. She twisted the knob on the car wash machine to a mist setting, depositing a few coins into the slot. A fine spray of water hissed into the air, catching the late afternoon sun. The droplets refracted the light, forming a faint, shimmering rainbow.

With careful hands, she flipped a golden drachma into the mist. The coin vanished the instant it touched the rainbow, swallowed by the shimmering colors.

“Oh Iris, Goddess of the Rainbow, accept this offering,” Annabeth intoned, her voice echoing slightly in the empty car wash. The rainbow shimmered, brightened, and became nearly opaque, the colors swirling like molten light.

“Show me Chiron at Camp Half-Blood,” she commanded.

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The armory smelled sharply of oil, scorched metal, and the faint tang of iron. Lanterns cast flickering light across the room, reflecting off racks of blades that gleamed dully in the dim glow. Ethan had already examined a dozen swords since he arrived at camp—each one too heavy, too unwieldy, or just… not right. None felt like an extension of himself, none whispered the way a weapon should.

Luke stopped in front of a rack shoved against the far wall, its metal hooks bent from years of use. Draped across the hooks was a broken longsword, its hilt surprisingly intact, polished bronze worn smooth by countless grips. But the blade itself had snapped clean in two, halfway down the fuller. The bronze surface was scorched black, as if the fire had come from inside the metal rather than out. It radiated a strange heat, faint but palpable, that made the hairs on the back of Ethan’s neck stand on end.

Ethan stepped closer, eyes tracing the fracture. There was something almost unnatural about the break—perfectly clean, yet jagged in a way that suggested force beyond normal measure. He could feel it, a quiet hum through the soles of his boots, a pulse in the air around the weapon.

“This one,” Luke said, his voice low, careful, with an edge of something Ethan couldn’t place. It wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t casual. It was… almost testing.

Ethan frowned, his fingers brushing against the scorched bronze. “It’s broken,” he said, the words tasting hollow in his mouth.

“Yeah,” Luke admitted, his eyes never leaving Ethan’s. “But humor me. Pick it up.”

Suspicion prickled at the back of Ethan’s neck. Something about the way Luke looked at him made him uneasy, but curiosity edged out hesitation. Slowly, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt.

The moment his skin touched the metal, a pulse of heat shot up his arm, startling him. The blade fragments shivered faintly, a tremor that seemed almost alive. A faint ember-light bled from the fissures, a glow that deepened with each thrum of his heartbeat. It wasn’t just light. It was a presence. Something waiting. Something aware.

Ethan’s breath caught in his throat. The broken sword hummed with a kind of restrained energy, the kind that seemed like it could either consume him—or grant him everything he needed. The scent of scorched bronze intensified, filling his senses, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

Luke’s eyes went wide, his pupils darkening as if he’d just seen something impossible. “Holy shit.”

Ethan yelped and dropped the sword like it had burned him. The instant it left his hands, the ember-light winked out, leaving nothing but the blackened bronze and an eerie, echoing silence.

“What the hell was that?” Ethan demanded, flexing his tingling fingers, trying to shake off the residual heat that had clung to him like static electricity. His pulse was racing, and his stomach had tied itself in knots.

Luke didn’t answer at once. He just stared, first at Ethan, then down at the dead sword, then back at Ethan again. His jaw worked slowly, like he was chewing over a secret too big to speak aloud. The moment stretched, thick with tension, and Ethan felt a chill creep up his spine.

Finally, Luke muttered, low and urgent, “Come with me. Now.”

Before Ethan could protest, Luke’s hand shot out, gripping his shoulder with iron certainty. He didn’t just guide Ethan—he steered him, moving swiftly across the armory floor, past racks of untouched, ordinary weapons. The lantern light bounced off the metal in streaks that made Ethan’s stomach flip.

They burst out onto the green, the evening air cool against Ethan’s flushed skin. He stumbled slightly on the uneven ground as Luke pulled him up the porch steps of the Big House. Ethan opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but Luke’s grip tightened just enough to silence him.

Ethan didn’t like being pushed around—he hated it, really—but the look in Luke’s eyes kept him quiet. This wasn’t just a training lecture, wasn’t just a game of authority. Whatever had happened with the sword… whatever Luke had just seen… it was serious. Dangerous serious.

And for the first time, Ethan realized that whatever he thought he knew about the camp, about weapons, about power… it had just shifted.

Inside, Chiron’s office smelled of parchment, cedar, and the faint tang of polished bronze. Lanterns cast pools of golden light across stacks of scrolls and half-finished charts. The centaur was bent over a scroll, quill in hand, but he looked up as Luke practically dragged Ethan through the doorway.

“Chiron,” Luke said, still slightly breathless, eyes wide and intense. “You’re not gonna believe this. The Burning Bronze sword—Kaíomenos Chalkós—it reacted.” He gave Ethan a slight shove forward. “To him.”

Ethan instinctively took a step back, crossing his arms defensively. “All I did was touch it. It’s broken anyway.”

“Broken,” Chiron echoed softly, his gaze drifting, distant as if he were sifting through memories layered over centuries. His hooves shifted lightly on the floor as he straightened, setting aside the scroll with deliberate care. “Yet still it responded…”

Ethan swallowed, feeling the weight of the centaur’s stare. There was something about the way Chiron said it, the way his eyes lingered, that made Ethan’s stomach twist. It wasn’t just a sword. It wasn’t just bronze. It had awareness, like it could sense something in him that even he didn’t fully understand.

Luke hovered near the door, his expression a mix of impatience and awe, while Ethan felt like he’d just stepped into a history that wasn’t meant for him—one that had waited centuries, watching for the right hands to awaken it.

Chiron took a slow step forward, letting the silence stretch between them, and then said, almost to himself, “Kaíomenos Chalkós… The Burning Bronze… it has not stirred in centuries. And yet, in your grasp, it glowed.”

Ethan’s pulse quickened. “You mean… it’s alive?” he asked, his voice a mixture of disbelief and awe.

Chiron’s ears twitched, a faint nod of acknowledgment. “Not alive in the way you think. It is… aware. Bound to its wielder, but waiting. Patient. And it has chosen to respond to you.”

Luke’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching. “Chosen? The sword… it chose him?”

Chiron inclined his head slightly, eyes never leaving Ethan. “Some weapons carry the legacy of their forge. Kaíomenos Chalkós was forged to burn, to destroy, and yet to protect. For it to react to one such as you… that is unprecedented. Tell me everything, Ethan. Every detail.”

Ethan hesitated, glancing down at his hands as if the sword’s echo still lingered there. “I… I just touched it. And it… pulsed. Like it was alive. Like it knew me. That’s all I did.”

Chiron nodded slowly, lips pressing together. “All you did… was awaken something old. Something dangerous. And something, perhaps, that has been waiting for you.”

The air between them seemed to thicken, almost pressing in from all sides. Ethan shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of the way both Luke and Chiron were staring at him—like he had suddenly become a puzzle piece that had clicked into place, completing a pattern he didn’t even understand.

Before Chiron could speak again, a subtle shimmer rippled in the corner of the office. Ethan blinked, unsure if it was a trick of the lantern light, until the shimmer grew brighter. A faint rainbow arched across the room, bending and twisting like molten glass until the colors solidified into a clear image.

Through the haze, Ethan could make out Annabeth and Percy, framed by the wet gray concrete of some mortal building. Their clothes clung to them, rain streaking their faces, but their focus was entirely on something he couldn’t see. The magic of the projection pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat, connecting them to the office as though Chiron had reached across worlds to show them.

Chiron blinked once, the image reflected in his thoughtful eyes. Then he turned back to Luke and Ethan, voice low and grave. “Hold that thought,” he said, his tone carrying weight. “It seems our questers are calling.”

Ethan’s stomach tightened. Calling? He remembered the way Iris messages worked in tales of old—like a divine nudge, a thread pulling at destinies. This wasn’t just a warning; it was a summons. And somehow, he could feel, faintly, that the sword in his hands—the one that had chosen him—was resonating with the call, humming with impatience and purpose.

Luke exhaled, fists clenched, but his usual mask of confidence was gone, replaced by something heavier. “Figures,” he muttered. “Just when we finally get a handle on things…”

The rainbow shimmered again, and the image solidified further. Ethan could see Annabeth standing in the middle of what looked like a dingy, poorly lit bus terminal. Puddles of water reflected the dull glow of overhead lights, and the air seemed thick with moisture and tension. Her wet hair clung to her forehead, strands plastered against her skin, and her clothes were rumpled, evidence of the battle she had just survived. Despite it all, she stood straight and commanding, a force of will even in the dreary chaos around her.

Percy wasn’t in the frame, but Ethan could hear her voice clearly, resonating through the shifting mist of colors.

“Okay,” she began, sharp and clipped, the cadence of her words precise and controlled, “here’s what’s happened since we left camp. First, we got on the bus and—” She paused, eyes narrowing somewhere off-camera as if glaring at invisible enemies. “—attacked by Furies. It was… messy. Three is too many to handle cleanly, but we survived.”

The mist swirled slightly around the edges of the projection, shimmering like heat on asphalt. Ethan could almost feel the tension in her words, the controlled frustration and alertness that Annabeth carried like armor.

Her voice continued, calm but forceful, narrating the events with the kind of precision Ethan recognized from stories of her battles: “After that… we encountered Medusa. It was complicated. She was… different. Not the monster we expected, and I had to convince her to—well, to join the gods as a harmless entity. Luke… Luke noticed. His eyes… something flickered, but only Ethan seemed to see it. That’s… strange, but noted.”

The rainbow around the image pulsed faintly as if reacting to her words, and Ethan could see her movements, the subtle shifts in posture that spoke of someone constantly calculating danger and opportunity at once.

“Then came the train,” Annabeth continued, tone steady, “Percy got attacked by a Chimera. Athena—” She hesitated briefly, almost reverently, “—intervened. Saved him, of course. That was… unexpected. And now we’re in Denver. Ares is holding Grover captive, and that’s where we are.”

The colors around the projection pulsed again, brighter this time, almost impatiently, as if urging Ethan to pay attention. The gravity of the situation pressed in—the bus, the Furies, Medusa, the Chimera, Ares. Each thread of chaos was part of a larger tapestry, and Ethan could feel the weight of it pressing against him even from miles away.

Chiron’s voice broke the silence behind him, low and urgent. “Ethan… listen carefully. Every detail she speaks is vital. Your task may intersect with theirs sooner than you think. The sword you carry—it has chosen you for a reason. Pay attention, and be ready.”

Ethan swallowed hard, staring at Annabeth’s projection. Her voice, her presence, her command of chaos even through a magical image—it all reminded him of what he had to be. Not just a witness, but a participant. And the broken sword in his hands… somehow, he knew it wouldn’t be long before he would be called to act.

Chapter Text

Annabeth was lost in thought as she and Percy arrived at an old, rust-streaked turnstile. A thick chain and padlock barred the way, the steel pitted from years of neglect. “So… climb the fence?” Percy asked, his voice breaking through her reverie.

“What? Oh.” She pulled out her kopis, its celestial bronze glinting faintly in the dim afternoon light. She took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the familiar tension in her muscles, and let it out in a rush as she swung down. Celestial Bronze met rusted steel with a sharp clang, and the chain snapped under the force of her blow. Sparks flew, bouncing harmlessly off the cracked concrete beneath their feet.

