Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room hummed with a hushed quiet—the kind that came when twenty kids were too awed to talk. Sunlight filtered through the high glass dome above them, scattering across polished floors and gleaming tanks. Everywhere Percy turned, there was water.

The aquarium was the biggest place Percy had ever been, a maze of glass and steel that seemed to stretch on forever. Every corner of it shimmered with water—tanks that curved like bubbles, walls alive with schools of fish darting in synchronized bursts of color. Exhibits glowed softly in the dim light, each one filled with creatures stranger and more beautiful than the last: jellyfish that pulsed like tiny lanterns, crabs with claws the size of Percy’s hands, and eels that weaved through coral like living ribbons.

Damp and cool, the air clung to his skin and filled his lungs with a faint tang of salt. Beneath it was a sharper, chemical bite that made his nose wrinkle. It reminded him of tap water, the kind that tasted faintly of pipes and chlorine. It felt out of place, wrong somehow, like the water had been tamed, stripped of something wild and real.

Percy couldn’t stop staring. His sneakers squeaked softly as he trailed behind the group, his head swiveling to catch every detail. He swore the fish were watching him. Their unblinking eyes followed him through the glass, curious and knowing, as if they were waiting for him to notice. A bright orange clownfish darted closer, pausing just long enough to meet his gaze before vanishing into a forest of waving anemones.

Percy blinked, leaning in closer to the tank. He half-expected the little fish to stay hidden, but a moment later, it reappeared—this time with three more. Then five. Then what looked like a whole family of clownfish, each one as bright and vibrant as the first. They hovered together near the glass, their tiny bodies bobbing gently in the water, their wide, unblinking eyes fixed on him.

Percy tilted his head to the side. The fish tilted with him, a ripple of synchronized movement that made him grin. He shuffled a step to the left, and the little group darted after him, as though they’d been waiting for him to lead the way.

Percy pressed his palms against the glass, leaning in closer. The fish moved with him, so close now that he could see their tiny fins fluttering like ribbons. It was like they were trying to tell him something, though what, he couldn’t imagine. For a moment, Percy forgot about the guide, the class, the rest of the aquarium. It was just him and the fish, their silent, watchful presence filling him with a strange warmth.

“This way, everyone!” the guide called, her voice breaking the spell.

Percy jolted, realizing he’d fallen a few steps behind. He hurried to catch up, glancing back over his shoulder one last time.

The fish were still there, watching. Waiting.

He slipped into the cluster of kids near the guide and slowed his pace, trying to blend in. It wasn’t hard; most of them were too busy pointing at the next tank or whispering to their friends to notice him.

A school outing. That’s what this was supposed to be. The kind of day teachers loved because it looked educational, and kids loved because it wasn’t the classroom. Percy wasn’t sure how he felt about it yet.

Second grade wasn’t exactly going smoothly for him so far. First grade had been a big enough adjustment—longer days, real homework, and fewer chances to play—but second grade felt like everything had been cranked up a notch. The rules were stricter, the lessons longer, and the teachers seemed to expect him to know how to sit still and pay attention like it was no big deal.

Percy wasn’t great at any of it.

Field trips were supposed to be a break from all that, but for him, they were usually just a different kind of chaos.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing sideways at the teacher trailing behind them like a sentry. Mrs. Prescott wasn’t the worst teacher he’d had, but she wasn’t great either. She was always watching him like she expected him to mess something up. Percy sighed and looked back at the tanks, letting the water and the fish pull his thoughts away.

This one wasn’t so bad so far, though. The aquarium was cool—way cooler than the museum trip last month, where he’d accidentally knocked over a display case. And it wasn’t loud or crowded like the zoo, where half the animals had looked as miserable as he’d felt. No, here, everything felt calmer. Softer. Even if the air did smell weird, it was hard not to like the way the tanks glowed, the water shimmered, and the fish swam like they had all the time in the world.