Percy stared at the broken lock for a moment, then grinned at her with a lopsided, boyish smile. “Damn, Wise Girl,” he said, his tone a mix of admiration and mischief.

Annabeth rolled her eyes, tucking the kopis back into her belt. “Try not to make it sound like I just vandalized national property,” she muttered, motioning for him to move through the turnstile. Percy ducked under the bent steel and stepped into the abandoned park, his sneakers crunching against the debris-strewn ground.

After an ungodly amount of time squinting at the faded letters, Annabeth finally deciphered the entrance sign: Waterland: Fun For The Whole Family. Or, at least, that was what it had once said. Someone had gone wild with the graffiti; across the faded white letters, someone had scrawled: Wat—la-ass: Fun For The Whole F—ilyyyy, the missing letters covered by an obscenity hastily scratched out. Annabeth’s lips pressed into a thin line, half amused, half disgusted.

They stepped cautiously onto the cracked asphalt, littered with empty beer bottles, crumpled paper, and the remnants of small animals—likely a squirrel or rabbit—that had been picked clean, probably by some hungry hawk or coyote. The once-bright buildings around them were smothered in overgrown plants, weeds curling through the cracks in the pavement and climbing up walls like sentient fingers. Graffiti stretched from one end to the other—two dozen different ways to draw a penis, the colors smeared and faded, some layered over older, forgotten tags.

Percy whistled, a dramatic, exaggerated sound. “Wow. Real classy place to bring a date. Not cool, Wise Girl. I expected better when I agreed to this romantic endeavor,” he teased, throwing his hands up in mock indignation.

Annabeth let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “If you call surviving Hydra attacks romantic, sure,” she shot back, her tone laced with amusement and exasperation.

Percy wandered a few steps ahead, picking his way through weeds that sprouted from cracks in the pavement. “Tunnel of Love,” he murmured, his voice echoing off the empty, peeling walls. He crouched near a massive, weather-beaten map, its colors faded to muted pastels, trying to trace the park’s layout. About half of it had been destroyed, charred into jagged, blackened edges that looked like a miniature volcano had erupted across it. Annabeth crouched beside him, noting the scorched sections and the faded graffiti: cartoonish monsters, bizarre symbols, and random phrases in languages she couldn’t place.

The air smelled of damp earth, rust, and something faintly metallic—probably the remnants of the chains and bolts left behind. A soft wind whispered through the overgrown rides, creating eerie, hollow sounds like the park itself was sighing.

“This place… it’s a graveyard of fun,” Percy said quietly, almost to himself. Then, with his usual grin, he added, “But, hey, at least we’re not alone. Adventure buddies forever, right?”

Annabeth couldn’t help but smile at him, even as she took in the desolation around them. She let her hand brush along a railing, feeling the rough, flaking paint beneath her fingers. “Forever,” she agreed, though her mind was already plotting their next move. Somewhere in this abandoned, overgrown park, there had to be clues—and probably trouble waiting for them too.

“There,” Annabeth said, pointing, her finger trembling slightly as her eyes fixed on a ride with a small white boat and an overwhelming amount of heart-shaped iconography. For a moment, her dyslexia made the letters jumble together like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. Then, as if her brain finally relented, she made out the words: Tunnel of Love.

“Okay,” Percy said, his gaze sweeping over the scene. The slides and ramps loomed over them like twisted metal giants, vines crawling along their skeletal frames. “I think it’s… that way,” he added, pointing to the right, where the path disappeared into shadows cast by the skeletal remains of roller coasters.

Annabeth nodded firmly. “Let’s get this shield and get out,” she said, her tone clipped but resolute. The two of them set off down the cracked concrete path, pushing aside overgrown weeds that clawed at their ankles.

As they passed the remains of a gift shop, its windows shattered and spilling mold-covered merchandise into the street, Percy paused, pointing at a swirl of electric blue graffiti. “I think I’ve seen that tag in Queens once,” he said, his voice tinged with both curiosity and caution. Annabeth’s eyes went wide; her dyslexia made the lines almost impossible to read, but something in the pattern made her breath catch. It was unmistakable. That was Thalia’s mark. She hadn’t seen it in years, yet here it was, vivid and alive on the wall.

Percy’s brow furrowed. “Do you recognize it?”

Annabeth’s jaw tightened. “Yeah,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’re dead.”

Percy blinked, surprise flickering across his face. “Oh.” He fell silent for a moment, then looked back at her. “Do you want to talk about it… or…” He let the question hang, knowing she’d either respond or brush it aside. Annabeth shook her head, refusing the invitation.

“Okay, light conversation then,” Percy said, pointing upward to a sign dangling about three-and-a-half meters above them, advertising a Tex-Mex food stand. “See that? Ten bucks says I can split it with Riptide.”

Annabeth frowned, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You’re insane. That’s way too high up, Percy.”

“You’re on,” he said confidently. She hesitated, weighing the odds. There was no water nearby to amplify his demigod powers, and his control over his abilities was still… questionable. Finally, she shrugged. “Fine. But don’t get yourself killed.”

Percy grinned impishly, and for a moment, Annabeth’s frown faltered. What had she missed? She didn’t have time to think as Percy bounded over to a nearby trash can, hoisting himself onto the roof of the food stand with inhuman ease. From there, he sprinted across the corrugated metal, the wind tugging at his dark hair, and with a flourish, he pulled out Riptide and swung the sign in half like it was paper. He landed triumphantly on the roof, arms spread wide. “Boom! That’s a tenner, Wise Girl!”

“That’s cheating!” Annabeth protested, her voice both exasperated and amused. “You were supposed to jump for it!”

Percy wagged a finger at her. “I never said that,” he reminded her, grinning, “and you didn’t specify.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched in spite of herself. “Screw you, Jackson,” she muttered, resuming her cautious march through the weeds, trying not to laugh at his antics.

Percy, however, was not done. With a dramatic flourish, he dangled from the edge of the roof, letting himself drop the four meters to the ground. He landed in a tangle of weeds with a graceless thump, sprawling across the concrete before rolling to his feet, victorious. “Okay,” he panted, brushing dirt from his clothes, “that’s definitely worth ten bucks.”

Annabeth shook her head, hiding her smile behind a hand. Despite the danger, the destruction, and the shadows that seemed to linger too long in the corners of the abandoned park, a small part of her couldn’t help but feel alive. Even in the ruins, Percy had a way of making her laugh—and maybe that was part of the adventure.

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Annabeth frowned as she looked down at the boat sitting in the drained pool. Sitting on the seat was a bronze disk about a meter across, emblazoned with designs depicting boars, skulls, and bones. Next to it lay a lavender silk scarf. Annabeth couldn’t feel much with her Sense. There was a dull pressure, but it was far too general to make any inferences.

“Trap?” Percy asked, though it wasn’t much of a question.

“Trap,” she confirmed, her voice tight.

The decrepit ride had been set up so that the swan boats could follow a river into a contained section of the attraction. The entrance of the building was centered around a tunnel flanked by hearts and roses. What once might have been sculpted topiaries and broken statues of Cupid now ringed the combination entrance-and-exit loop. Everything above the water line was reduced to weathered paint and scattered rubble, streaked with graffiti, making the tunnel look like the gaping maw of some grotesque beast—painted headache-inducing purple with the usual quota of crude genitals per square foot that seemed to be the park’s twisted signature.

Percy turned to her, eyebrows raised. “So… do we go down there? Or…”

Annabeth shook her head, keeping her eyes locked on the tunnel’s entrance. “Not before we figure out the trap. Scout around, and be careful.” She crouched slightly, searching for whatever trial Ares had warned them about.

“Okay, so what are we looking for?” Percy asked, putting his hands on his hips, his expression a mixture of curiosity and mild irritation.

“I’m not sure,” Annabeth admitted. “That’s the problem. I don’t know if we’re dealing with a mechanical trap, or a magical one. The first is easier to avoid but harder to disable; the second… well, magic can be unpredictable. And it may very well be some combination of the two. Ares didn’t tell us who—or what—chased him and Aphrodite off, but I think it’s safe to assume it wasn’t a monster, given who Ares is.”

“Why the hell would Ares take his girlfriend here anyway? And isn’t Aphrodite married to Hephaestus?” Percy asked, frowning.

Annabeth smirked faintly. “Yeah. In the myths, Hephaestus divorced her long ago. But you know him—he loves to prank them in spite. That’s probably exactly why Ares picked this park. Classic Hephaestus-style revenge: ruin their fun with subtle chaos and call it a day.”

Percy’s mouth twisted into a grin. “So basically, we’re walking into a godly prank park? Sounds legit.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes but allowed a small smile. “Try not to die in the process, Jackson. That would ruin the fun.”

“Could Hephaestus have set a trap to catch them? Like… wasn’t there a myth about him doing that with a golden net or something?” Percy offered, his voice tense but curious.

Annabeth’s eyes lit up, sharp and calculating. “Yes! That makes sense. So we’re looking for mechanical traps, not magical ones—at least primarily.”

“Wait,” Percy said, furrowing his brow, “if this trap is meant to catch people, not kill them, wouldn’t it be easier to just trigger it and wait for things to calm down before taking the shield?”

Annabeth nodded slowly, thinking it through. “That’s probably best. We just need to find the trigger and set it off from a distance. Could be a tripwire… maybe a pressure plate.”

Percy tilted his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Or… something more advanced. Like a laser tripwire, or an infrared sensor?”

Annabeth sniffed, half-amused. “Seaweed Brain, you’re getting a little too sci-fi.”

“Well, I’m sorry!” Percy threw up his hands in mock indignation. “Hephaestus is the God of Craftsmen and Blacksmiths, right? I feel like his stuff would be cutting-edge!”

Annabeth rolled her eyes, stepping forward. “Well, let’s take a look around—”

She froze mid-step. A faint click, then a low whirr of machinery, reached her ears. Hesitantly, she looked down and saw a pinpoint red dot on the side of her shoe—a laser tripwire.

Before she could react, a translucent barrier shot up around the edges of the water park with a faint voom. Rainbow-like refractions shimmered across the dome. It was massive, irregular, and no doubt powerful enough to contain even the God of War.

“Son of a—”

Annabeth was cut off as a frantic metallic clicking filled the air. The sounds multiplied, echoing from dozens of sources. Her Sense pressed harder against her neck, her awareness sharpening painfully. And then she saw them.

Dozens of mechanical spiders emerged from every crevice, vent, and hole imaginable. Their bronze abdomens gleamed in the fading light, articulated legs spreading wider than dinner plates. Each spider had eight camera lenses for eyes, swiveling independently, scanning Annabeth and Percy as they approached.

Percy’s Sense pricked violently, a wave of adrenaline and dread rolling through him. He glanced at Annabeth. She was frozen, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes wide with pure, unadulterated terror.

“Oh no,” he muttered under his breath. “Annabeth…”

“Do you happen to have arachnophobia?” Percy asked, forcing calm into his voice.

“Yes,” she admitted, her tone high and tight.

Four of the spiders pulled up suddenly, their abdomens curling over their backs like scorpions. From the tips, nearly invisible threads shot toward Percy and Annabeth. The prickling at the back of Percy’s neck sharpened into a solid jab—a warning he couldn’t ignore.

Without thinking, Percy grabbed Annabeth by the shoulder, pulling her out of the immediate line of fire. He shoved her ahead, sprinting through the crumbling park as the spiders followed. Hundreds of metallic legs tapped against wood, concrete, and metal, the clinking and clacking echoing like some horrific symphony.

Percy’s mind raced back to Ares’ words. “Little guardians,” he had said, glancing at Annabeth. That rat. Ares had known. He had known about the spiders and Annabeth’s fear—and set them up anyway. His blood boiled.

“Annabeth, we need a plan!” Percy shouted, but she didn’t respond, her focus entirely on escape.

“Annabeth!” He tried again, but she scrambled up onto the roof using the same trash can he had used earlier.

He followed swiftly, gravel crunching beneath his feet. From above, he saw her in the center of the roof, knives drawn, spinning back and forth, eyes darting across the park. She was a whirlwind of precision and fear, every movement controlled yet desperate.

“Annabeth, seriously! We need a plan!” Percy called as he ran across the rooftop, unbuckling Riptide. He could feel the mechanical spiders adapting, their lens-eyes tracking every step.

Adrenaline surged. They couldn’t just run forever. They had to fight smart, or the little metallic nightmares would overwhelm them.

Her eyes swung toward him and for a moment Percy saw the terror in her gaze before she calmed it slightly, becoming just panicked. “N- need to find the power source for the barrier,” She said after a moment, still whipping back and forth as Percy heard the click click click of the mechanical spiders begin to grow closer. “Find the source and shut it down, then make for the shield and run.” 

Percy pursed his lips, trying to keep his voice calm despite the chaos surrounding them. “I don’t mean to be an ass, and it’s not really the time, but… why are you so scared of spiders?”

Annabeth’s gaze swung toward him, fiery and furious for a moment, before panic replaced the anger. Her chest heaved, and her hands twitched near her knives. “Arachne,” she whispered, voice shaking. “She—she’s the mother of all spiders, and her children… they don’t like children of Athena. I—I’ve been attacked by spiders for years and… and I’m not a fan.” Her words were jagged, trembling, but Percy could hear the raw terror behind them.

Percy stepped closer, trying to anchor her panic. “Okay, okay, I got it. These are just machines, not spiders. Try and think about it like that.”

“Don’t be patronizing, Jackson,” Annabeth shot back venomously, eyes narrowing even as her body trembled.

“I’m not,” Percy said, keeping his tone steady. “But you’re the smartest, most logical person I know. This isn’t you. There are no spiders—just robots. Bronze, metal, wires. They can’t hurt you the way real spiders can.”

Her breathing slowed slightly, though the tightness in her chest remained. It probably wasn’t the best strategy—telling Annabeth she was essentially delusional—but it was the only thing Percy could think of in the moment. And, somehow, with Annabeth, logic was a lifeline. Her mind grasped onto reasoning like a rope.

“Yeah, yeah… okay… power source,” she muttered, her voice trembling but steadying. She began scanning the crumbling park with renewed focus, eyes darting from one potential hiding place to another.

Percy squinted at the approaching mechanical horde, their clinking legs echoing unnervingly. “It would need to be somewhere that Ares—or Aphrodite—wouldn’t think to look, right?” he offered.

Annabeth nodded sharply. “Exactly. Out of sight. Camouflaged. Cleverly hidden.” Her hands brushed against the railings and debris as she surveyed the ruined park, her logical mind already piecing together the possibilities.

The spiders were closing in, the sound of their legs clattering against concrete and metal intensifying. Percy could hear the fear creeping into her tone, but Annabeth didn’t falter. She took a deep breath and spoke firmly. “Split up. I’ll find the power source, you get the shield. We meet back at the entrance as soon as possible.”

Percy frowned. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea, Wise Girl. You’re not exactly at your—”

Annabeth cut him off with a heated look, one that burned even through the fear and adrenaline. “I know that, Seaweed Brain. That’s why you’re going to get their attention and keep them away from me.”

“Ouch,” Percy muttered under his breath, rubbing his chest where her words metaphorically jabbed him.

Annabeth rolled her eyes and turned, already calculating the next move. “Get over it. We travel counterclockwise through the park. I leave now and cut straight across to begin the search. You… get their attention and take a lap around the park until you grab the shield. If the barrier is down by then, high-tail it to the exit. If not, keep giving them the runaround until I disable it.”

“Seriously, I—”

“Good luck, Jackson,” she interrupted, vaulting off the roof with a grace born of years of training and leaps of logic. She cut through the park like a shadow, jumping the dry remnants of the lazy river and ducking under a bent slide, disappearing behind overgrown weeds and debris.

Percy exhaled and turned to face the mechanical spiders. They were fast, relentless, and unyielding—Celestial Bronze legs clinking against metal and stone. He ran his eyes across the park, looking for anything he could use. Could he even kill these things? They were reinforced, probably enchanted. A few well-aimed swings of Riptide might chip metal, but they’d keep coming.

Then, his mind clicked. Water. They were in a water park after all. Even if the pools were drained, the pipes, drains, and broken fountains were still there. He could flood the area. He could drown the mechanical monsters.

He scanned the surroundings rapidly—pipes snaking along the walls, a tilted ride bucket full of stagnant water, the mangled remains of what had once been a slide splash pool. His heartbeat quickened, adrenaline sharpening his senses.

He pivoted toward the nearest interactive water feature, dodging a snapping mechanical leg. “Okay, okay… think,” he muttered to himself. “Flood it… corral them… and then… kaboom.”

A clatter behind him reminded him that the spiders were adapting, learning his patterns. They were smart, like Ares’ version of battlefield drones. But he had to act. Percy grabbed a length of broken piping, eyes darting to Annabeth’s direction. She was somewhere across the park now, a blur of motion and determination. He had to keep them busy long enough for her to find the power source.

“Come on, Seaweed Brain,” he muttered to himself. “Don’t let a bunch of robo-spiders outsmart you.”

The first spider lunged at him, legs clicking, abdomen arched, cameras focusing. Percy sidestepped, grabbing a valve and twisting. Water hissed and sputtered through the cracked pipes, beginning to pool on the cracked concrete below. He could hear the metallic clatter change—confused, less coordinated. Yes… it was working.

The battle wasn’t over. The spiders were still coming. But Percy could see the first flickers of hope—engineering and logic, used just like Annabeth would. If he could just hold them off a little longer, she’d finish the other half of the plan.

And then maybe, just maybe, they’d make it out alive.

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Annabeth ducked under a low-hanging slide and came up in front of the Head Over Wedgie ride. It looked like a typical water slide, but Annabeth saw at least three loop-de-loop sections and spat people out into a pool from about five meters in the air. No wonder this place was shut down. That hadto be a safety hazard. 

Her head swiveled around, and Annabeth kept her ears open. She couldn’t hear any of the mechanical clink-ing of the spiders, but the thought sent shivers up her spine.

She pursed her lips and eyed the bathrooms. Ares wouldn’t go in the women’s bathroom purely because of lack of consideration, and Aphrodite wouldn’t go in because this place was disgusting. Plus, they were Gods; neither of them had any use for a bathroom, at least not to stay clean or relieve themselves.

As she moved, Annabeth heard a clicking roar, the sound of clacking gears mimicking the warble of some animal cry. Whatever that thing was, it certainly wasn’t a spider, and if the deep pitch was anything to go by, it certainly wasn’t spider-sized either.  

Once she approached the door, she slammed into it, looking to push it open, but found it jammed. “Crap,” She mumbled as she stepped back and raised her right foot, striking out, snapping the wood as her foot went straight through the door, the rest of it not moving. She sighed and rolled her eyes. Of course, this safety hazard of a park would have cheap-ass doors. Annabeth pulled her foot free and began clearing the rubble through the hole so she could enter.

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Percy hopped back and forth on each foot, loosening himself up, taking deep breaths as the mechanical clink clink clink of the spiders grew louder. His mind raced, trying to devise a strategy. The best he could come up with, for now, was to use the flat of Riptide to knock the automata away.

Then a new sound ripped through the air—a low, guttural roar broken by metallic clicks. Percy froze. That wasn’t one of the spiders. Whatever it was, it was big. And it was near the shield.

The dim evening light flickered across the roof, and Percy snapped back to his immediate surroundings. Two mechanical spiders had climbed over the roof’s edge, their bronze abdomens catching the red glow of the sunset. One curled its stinger-like abdomen and shot a thin strand of silk at him. He leapt back just in time, the thread buzzing against his chest. The other lunged, eight mechanical legs splayed like a nightmare version of a face-hugger, reaching for his head.

Percy shoved the mental image of Alien out of his mind and swung the flat of Riptide, hitting the automaton with a loud clang. The robot’s weight surprised him, but he managed to fling it onto the gravel roof, where it bounced and fell to the ground, flailing.

More spiders emerged, and before he knew it, a couple of silken threads latched onto him. He tugged at them, panicking, but the silk was strangely resilient. Exhaling sharply, Percy clenched the strands in both hands, pulling them taut, then swung Riptide down with every ounce of strength he could muster—recalling how Annabeth had shattered the chain at the park entrance. The threads stretched, shivered, and finally split. Percy let them go, dropping to the roof, heart pounding. He couldn’t linger; more threads, more spiders, more chaos would swarm him if he did.

With a deep breath, he vaulted off the roof, clearing the trash cans he had used earlier and landing heavily on the concrete below. Five meters up, just over four meters down—easy. Despite the chaos, a grin tugged at his lips. Getting used to his demigod strength could make this nightmare slightly more manageable.

He darted a look around. About twenty mechanical spiders scuttled toward him, climbing walls and ledges with terrifying agility. “Fuckin’ creeps,” he muttered, tensing as they neared. His eyes flicked around desperately, scanning for water—any water. But the concrete path stretched dry and barren in every direction.

Then Percy felt it faintly through the soles of his shoes: vibrations, deep and uneven, radiating through the ground. Something colossal was moving—whatever had made that roar. He clenched his teeth. One threat at a time, Luke’s voice reminded him. Think, idiot.

The water didn’t need to be visible, Percy realized, mentally reviewing his past encounters with pipes and fountains. He recalled Clarisse in the bathroom, the way water responded under pressure, flowing even when hidden. It was still there. Somewhere. He just had to find it.

Percy was yanked out of his thoughts as a spider launched itself at his head from the moss-covered remains of a Dippin’ Dots stand. “YELP!” he shouted, spinning Riptide like a bat and smacking the spider down onto the concrete. Two of its legs snapped with a metallic crunch, but the automaton didn’t die. It got back up, hobbling awkwardly on six legs, one leg dragging across the ground.

Another thread whistled toward him, slicing the air. Percy ducked instinctively, heart hammering. He pivoted, sprinting across the cracked asphalt. His mind ran over every water source he could remember: the broken lazy river, the tilt of the ride buckets, the abandoned fountains. He had to reach one before the massive threat drew near, before the spiders adapted further.

The roar sounded again, louder now, shaking the ground. Whatever it was, it was closing in—and Percy knew it wouldn’t wait for him to figure things out. He had to move fast, improvise, survive.

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Percy was nearing the remnants of a wave pool ominously named Bikini Bay when a sudden tug in his gut told him he was in the right place. A grin spread across his face, wild with adrenaline. He darted a quick look back at the spiders, all pressing forward, drawn to him like moths to a flame. The water—stagnant, hidden, and trapped within the pipes—called to him, whispering potential.

He sprinted down the shallow incline toward the wave machinery, his boots skimming over cracked concrete and broken tiles. As he ran, he closed his eyes for a moment, ignoring the clicking, scuttling sounds of the approaching mechanical horde. He focused entirely on the trapped water, feeling its pressure, its restrained energy like a coil stretched tight. Just a little push… he thought, and you’ll go.

A few strands of spider silk latched onto him—one, two, five—and Percy grinned. Perfect. They were all within range. Raising his left hand, he waved at them mockingly. “Bye-bye,” he said cheerfully. Then, with a powerful tug from deep in his gut, he released the pent-up energy of the pipes.

A two-meter wave exploded from the grates, roaring like a living thing. Machinery buckled and groaned as the water surged forward, cresting above Percy’s head before smashing down on the mechanical spiders. Bronze legs twisted, bodies clanged, and the automated guardians flailed helplessly in the sudden torrent.

Percy was thrown forward with the wave, rolling with the force, clinging to debris, feeling the thrill of momentum and danger mingling. Sparks shot from the spiders as their batteries discharged into the water, sending tiny shocks rippling across Percy’s skin. It was like rubbing a balloon on his hair: tingles prickling his arms and legs, his hair standing on end, and though it didn’t make sense underwater, he couldn’t help but laugh.

As the water settled into a half-filled pool, Percy hauled himself out, soaked and panting, and looked back at the carnage he’d wrought. Twenty-one spiders lay twitching at the bottom, incapacitated, with the five strands that had latched onto him still trailing. With a few precise swings of Riptide, he cut the remaining threads and tossed them aside, feeling the burst of energy from the water empowering him in a way that made him grin despite the chaos.

Now… the shield. He scanned the park, heart hammering. Somewhere in the crumbling, vine-choked ruins lay the prize, and he had to move fast.

Then came the unmistakable sound—a massive, mechanical roar that reverberated through the earth itself. Percy’s mouth went dry. The vibrations carried a weight that made him stagger slightly with each step. Farther away than before, but he knew—it had found Annabeth.

“Please… please let her be alright,” he murmured under his breath, pushing himself harder. The concrete path cracked beneath his pounding feet as he sprinted toward the source of the vibrations, adrenaline sharpening every sense. Each breath was ragged, each glance flicked to another approaching threat—but Percy didn’t slow. Not now. Not when Annabeth might be in danger.

The park stretched around him like a broken maze of slides, pools, and twisted metal, shadows growing longer with the setting sun. And somewhere in the chaos, the shield awaited. But first… he had to reach her.

Chapter Text

Grover tried desperately to keep his head up, not meeting the God’s eyes but not bowing into his seat either. Ares sat across from him, arms crossed, radiating a pressure that felt like it could push him through the floor. The aura of rage was there, the familiar heat of war—but something was wrong. The air trembled around the god, twitching like a living thing.

He started clawing at his thighs, nails scraping against micromail, when Ares spoke. “So, goat,” he said, voice low, jagged, like gravel sliding across metal. “Why did the sea-scum pick you for this quest?”

Grover looked up. The god was eating—French fries drenched in ketchup—but his motions were strange. He chewed mechanically, swallowed, and then froze mid-bite, staring past Grover, tilting his head like he was listening to a voice only he could hear. His grin twitched at odd angles, too wide, too sudden, and his eyes glowed faintly in a rhythm that made Grover’s skin crawl.

“Percy is my friend, Lord Ares,” Grover said, trying to sound steady.

Ares laughed—but it skipped, cracked, and rattled like a shutter in a storm. His fist slammed the table, rattling plates and silverware. Then his head jerked violently to one side, teeth bared, eyes flicking as though something invisible was tugging at him.

Grover’s stomach sank. He had never seen a god act like this.

“Ánax… I am… Ánax,” Ares muttered under his breath, voice breaking, twisting, almost like he was talking to himself. “I… I command myself…”

Grover froze, not knowing what to do. The words sounded wrong—the usual confidence, the feral swagger, was fractured. Ares twitched, muttering, shaking his head, his grin jerking into something manic.

“Why… are you helping us… if you side with Zeus?” Grover asked cautiously, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ares snapped his head toward him, eyes flaring red. “For the game, goat!” His voice cracked and jumped, like two tones fighting to come out at once. “The bloody contest… war… always war…” He paused, shaking, muttering something under his breath Grover couldn’t hear. Then his grin returned, but it was off—too sharp, too fast, like the mask of a god stretched over something else entirely.

Grover’s heart hammered. He didn’t understand what was happening. Ares was still Ares—the god of war, massive, bloody, terrifying—but something beneath the surface had shifted. Something crazy.

Ares went back to shoving fries into his mouth, muttering occasionally, eyes flicking like he was seeing more than Grover could, while Grover sat frozen, unsure if the god in front of him was the same being he’d always known—or if he had stepped into the middle of someone else’s mind entirely.

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The smoke cleared enough for Annabeth to see one of the automaton dragon's massive foreclaws land on a fallen chunk of concrete and pulverize it underfoot. The click and clank of hundreds of gears emanated from the creature as its glowing red eyes on the sides of its arrow-shaped head focused on Annabeth. A low, clicking growl rose in its throat as a red light began to glow from between its hexagonal scales, the subtle sound of vacuums and fans drawing in air in mimicry of a deep breath mixing with the whirr-s as various motors pressed the smoking creature forward.

Annabeth stared her opponent down, careful to note the strengths and weaknesses. The creature was stocky, with thick, meaty limbs. The creature's hexagonal scales overlapped, with at least two layers of the shapes, as the creature moved. Annabeth watched as the hexagonal scales shifted, moving organically in and out as if they were on pistons designed to be depressed. The bony fingers of the dragon's wings were covered in much the same scales as the rest of its body, the space between stretched with sheets of woven Celestial Bronze thread. 

The dragon took a step and another, moving faster. Annabeth tensed as her eyes flicked over its form. This was an automaton, which meant, in part, it was magical. Though all the parts needed to work in the intended fashion, there was no code here. Instead, the shape of the automaton informed its behavior, build a dragon, and you'll get a dragon. That was good in the sense that Annabeth had trained to fight dragons live ones, and this machine would behave similarly, but this thing wouldn't have the same weaknesses. Hephaestus would have seen to that. The glowing eyes were probably a distraction, the actual visual sensors somewhere else, likely hidden by the scales, or else this thing functioned using some other form of "sight." Not infrared, since it breathed fire, sonar perhaps. The scales had been fitted to resist one of the main weaknesses of dragons, gaps in their armor. In the wild, the creatures dragged their bodies over the ground when nesting, rubbed their bellies on the harder backs of other dragons when mating, or lost scales there when incubating eggs. That weakness was lost here, so no going for the heart or belly. 

The dragon pulled up short, the glow in its chest rising before flames shot out of its head. Annabeth dove to the right, tucking into a roll and coming up behind a small stone wall as the white-hot beam of fire destroyed where she had been. Peeking out she saw that the dragon hadn't even opened its mouth, instead the flames had poured out from the jagged line of the creature's closed mouth, as well as the gaps in the scales around. 

Despite everything, Annabeth couldn’t help but smile. It was a clever design—too clever—and now she understood why Ares had sent them here. Hephaestus must’ve built this automaton for the sole purpose of humiliating him: a monster that couldn’t be killed, no matter how strong you were. Annabeth had a few theories about how Hephaestus had made it invincible… and zero ideas on how to bypass those safeguards.

She exhaled sharply and sprang to her feet. Hugging the curve of the wall, she sprinted forward just as the dragon turned toward her. Its roar split the air, vibrating through every scale as sound waves rippled outward in a deafening shockwave. Annabeth staggered, clapping her palms over her ears. Should’ve brought earplugs, she thought grimly, as the creature reared up, claws flashing faster than her eyes could track.

She dove beneath the first strike, rolled, and came up under the second. Heart hammering, she dashed to its right hind leg, inhaled, and brought the pommel of her kopis down hard. The hexagonal scales sank inward with a hiss of compressed air.

Then the dragon lurched, twisting to crush her beneath its massive body. The scales suddenly snapped back into place, releasing an explosive burst that sent Annabeth hurtling backward. Her teeth clacked together as she tucked her body midair, rolling on impact until she skidded to a stop, breath ragged, palms scraped raw.

When she lifted her gaze, the dragon’s wings were rising again, its belly glowing red with building fire. Her brief test had confirmed it: the harder she hit, the harder it hit back.

Which meant brute force wouldn’t win this fight. She needed a new plan.

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Ash swirled around Percy as he held out Riptide, the celestial bronze blade casting a dim, fading glow through the thick haze. The ground trembled beneath his feet with every thunderous step of whatever creature prowled nearby. The air filled with mechanical clicks and distorted, warbling roars that made his ears ring—followed by the crash of destruction and the flare of fire that briefly illuminated the smoke-choked air.

“Annabeth!” Percy shouted, stumbling as another tremor threw him off balance.

For a moment, only the echo of his voice answered him. Then Annabeth’s voice flickered in his mind, faint but steady. “Jackson, where are the— the spiders?”

“Dead,” he said, grimacing. “Wait, can robots— never mind. They’re dead. I drowned them in the wave pool.”

There was a brief silence—he could almost imagine Annabeth exhaling in relief—before she spoke again. “I heard you, but it was faint. Where are you?”

Percy pressed his forearm to his face, shielding his mouth and nose as he pushed forward into the smoke. “No idea,” he muttered. “Can’t see a thing. I’m following the stomping thing—uh, speaking of, what is it?”

“It’s a—” Annabeth started, but her words were cut short by another roar of fire somewhere deeper in the smoke, the sound rumbling through the ground like an approaching storm.

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Annabeth dove aside as a column of fire roared past, the heat licking at her heels. Even with the Red Feather’s protection, she didn’t want to test how far that resistance went—flames like that would scorch her clothes and turn her micromail into a searing brand against her skin.

Shit.

She vaulted over a toppled pretzel cart, boots clanging against the metal as she skidded across it and hit the ground running again, sprinting toward the maze of slides near the waterpark’s center.

“Annabeth?” Percy’s voice came through their link, tight with panic.

“I’m fine,” she panted, ducking under a support beam. “Just a little scorched. It’s a dragon—an automaton. Physical attacks are useless; the scales reflect force. It breathes fire and it’s fast. Really fast.”

The ground trembled behind her. Her Sense flared—a sharp, instinctive jolt—and she threw herself left, tucking into a roll beneath one of the slides. A second later, a clawed foot slammed into the spot she’d been, concrete splintering outward in jagged cracks that raced between her boots as she scrambled upright.

No time to think. She sprinted to the edge of the lazy river and jumped, clearing the four-meter gap in a single breath.

“Okay, okay—what do we do?” Percy’s voice followed, desperate but focused.

Annabeth forced herself to steady her breathing as she ran. Focus. She let her mind drift, her body moving on instinct as her consciousness slipped free. The familiar pull yanked downward—and suddenly, she was above the waterpark, her vision gliding through the smoky air.

It was always strange, even after so much training. Her body still moved with perfect precision, vaulting terraces, landing on a trash can, dropping to the ground below—but now she watched it all from above, like an observer watching herself from a drone’s view, the details too small to see yet somehow perfectly felt.

“We regroup first,” she said aloud, scanning the chaos from her higher vantage point. She searched for Percy’s telltale glow—Riptide’s bronze shimmer cutting through the haze. Below her, the dragon plowed forward, a mass of metal and fury, its footsteps hammering the ground as it melted through the ice-blue curve of the Penguin Plunge slide. Plastic sagged, steel screamed, and smoke billowed upward, glowing red in the firelight.

That was when Annabeth had her idea. A brilliant idea, if she said so herself; passing an ice cream stand, she slashed with her kopis, cutting the aluminum umbrella tube and beginning to work furiously as she ran, cutting up the aluminum into workable pieces before running over to a nearby concrete wall surrounding an overgrown flower bed. Dumping the pieces atop the knee-height surface, she knelt and pulled a few bronze cylinders from her pockets, what little of Charlie's toys she had on her when Ares had arrived. If only I had my backpack.

Yanking two open, she poured the powders inside onto the concrete surface and then shaved the aluminum into each cylinder with her kopis, the Celestial Bronze easily able to scrape and cut the lesser metal. It took a couple of minutes, but thankfully, Annabeth had lost the dragon in the smoke, so by the time she added some of the powders back and recapped the cylinders, she had been watching as the dragon rampaged through the smoke. Suddenly, to the north, from her view above, Annabeth caught sight of a small warm glow in the smoke, moving toward her and the dragon. "I can see Riptide's glow, turn left a bit and keep going, I'll see you in a minute." She ordered. 

"Sir, yes-" His thoughts began to bark but he pulled up short. "Um, I'll see you there," finished lamely and despite the situation Annabeth smirked, rushing toward some exposed and rusted rebar in the wreckage of the dragon's crashing path. 

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Annabeth came out of the smoke and Percy nearly jumped out of his skin. Her storm-grey eyes were milk-white now, sightless and distant, but the familiar curl at her mouth made it unmistakably her.

“Evening, Seaweed Brain,” she said in his head, the words edged with amusement.

“Wise Girl. So—what’s the plan?” Percy sent back, then added the urgent question.

Annabeth cocked her head, studying the ruined park ahead as if she could map it blind. “We need to take out one of its primary systems—the Arcane Engine, main servos, something vital. With automatons, the guts aren’t where you expect if the smith knew what he was doing. Hephaestus knew. We can’t use normal dragon-fighting tricks. It doesn’t breathe fire through a maw; the heat comes through the scales, and there’s no soft belly to aim for.”

“So—what’s the move?” Percy pressed.

“Head for the Tunnel of Love. Grab Ares’s shield. It should stand up to the flames long enough for us to bait the thing into the ride.”

“What?” Percy said, incredulous.

Annabeth’s lips twitched. “Then we collapse the tunnel on top of it.”

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Getting the dragon to chase them had been the easy part. Staying ahead of it while sprinting toward the Tunnel of Love was another story entirely.

Percy dove into a roll, momentum boosted by Annabeth’s shove as a wall of fire screamed over their heads. The blast’s heat tore at his clothes and singed his arm hairs before he hit the ground, rolled, and came up running again—heart hammering, lungs burning.

“Shit—fucking—god—damn!” Percy yelled between breaths. “Are we really sure about this, Annabeth?!”he projected through their link, his thoughts almost drowned out by the mechanical dragon’s roaring pursuit. Each step behind them came with an explosion of sound and fire that shook the ground like thunder.

“Of course not! There’s always a margin for error—”

“Just tell me it’ll work!” Percy cut in sharply, ducking under a spray of molten debris. Amid the chaos, he could swear he heard her laugh—soft, maddeningly calm, like she wasn’t sprinting for her life.

“Jump that hedge!” Annabeth ordered, pointing ahead. A wall of overgrown shrubs loomed in front of them, nearly three meters tall. “The line for the Tunnel of Love is on the other side.”

“I can’t—”

“You’ll have to.”

Percy clenched his jaw, adrenaline flooding his system. His Sense spiked—a hot jolt racing up the back of his neck—and without thinking, he poured on the speed. The air behind him turned molten as another blast of flame chased his heels.

“Adrenaline, don’t fail me now!” he shouted, and leapt.

Annabeth, several meters ahead, vaulted cleanly over the hedge. Her form was effortless—arms out for balance, landing silent and sure before vanishing behind the overgrown wall of greenery.

Percy, on the other hand, was less graceful. He sucked in a breath and let out something between a battle cry and a terrified squeal, throwing everything he had into his legs. The world blurred beneath him as he launched himself forward—fast, powerful… and way too low.

“Not the—” he started, but his protest ended with a spectacular crash.

He hit the hedge full-force, exploding through it in a shower of leaves and twigs before bursting out the other side into a tangle of metal railings. “Gahh!” he yelled as gravity yanked him down face-first. A railing met him halfway, slamming into his shoulder with a screech of bending steel before he ricocheted off and skidded across the cracked concrete. Sparks flew from the micromail under his shredded shirt, saving him from a truly miserable case of road rash.

Thank the gods for micromail, he thought bitterly, coughing as smoke and dirt filled his nose.

Before he could even stand, Annabeth’s voice cut into his mind. “Hell of a time to get that to work. Let’s go, Seaweed Brain.”

Percy groaned, pushing himself upright, chest heaving. Behind him, the dragon’s roar ripped through the air as it burst through the hedge like it was paper. The ground quaked. Percy didn’t wait—he bolted.

Annabeth was already at the beached boat where the shield had landed. She grabbed Ares’s shield, slung it onto her arm, and stuffed the matching scarf into an already overstuffed pocket. “Go! Go! Go!”she shouted through their link.

Percy didn’t need to be told twice. He sprinted toward the Tunnel of Love, smoke swirling around him, the air vibrating with mechanical fury.

As they ran, Annabeth drew the red-gemmed knife from her back. The folded feathers along the hilt unfurled, gleaming faintly before she lined up a throw and let it fly. Percy didn’t look back—but he feltthe impact as the knife struck between his shoulder blades. The feathers snapped open, wrapping across his back like living armor.

“Fire protection,” Annabeth explained, right as Percy reached the tunnel entrance and plunged into the darkness. Riptide’s bronze light swung wildly with every stride, casting ghostly reflections on the damp concrete walls.

“Floor!” Annabeth warned.

Percy’s Sense flared a split-second later, and he dove flat. A torrent of fire blasted through the tunnel, heat rippling over him like a living thing. He stayed low, crawling until the flames died away, then scrambled back to his feet and kept running.

Something prickled at the edge of his awareness—a familiar pull, cool and comforting. He grinned through his exhaustion. “Water. There’s a bunch of it ahead. And above. Feels like there’s standing water on the roof or something.”

“Perfect,” Annabeth’s voice replied, sharp and sure. “Tell me when we’re past it, then slow down. On my mark, pull down. Got it?”

Percy vaulted over a crumbling swan boat, boots splashing through shallow puddles as he tore past melted animatronics and moldy “romantic” murals. “Not much of a choice,” he shot back, lungs burning. “What’s the backup plan?”

“Bait the thing into one of the support columns. This place is already-“ Annabeth cut off as there was a massive crash, part of the tunnel behind them collapsing. Percy dared a look back to see the automaton dragon pulling its hindquarters and tail out of the rubble before lumbering after them, a red glow rising from between its scales, casting the space in a blood-red light. 

Quickly looking upward, Percy could see a dripping, sagging section of the ceiling, illuminated by the red glow of the dragon, and could feel the water above. Percy projected as they passed under the section, “We just passed the spot. The rest of the water is in a pool ahead. I think this tunnel drops off into the rest of the ride.”

“Slow,” Annabeth ordered, and their sprint dropped to a strained jog. Behind them, the dragon’s thunderous footfalls grew louder—closer—shaking the crumbling tunnel with every step.

Annabeth stumbled deliberately, and Percy, already half out of breath, didn’t even have to fake his gasping. He shot her a questioning look as she fished a few small metal cylinders from her belt—Charlie’s handiwork—and let them roll to the ground, their faint blue indicators blinking in sequence before disappearing into the shadows.

The dragon’s weight sent tremors through the structure. Dust sifted down from above. Cracks split the concrete as corroded beams creaked and shuddered loose.

“On my mark,” Annabeth said, her mental tone razor-sharp. “Then run like hell.”

Percy nodded, shifting his grip on Riptide. He reached for the pull of the water above, the familiar tug deep in his gut tightening into focus. “I think I’ve got it,” he muttered aloud, his voice echoing faintly in the tunnel.

“Three,” Annabeth began, just as the dragon bellowed again, its roar shaking the air itself. The creature lowered its arrow-shaped head, picking up speed into a lumbering charge. Metal screamed overhead as old supports tore loose and clanged off the creature’s hexagonal scales—pressing inward, then springing back with concussive force.

“Isn’t that gonna be a problem?” Percy asked, glancing nervously upward.

“Not this time,” Annabeth said with a small, dangerous smile. She drew her other knife—the one with the blue gem—and rolled her shoulders, steady behind Ares’s shield. “Two.”

The red glow inside the dragon’s chest dimmed briefly as it inhaled, gathering heat for another blast. Annabeth planted her feet and crouched low, shield raised. “One. Behind the shield!”

Percy dove beside her, muscles tensing. He reached for the water, the tug pulling painfully at his core.

The dragon’s snout erupted with a blinding beam of white-hot fire—light so bright it turned the world silver.

“Now!” Annabeth shouted.

Percy yanked downward. The roof gave way with a wet, grinding shriek as tons of filthy water and debris came crashing down. Rusted beams, shattered concrete, and reeking pond water collapsed in a single roaring torrent, slamming onto the dragon’s head. The automaton’s scales compressed under the impact before springing outward again, trying to repel the force—but there was too much.

The beast’s head slammed to the ground, pinned beneath the weight as fire met water, erupting into a choking cloud of steam and ash.

And then Annabeth threw.

Her blue-gemmed knife spun through the mist, end over end, until it vanished into the fog and—

crack!

Lightning flared. The entire tunnel lit up in a blinding bloom of blue-white electricity that danced through the air, arcing across metal, water, and vapor. The steam cloud exploded into a web of sparking light as the dragon convulsed beneath the debris, its roar glitching, fragmenting into a static-filled shriek.

Percy barely saw the red eyes flicker once before Annabeth grabbed him by the collar and yanked his head down behind the shield.

The world turned white—then exploded.

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It had been a gamble—one of Annabeth’s bigger ones—but it had paid off spectacularly.

This entire park was a deathtrap of corroded metal and half-rotted structures. Erosion, neglect, and time had turned it into a perfect chemical cocktail. She’d noticed it as they ran—the exposed rebar flaking into rust, the shattered aluminum beams littering the ground, the clouds of metallic dust kicked into the air by the dragon’s rampage. All it had needed was the right combination of heat, fuel, and a spark.

Her Blue Feather had provided the spark.

By channeling its static charge into the cloud of steam Percy had created, she’d turned the air around the dragon into a massive conductor. The creature had been stunned as lightning laced through it, slowing its movements just long enough for the volatile mixture of rust, aluminum, and fire-gas to ignite. One spark, and the entire waterpark had become a fusion of thermite, dust fire, and magical detonation.

When the first explosion cleared, Annabeth staggered upright, coughing, and immediately started running. She didn’t need her Sense to tell her it wasn’t over. Her ears rang, her head pounded, but she still managed to push her thoughts outward.

“Move, Seaweed Brain, that won’t be the only—”

The second explosion cut her off.

This one wasn’t fiery—it was forceful. A pressure wave of magic and compressed energy blasted outward as the automaton’s scales, overloaded from the previous detonation, snapped back with cataclysmic force.

Annabeth was thrown like a ragdoll. Percy too. They hurtled through the air, debris and steam tumbling with them. For an instant, through the haze and chaos, she glimpsed the dragon’s remains—its eyes flaring crimson, brighter than ever, magic pulsing from it in erratic, violent waves.

Her analytical mind clicked through the data even as she spun helplessly through the air. The first blast fried its systems. The second overloaded the motors. That energy release—it’s going to blow again.

“PERCY!” she shouted aloud, but her words were lost in the roar of collapsing metal.

They hit the drop in the ride’s canal, crashing into the stagnant water below with twin splashes.

“Swim! Down!” she commanded, forcing her thoughts through the ringing in her skull.

She gulped one last breath and dove. Percy’s hand found her arm a second later, and the two of them shot downward, propelled by a current of water far stronger than any human effort. The darkness pressed around them, the water thick with silt and debris.

Her lungs screamed as she held her breath, the water vibrating around her as the structure above began to crumble. Then came the blast—a concussive force that tore through the tunnel, slamming into her chest and twisting her insides like a fist. A surge of superheated water rolled past, followed by a bloom of flame and shattered light from above.

“Up—now! I can’t hold it much longer!” she gasped into his mind.

Percy responded with a thumbs-up, face grim, and pushed them upward with a surge of current. They broke the surface in an explosion of water and steam.

Annabeth coughed violently, dragging in a desperate gulp of air as Percy steered them toward a nearby maintenance catwalk. He caught her wrist, guiding her to the ladder before hauling himself up—bone dry, of course—and then reached down to help her dripping, exhausted form.

She managed a weak glare as she clung to his hand, breathless and trembling. “No fair, Seaweed Brain,” she panted, voice hoarse, though her smile was soft and dazed. “You don’t even get wetanymore.”

Percy let out a dry laugh as he hauled her up out of the water and put a palm to her back. “I wonder if I can…” he trailed off momentarily before a bunch of the water on her peeled off of her front and flew back into the pool below. She wasn’t completely dry, but certainly not a dripping mess now.

“You’re getting good at that.” She commented, and Percy gave her a lopsided grin in the semi-darkness, now slightly illuminated by dusk coming through the recently opened ceiling.

“Says you. You literally just made bombs while running from a dragon and lured it into a trap that made it explode while we were what, thirty feet away, and we fucking survived?” He laughed nervously, giddily, “I think you get the style points today.”

Annabeth huffed out a laugh. “Let’s go; we’re running out of time.” She checked her watch, which had stopped, probably rattled in the explosion. For not the first time, she cursed her magic powers for preventing her from using a digital watch. “My watch says seven twenty-six when it stopped. Sunset is in about an hour. We need to move.”

Chapter Text

Not even Annabeth’s cool-headed words could stop Percy from boiling over. That bastard—he had sent them straight into danger, fully aware the spiders would be there. Fully aware of Annabeth’s arachnophobia. How the hell had he known about that?

“Sorry to bring this up,” Percy said, forcing his mind away from Ares, “but… you mentioned Arachne doesn’t like you or your siblings, right? Is… arachnophobia… a common thing for you guys?”

Annabeth was quiet for a beat before answering. “All of Athena’s children have it. After our mother cursed Arachne and turned her into the mother of all spiders, the creatures became… hostile toward us. They won’t attack if we’re alone, b-but…” She shivered. “They’ll go out of their way to bite us—or worse. I’ve gotten hundreds, maybe thousands of spider bites over my life.”

Percy felt a little queasy. “Okay… that makes sense. Sorry for bringing it up.”

“It’s irrational. A weakness,” Annabeth said bitterly. “I can squish them with a finger.”

Percy shrugged. “That doesn’t make the fear any less real. It doesn’t make you weak for feeling it.” He tried to offer her comfort where he hadn’t in the heat of battle.

Annabeth didn’t reply, and Percy’s mind drifted. He thought of his own fears—or the lack of them. During the fight with the spiders, then the dragon, he hadn’t once worried about dying. Not a single internal scream of I’m gonna die. Sure, he’d been scared, but not of death—of pain.

He frowned. He didn’t know whether that was good or bad. It reminded him of Gabe—not the abuse itself, but the numbness it had bred. Last time he went home, he hadn’t been afraid of the man at all. The pain, the hurt Gabe had inflicted… it felt small, insignificant. Even before the Minotaur. Even before all this.

He was starting to feel numb. To pain. To death. Hell, all it had taken was getting tossed into that pool in the Tunnel of Love, and suddenly he was right as rain again.

His thoughts turned back to Ares as they approached the diner the God was standing outside with Grover, leaning against a motorcycle painted with skulls covered in gore and blood. As they grew closer, however, Percy realized that it wasn't a paint job. He swallowed a nauseous lump in his throat. He looked over toward Grover, making sure he was okay.

"Well, well, well, kiddies, you made it back alive," Ares sneered. "I'm impressed. Hoped that cripple's toys would leave you with a few scars at least, make things interesting."

"You sent us there to die," Percy spat, and Ares's bloody, sharp-toothed smile widened.

"Well now, that would've been amusing, but no, I happen to like my shield."

Percy threw it at Ares from across the parking lot like a frisbee. The God reached out and grabbed the shield by its edge, the Celestial Bronze morphing into a bulletproof vest that Ares swung over his torso before donning his leather jacket once more. 

"The deal, then fuck off," Percy snarled, and Ares's eyes narrowed. The magic rolling off of the God incited even more anger from Percy. Fuck, he wanted to beat the ever-loving shit out of him. He wanted to break Ares's bones, tear open his flesh, pull out his heart. 

"Careful, kid. You just got off of my list, don't go jumping back on it." Ares's snapped.

"You can write? I'm impressed," Percy shot back, his left hand curling into a fist, the right one going for Riptide in his pocket.

"Your mommy must be so proud,"

Ares's smoking eyes burned brighter, hand going to one of the daggers on his belt. "At least mine's still breathing." He sneered back.

A switch flipped in Percy's head, and he brought out Riptide, flicking off the cap and revealing the sword, the ground beneath his feet beginning to tremble. At that exact moment, Annabeth's voice re-entered his mind. "Cool it, Seaweed Brain." She curtly cautioned, and with a twitch of distaste, Percy let his body relax. Looking toward her out of the corner of his eye, Percy saw she was clenching her jaw, but she gave him a subtle nod.

Percy looked back toward Ares and saw a woman, one of the waitresses, take a picture of them on her smartphone through the diner window. Shit. That meant cops. Ares looked on the edge of violence now, but Percy kept his cool, or at least kept himself from trying to murder the piece of human- or- whatever- garbage. 

Ares’s shoulders stiffened for a fraction of a second before he spoke again, his voice measured, some of the fire leaving his gaze. “Your ride,” he said, pointing toward a semi-truck labeled KINDNESS INTERNATIONAL: HUMANE ZOO TRANSPORT on the side. “It stops once in Las Vegas before heading straight to Los Angeles.”

Without another word, Ares swung onto his gore-cycle, revved the engine, and shot into oncoming traffic, weaving between cars with impossible precision before streaking into a blur of flames and vanishing.

“Let’s go. Quick.” Annabeth hissed, her eyes on the woman in the diner window, now absorbed in a phone call. “We need to stay out of sight.”

Percy nodded as Grover trotted over. “W-what happened?” he asked, nerves making his words stutter.

“The shield was trapped. Hephaestus left… spider robots, a magic wall, and a damn dragon. They were trying to catch Ares and Aphrodite. We think.” Percy explained.

“Oh… Annabeth, a-are you—”

“I’m fine, Grover,” she cut him off, voice tight. She glanced once more at the woman before heading around the side of the restaurant toward the truck. “Out of her line of sight. Now get in.”

Percy followed, hopping into the truck as Annabeth opened the door. Inside, he caught sight of two men in work clothes moving toward the diner’s exit.

“Zoo express, huh?” Grover muttered, wrinkling his nose.

“Go! Go! Go!” Percy hissed, and they slammed the door shut before the men could see them.

The smell hit Percy immediately—a mixture of wet animal and the world’s largest pan of kitty litter. He gagged, pressing a hand over his mouth. The trailer was dim, almost pitch-black in Riptide’s faint glow, but what little he could see was enough to make his stomach churn.

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Filthy metal cages lined the trailer from wall to wall, each one housing creatures who seemed to have been forgotten by the world. An albino lion, its fur dull and matted with dust, paced back and forth on soiled blankets, letting out low, frustrated growls. A zebra with a mane knotted and tangled with chewing gum stared blankly at the walls, its hooves clinking against the metal floor. And a strange antelope-like creature—Annabeth guessed a blackbuck or an Indian antelope—huddled in damp straw, a silver balloon tied awkwardly to one horn with “Over the Hill” printed in block letters. The smell of sweat, manure, and stale food hit them immediately.

The lion’s cage held a half-empty bag of turnips, while the zebra and blackbuck had been given styrofoam trays of ground meat. The meat looked dried out, the straw damp and sour. The lion’s ribs were visible beneath its pale fur, and flies buzzed around its face relentlessly. Annabeth wrinkled her nose in disgust, her stomach twisting at the thought of the drivers leaving them like this.

“This is… kindness?” Grover hissed, horror in his voice. Annabeth didn’t need to answer; the evidence was all around them.

Grover’s hand drifted toward the twig-club tucked in his backpack. Annabeth spun to him sharply.

“Woah, dude, we can’t just clobber them—they need to drive us!” Percy said first, stepping between Grover and the cages, trying to calm their satyr friend. But Grover’s glare was murderous, his jaw tight, eyes dark with barely contained fury.

“Why not?!” Grover shot back, his usual stutter gone as his anger took over. “It’s after sundown! This is the perfect time to drive illegally! Look at what they’re doing to these poor creatures! We can’t just let them get away with this!” His voice shook with righteous outrage, and Annabeth could hear the raw frustration and passion behind every word. “I vote we kick the crap out of them and steal the truck!”

Annabeth stayed calm, though her stomach churned at the thought of fighting these men inside the trailer. “Grover… can you drive a semi?” she asked evenly.

Grover hesitated, jaw tight, then slowly shook his head. His fingers curled around the strap of his backpack, returning the twig-club with a reluctant sigh.

Annabeth nodded, a plan forming in her mind. “We’ll get justice once we’re in Los Angeles. Until then, let’s just make sure the animals are safe.” Grover’s shoulders sagged a fraction, and he nodded, his breathing slowing. His hands relaxed as he fell in line behind her, his voice softening to gentle baa-s and bleats, communicating with the creatures. Slowly, the tension in the zebra’s body eased, the blackbuck lifted its head slightly, and even the lion’s growls quieted to low, uncertain murmurs.

Annabeth reached through the bars of the blackbuck’s cage and carefully removed the styrofoam tray of meat. Percy mirrored her movements with the zebra’s tray, his face drawn and sad as he watched the animals. She glanced over his shoulder at the zebra, the sticky gum tangled in its mane. “Should I cut the gum out?” she asked softly, her hands hovering over the mess of hair.

Percy shrugged, eyes still focused on the animal. “Probably not while it’s moving,” he murmured—but his words barely reached her before the truck shuddered. The trailer jolted, the metal floor vibrating beneath their feet, making straw and a few loose pieces of trash slide across the floor.

Percy’s head snapped around, wide eyes catching every subtle sound outside the cage bars. “Something’s happening!” he hissed, crouching low as the truck lurched forward. Annabeth steadied herself against the wall of the trailer, gripping the bars as she tried to keep her balance, heart hammering.

Grover moved closer to the animals, his voice low and soothing. “Easy, easy… we’ll be okay,” he murmured, coaxing each creature into calmness as the trailer began to pick up speed. Annabeth glanced at Percy, saw the tense set of his shoulders, and realized the fear in his eyes wasn’t just for himself—it was for them all, trapped together in the swaying, reeking metal cage hurtling through the night.

And then, the sound of the engine deepened, a low, thrumming roar that made their stomachs vibrate with the truck’s power. The balloon on the blackbuck’s horn bobbed wildly, the string whipping back and forth, and for a terrifying instant, it felt like everything—Percy, Annabeth, Grover, and the animals—could tumble and crash at any moment.

Percy’s hand shot to the zebra’s mane, gently trying to keep it still. “We’re okay,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, though his eyes darted toward the front of the trailer. Somewhere out there, the drivers were still alive, still unaware of their stowaways—but how long could that last?

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“Thank you, my lord, for your help,” the zebra said. Despite its mouth never moving, Percy was certain it had spoken.

“What the fuckkk…” he murmured under his breath, then louder, “Um… why can I hear what you’re saying, Mr. Zebra?”

He paused, thinking it over. The speech didn’t produce sound in the usual sense. It wasn’t male or female, not a voice he could pin down—but somehow, he was sure the horse was male. How did that even work?

“Your father, Lord Poseidon, is the Lord of Horses, our creator and patron. All equines are yours to command, my lord,” the zebra explained. “Might I inquire as to your name, my lord? It has been many winters since a demigod child of the Horse Lord has been seen.”

“Oh… um,” Percy began, hesitating. Then he tried something. Mimicking what he had done with Annabeth’s telepathic link, he focused his words outward. “I’m Percy. Percy Jackson. It’s… nice to meet you—”

The zebra jerked its head back, panic flickering in its dark eyes.

“My lord, my lord, please!” it nearly wailed. Percy froze, frowning. “I—I can understand human language just fine. You don’t need a link to me!”

“Oh… shit, I’m sorry,” Percy said quickly. The zebra’s tense posture relaxed immediately.

“Now, might I ask what your name is?” Percy tried again, keeping his voice gentle.

“Uhuru, my lord,” the zebra replied, tossing his head ruefully. “It means Freedom… and yet…” His expression—or as much of it as a zebra could have—was derisive.

Percy’s jaw set. “We’ll get you out of here. We’ll find a way,” he promised. Uhuru lowered his head in quiet gratitude.

“Thank you, my lord, for your kindness,” the zebra murmured again.

“Maybe don’t call me ‘lord,’ if you don’t mind,” Percy said, trying to laugh it off. “I’m still… new to this whole demigod thing. Percy is fine.”

“Mr. Jackson?” Uhuru asked hopefully, ears flicking.

Percy rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Yeah, that’s a little better.”

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By the time they’d finished sorting the animals’ food, and Percy had mostly recovered from the shock of realizing he could actually talk to horses, Annabeth was spent. Four days of non-stop chaos had drained her energy to the very bottom of the tank. Grover had settled beside the blackbuck, curling around the anxious animal, which finally seemed safe enough to rest.

Percy collapsed beside her, letting his head fall back against the feed bags. His eyes drooped as his muscles relaxed for the first time in what felt like days. Annabeth gave him a rueful smile, silently acknowledging her own exhaustion, and held out a package of double-stuff Oreos.

“Oreo?” she offered.

Percy shook his head slowly. “No sugar. Need sleep.”

Annabeth nodded, glancing toward his backpack. “You should have a camp pillow, right?”

Percy’s eyes brightened slightly, and he let out a long, relieved sigh. “Thank—thank fuck.” He dug into the pack, fishing around for a moment before pulling out a small fabric cylinder. Unzipping it, he retrieved a deflated pillow and opened the plastic valve, beginning to blow it up.

“Not too much,” Annabeth warned, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “Otherwise it’s just a balloon.”

Percy chuckled softly, puffing and adjusting the valve. “Yeah… last thing I need is a pillow that could double as a flotation device.”

Annabeth laughed quietly, the sound low and tired, but warm. For a brief moment, surrounded by the quiet of the trailer and the gentle breathing of the resting animals, the chaos of the past days faded just enough for them to catch their breath.

Percy nodded, the valve still in his mouth, as he finished inflating the pillow. He twisted it shut, tucked it behind his head, and let his eyes close once more. Annabeth watched him for a few quiet moments, a small voice inside nudging her to speak. Finally, she let the words out.

“I’m… sorry,” she said softly, “about slapping you when we left the diner. Ares’s magic—it was riling me up—”

“And I was acting like an idiot with a death wish?” Percy finished, his tone light but a little weary. Annabeth frowned, shaking her head.

“I was gonna say… I massively overreacted.”

“No, it’s my fault,” Percy said firmly, a note of finality in his voice. Something clicked in Annabeth’s mind as she realized just how Percy saw himself, how he carried responsibility like armor.

“Percy, it wasn’t your fault,” she said gently. “And it doesn’t excuse what I did.”

“I—”

“Don’t make excuses for me,” she interrupted, her voice soft but steady. “And it wasn’t your fault,” she added again, this time alluding to more than just the incident outside the diner.

“Annabeth… what are you—”

“None of it, Seaweed Brain,” she finished, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Percy was silent for a moment, absorbing the weight of her words.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice slightly broken, and he shifted against the pillow.

Annabeth let the quiet stretch between them for a minute, letting the moment settle, then pushed onward. “I’m sorry for snapping at you about not running when the Furies showed up. I never told you that before… and I’m sorry.”

Percy shifted, opening one eye to look at her. “Hey… it’s okay,” he said softly. “We were both trying to survive. And, uh… thanks for saying it.”

Annabeth offered a small nod, relief washing over her tired features. For the first time in days, the tension between them eased, leaving just the quiet hum of the trailer, the gentle rustle of straw, and the faint breathing of the resting animals around them.

“I’ve always struggled with letting other people do things for me,” Annabeth said softly, her fingers tracing absent-mindedly over her camp necklace. “I think that reliance makes me weak. And I think you have a similar problem—you want to take on the burdens of everyone else, their guilt and their problems. It’s not your fault Grover freaked you out and you ran. You had no idea what was happening, or how it would turn out. You were scared.”

Percy finally opened his eyes, sea green flickering and shifting like waves in sunlight. “Thanks, Wise Girl. Really living up to the name,” he quipped, voice weak but amused. Annabeth gave a small smile in response.

“We’re a team, Seaweed Brain,” she said.

“Fuck yeah we are,” Percy replied, voice strengthening as he sat up a little. “The badass dragon slayer and grenade maker; the animal-talking magic man; and me… wish.com Katara with a pokey stick!”

Annabeth laughed softly, and the trailer fell into a companionable silence. She picked at her camp necklace, counting the beads. Five beads. Five years of her life memorialized. She thought about what this year’s bead might be. A trident, perhaps? Percy’s arrival had been significant. The theft of the Master Bolt… that might be a lightning bolt. If they survived. She shoved the thought aside. Gods, she hoped that Percy’s arrival—and the chaos of the Master Bolt—would be the most significant, positive thing this summer. She didn’t trust anything else to be.

“So the necklaces,” Percy said, breaking the silence, “they’re a Camp thing, right? Everyone except newbies like me has one?”

Annabeth looked up and nodded. “At the end of each summer, the counselors vote on the most significant event to memorialize. I’ve got Thalia’s Tree from my first year, a Greek trireme on fire, a Centaur in a prom dress…” She trailed off, letting the memory of her chaotic third summer hang in the air. Party Ponies, escalating bets, pranks, paintball fights—it had been insane. “That… was a weird summer,” she finished with a soft laugh, keeping the stories for another time. Percy would have something to look forward to.

“Who’s Thalia?” Percy asked, curiosity clear in his tone.

Annabeth’s stomach tightened. She hated talking about her friend, but Percy deserved to know. She fingered her dad’s college ring on the necklace and began slowly. “When I was seven, I ran away from home,” she said, carefully leaving out the reasons. “My mom guided me to a place in Virginia where I met two other demigods—Luke, who was fourteen, and Thalia, who was twelve.”

The memory hit sharp and vivid. Luke had held up his hands, trying to calm her as she brandished her hammer, while Thalia had stayed a few steps back, her own hand curled around a spear, worried but giving them space. Annabeth stifled a shiver and pushed on. “They took me in while we were all still runaways. A few months later, Grover found us.”

Percy’s eyes flicked toward the sleeping satyr, then back to Annabeth. She continued. “Grover was supposed to get Thalia back to Camp immediately—Hades had found out about her and was hunting, enforcing the Oath—but he refused to leave me and Luke behind.” Her voice cracked slightly, the memories still raw. “We took some wrong turns. Grover and Luke both blame themselves. The Furies, an army of undead, and hellhounds caught up to us on Long Island. We spent a week sneaking through their search patterns, picking off monsters wherever we could. But before we could reach the border…” She paused, swallowing hard.

“They found us,” Percy said quietly, prompting her to continue.

“Thalia sacrificed herself atop the hill bordering Camp,” Annabeth said, her voice low but resolute. “She made sure we made it inside. She called down enough lightning that she nearly destroyed her own body, killing hundreds of monsters at once. Zeus took pity and transformed her into Thalia’s Pine—the tree that projects the magical barrier around Camp.”

Percy’s hand rested briefly on hers, a quiet acknowledgment of her story, of her loss, and of the bravery that had shaped everything they now lived through.

Annabeth’s hand dropped from her necklace, her fingers brushing against the worn beads. “Grover got blamed for her death and given a warning. The thing with you was his second strike.”

“But it wasn’t his fault,” Percy said quietly. “None of that.”

Annabeth nodded, meeting his eyes. “I know that. You know that. Everyone knows that. But Mr. D and the Council of Cloven Elders needed someone to blame for Zeus… and they knew blaming Hades wasn’t an option.”

Percy was silent for a long moment, the words heavy in his mind. “It’s all just a blame game,” he muttered dejectedly.

“Yeah,” Annabeth said softly, letting the weight of the truth settle between them.

“What happens to us at Camp… I mean, if the Gods actually go to war?” Percy asked, anxiety threading through his voice.

Annabeth pursed her lips, thinking carefully. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Some of the Gods might want us drawn into the conflict—Ares especially. And some of the Societies might as well. But most… most will just want Camp considered neutral ground. That doesn’t mean the campers themselves won’t pick sides, though. Some would probably leave early to join the Societies, get a head start in the war.”

“Societies?” Percy’s brow furrowed.

Annabeth nodded. “Remember how I mentioned adult demigods typically live in the mortal world but keep in contact with one another? Those groups are called Societies. They’re like… organized networks, a way to train, protect, and sometimes enforce their own agendas.”

"So are they like the Cabins?"

Annabeth shook her head. "Not exactly, there's usually some overlap, but not always. Take the Court of Owls-"

"Like the Batman villains?" 

Annabeth rolled her eyes in amusement, "They're a little older than the comic book bad guys, Seaweed Brain, think eighteen thirties."

Percy raised his hands in mock surrender, smirking at her, "My bad, go on."

"Anyway, the Court of Owls is the Society originally founded by Children of Athena, though they'll recruit anyone they feel aligns with the groups's goals and meets their standards. The Court does a lot of things, they usually sit on the cutting edge of technological advancement, usually toward the engineering front. They focus on construction, manufacturing, and military technology. I've heard they also have a paramilitary wing, but that's just conjecture, they're quite secretive."

“So they’re like… the Illuminati or Freemasons or something?” Percy asked, a half-grin on his face.

Annabeth laughed softly. “Sure, something like that. Societies normally help each other navigate the mortal world. So if you needed an excuse for missing work because there was a monster attack, you could call your Society. Someone could cover for you… or, if you weren’t good at excuses, maybe just go to your workplace and use the Mist on your boss.”

Percy nodded slowly. “So… there are others?”

“Yeah,” Annabeth said. “The Smithy is one of the big ones, founded by children of Hephaestus, Athena, and Hermes. They focus on technological development—feeding money and materials to one another and to their mortal allies. Some mortals are clear-sighted, some aren’t. Most are kept in the dark, of course, but it’s not uncommon for Societies to have mortals on payroll as well. Then there’s the Red Company, founded by children of Ares—a full-on PMC army, tanks, missiles, government contracts and all. Other big ones include the Creators’ Guild, the Oakbrothers, the Snake Merchants… and a bunch of smaller ones.”

Percy frowned. “And they’ll fight in this war… if we fail?”

“Some of them,” Annabeth said carefully. “The Court of Owls will, so will the Smithy, Red Company, Oakbrothers, and a few others. The Creators’ Guild and Snake Merchants won’t—the former is just artists and craftsmen, and the latter has neutrality written into their charter. Some individuals might join other factions to fight, but most stay neutral.”

Percy tilted his head. “And some of them will want to recruit from Camp?”

Annabeth nodded. “Yes. The Red Company especially—they’re always looking for new members. The Snake Merchants too—they want as many young people tied to a neutral faction as possible, so there’s less fighting in and around Camp.”

She didn’t mention the undersea nations, Atlantis and its allies, arming for war. Most of them swore loyalty to Poseidon—or would be offered vast sums or advantageous treaties to ally with Atlantis. That also meant Zeus would likely try to persuade some of the merpeople. Annabeth didn’t know enough about underwater politics to guess how that would shake out.

Then there was the allegiance of nature spirits. Many on land would side with Demeter, and therefore Poseidon. Others with Dionysus, and therefore Zeus. Wind and cloud nymphs would mostly follow Zeus, though some still held grudges against him. Water spirits—oceanids, nereids, and naiads—would mainly side with Poseidon, but not entirely. Satyrs considered Dionysus their lord and would follow him unquestioningly.

Annabeth let her head fall back against the feed bags behind her. Shit. This war would be an absolute mess.

Percy, sensing the tension, reached over and nudged her shoulder lightly. “Well… at least we’ve got each other, right?”

Annabeth gave a faint smile, but even that small comfort felt fragile in the face of what was coming.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Percy’s dream began like a typical nightmare. Standardized testing. He was strapped into a straitjacket that seemed to tighten with every passing second, the other kids finishing their tests and filing out for recess. Soon, only Percy remained, the faceless teacher looming over his desk, spewing verbal barbs: “Why are you so stupid?” “Can’t you answer just one?” Each word pricked at him like needles as he struggled against the ever-constricting restraints.

Breathing grew harder and harder. Percy watched in horrified fascination as the pencil on his desk began to crack, splitting under some invisible pressure. His own body seemed to mimic it, jagged pain shooting through him for an agonizing moment—until something caught his eye, and all the pain melted away.

Sitting at the desk next to him was a girl, around fourteen or so, with olive-toned skin and electric blue eyes that seemed to glow in the dim classroom light. Her body was etched with scars, jagged and lightning-shaped, webbing across her arms, shoulders, and neck. Her ears, brows, nose, and lips bore a scatter of silver piercings—helix, septum, bridge, snake bites—catching the light with every slight movement.

Her hair was choppy and messy, falling to her shoulders in jagged layers, angled bangs like slashes across her forehead. Her makeup was inconsistent: thick black mascara around those shocking blue eyes, matching lipstick, but little else. A few pimples dotted her face, her cheeks slightly blotchy.

Percy felt a shiver of instinctive awe. Intimidating didn’t even begin to cover it. Give it a few years, he thought—anyone who looked at her the wrong way would probably soil themselves.

The girl struggled against her own straitjacket. Cream fabric stretched with sparks flying from the seams, scorching holes that vanished almost instantly, stitched back together by invisible hands. Then she slumped suddenly in her seat.

Well, Kelp Head? The voice wasn’t spoken aloud—it echoed in Percy’s mind, but unlike Annabeth’s mental communications, it had an alien clarity and weight. One of us has to get out of here.

Something clicked. The straitjacket binding Percy shredded away in a miniature wave of water that burst from around him. He sank into it, deeper and deeper, until the darkness swallowed the classroom entirely. The fluorescent lights, the desks, the faceless teacher—they vanished, replaced by the oppressive black of some vast underwater void.

Suddenly, another voice sliced through the darkness. Cold. Knife-sharp. Not meant for Percy, but he could hear it anyway. The dark waters resolved into the pit’s edge once more, as if he were floating on the periphery.

“It is still tied to him, yes?”

“Of course, my lord. He does not suspect it.”

Percy recognized the cadence of the second voice—he knew he knew it—but the name, the face, hovered at the edge of memory like smoke in sunlight, just out of reach. His curiosity overrode fear. He drifted closer, following the words, straining to catch every fragment of the conversation.

“Excellent… deception upon deception,” the thing in the pit mused, its voice cold and resonant, echoing through the shadowed void.

“You are well named, my lord,” the voice Percy almost recognized replied. “But I must ask—why couldn’t I deliver what I stole directly to you?”

“Time, little servant. Time,” the first voice said, each word dragging through the darkness like a blade. “Half a measly year, and look at what has happened. The Gods—” It spat the word with venom, and Percy felt the words vibrate through him, shaking his floating form. “—are closer to open warfare than at any time since Rome. Zeus sent out his best, risked his own children, and jeopardized the stability of the world… only to come back empty-handed. But Zeus is proud, vain, and stupid.”

The voice snarled, the sound cutting sharper than any knife. “So he blames Poseidon, and goes to war against the greater military power. Poseidon denies it, knowing it to be false… and plays his final, most desperate card. For Poseidon is nothing if not possessive and loyal. He gambles—the only way to keep his family from killing his son—by making him a hero.”

“I see, my lord,” the other voice said, a hesitant note of reason creeping in. “Had you explained your intentions, perhaps I would have been less—”

“I am not beholden to you, child,” the knife-like voice spat back. Percy felt the second speaker recoil, as if the words had physically struck them. “Awake. And continue your work, Apostate.”

Percy felt a rush of something—cold, sharp, and intangible—leave the pit, slipping past him, and the dream shifted, folding in on itself. Darkness and water swallowed him once more, the echo of voices lingering like a warning he couldn’t quite shake.

Percy’s next dream slammed him into a vast, sun-scorched desert. Sand stretched endlessly in every direction, scorching under an unrelenting sun, but no matter how far he ran, he always ended up back at the same spot—a cracked stone pedestal surrounded by dunes.

Above him hovered a colossal hourglass, each grain of sand glowing faintly as it slipped downward, marking time in a rhythm that gnawed at Percy’s mind. Every five minutes, a grinding, echoing clickresonated through the air, and the world snapped back to the pedestal. The desert reset itself, the dunes reshaping, the wind blowing in an identical pattern, trapping him in a loop that felt endless.

From somewhere deep, impossibly far away yet terrifyingly close, a voice boomed. Cold. Resonant. Knife-edged, like ice against steel. Percy didn’t know the name of the speaker, but a primal part of him recognized it as something ancient, patient, and cruel.

“Time is a river, little one,” the voice whispered, distorted and echoing in impossible layers. “Yet you flail, caught in the current. Each moment, a grain, slipping through your grasp. Every choice you make—every breath—you waste.”

Percy ran, kicking up sand that scattered and reformed as if it had never moved. He tried to speak, to ask who was speaking, but no words emerged—his mouth felt heavy, his throat dry, as though the air itself refused to let him speak.

The hourglass above him shook violently, a cascade of glowing sand tumbling faster and faster. The voice continued, sharper now, taunting:

“Five minutes, boy. Five minutes, and then it resets. Over and over. Will you ever see beyond the loop? Will you ever escape what you cannot control?”

Each click of the hourglass reset his position, and with it, every movement, every small effort, was erased. He began to feel the weight of infinity pressing down, the suffocating inevitability of repetition. And in that suffocating silence, Percy sensed—though he didn’t know it yet—that the voice belonged to something older than the sun, older than the desert, a master of time itself.

“Hail the conquering hero!”

Chapter Text

Grover watched quietly as Percy jolted awake, his whole body tense as the truck lurched to a stop. The squeal of the brakes echoed through the metal walls of the trailer, a grating sound that made even Grover’s ears twitch. He turned his gaze away, focusing instead on the worn surface of his club. Muttering under his breath, he whispered a few soft, ancient words — old satyr magic meant to mend the cracks and splinters left from the chaos of the past few days. Tiny shoots of green wood began to grow along the weapon’s handle, curling into place like vines reclaiming a fallen branch.

“What’d I miss?” Percy’s voice came out thick with sleep as he sat up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and there was that familiar look in his eyes — one Grover had seen in far too many demigods. Restless. Haunted. Troubled by dreams he didn’t want to remember. Grover didn’t need to ask; he could feel the unease radiating off him like heat.

“We’re in L-Las Vegas,” Grover said, his voice carrying its usual nervous stammer. “The drivers s-stopped at a truck stop around three this morning for gas. It’s, uh, nine now. Maybe a little after.”

Annabeth moved between them with the kind of purpose that made Grover step instinctively aside. She was already armed — her kopis gleaming faintly in the dim light, and in her other hand, a makeshift weapon: a metal rod she’d cut from the lion’s cage with her Celestial Bronze dagger. She planted herself by the trailer’s door, every inch of her ready for a fight. The steel was for mortals, the bronze for monsters — or worse, gods. Ares had a bad habit of playing games, and none of them were in the mood to be his pawns again.