Maybe, Percy thought, this trip wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The guide stopped in front of a doorway at the end of the hall, her hands clasped together as she turned to face the group. “Alright, everyone,” she said, her voice bright with the kind of fake enthusiasm adults used when they wanted kids to pay attention. Her eyes swept over the group before settling on Percy for just a moment longer than necessary. Her smile didn’t waver, but something about the way she looked at him made his skin prickle. “You’ve been such a great group so far, so I think you’ve earned the special treat we’ve been saving for last.”

The kids shuffled after her, their chatter bouncing off the high walls. Percy trailed near the back, where it was easier to keep his head down and avoid drawing attention. He wasn’t sure what the “special treat” was supposed to be, but the guide had been hyping it up all morning, dropping hints about “something you’ll never forget” and “a behind-the-scenes experience like no other.” It was starting to sound like one of those things that adults thought was cool but turned out boring.

Still, Percy couldn’t help feeling a flicker of curiosity as the guide led them through a narrow corridor, her steps so smooth and quiet they barely seemed to touch the ground, away from the big, open tanks and exhibits. The air seemed to change back here, like they were stepping deeper into the aquarium’s guts. The walls were plain, lined with pipes and wires that hummed faintly, and the smell of fish and chemicals grew stronger, pressing into Percy’s nose with every step.

The guide stopped in front of a heavy-looking door with a big metal handle. “And now,” she said, her voice turning sugary sweet, almost sing-song, as she turned to face the group, “what you’ve all been waiting for—the highlight of our visit today.”

She pushed the door open, and the room beyond was stark and utilitarian, lit by rows of bright overhead lights that reflected off the metal walkways and the rippling surface of the water below.

Percy stepped inside with the others, his eyes widening as he took it all in. They were on a platform suspended above a massive open tank. From this angle, it seemed endless, wide and deep, the edges disappearing into shadows as if it stretched farther than it should. The water rippled faintly, and beneath the surface, dark shapes glided in slow, lazy arcs.

“Welcome,” the guide said, her voice echoing across the space, “to our shark habitat.”

A collective gasp rippled through the group, followed by excited murmurs. Percy gripped the rail and leaned forward, his heart thudding in his chest. The sharks moved like shadows, their fins cutting through the water in smooth lines. They were bigger than he’d expected, and there was something mesmerizing about the way they moved—like they owned the water, like they were part of it.

“This tank holds several species of shark,” the guide continued. “Blacktip reef sharks, sandbar sharks, and even a nurse shark or two. None of them are dangerous to humans, of course—but I still wouldn’t recommend falling in. We haven’t trained them to share snacks.”

A few kids laughed nervously. Percy didn’t. The guide’s smile lingered just a second too long, off-key, like she enjoyed the idea a little too much. A shiver prickled across the back of his neck, and he shifted his grip on the rail, suddenly aware of how close the water was. It was just a joke. Probably.

The sharks glided closer, one by one, their sleek forms rising just high enough for their fins to break the surface. The light reflected off their smooth backs, tracing every curve as they moved with quiet ease. Percy couldn’t look away. He wasn’t used to thinking of dangerous things as beautiful, but there was something about their grace that felt impossible not to admire.

The guide’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Now, we need a volunteer. Someone to help us with the feeding demonstration.”

Percy straightened slightly, his fingers still curled around the rail. He didn’t raise his hand like some of the others did—he wasn’t the kind of kid who usually got picked for things like this. But the guide’s eyes found him anyway.

She looked directly at him, her smile widening just enough to make his stomach flip. “You, in the green shirt. Come on up.”

Percy blinked. For a second, he thought about saying no, but the guide was already motioning him forward. The other kids groaned, dropping their hands, but Percy barely noticed. He took a small step forward, his sneakers scuffing softly against the platform, and felt every eye turn toward him.

Percy hesitated, his steps slowing as he approached. The guide’s smile stayed in place as she beckoned him forward, her fingers curling with an almost lazy slowness.

“That’s it,” she said. “Come closer. Don’t be shy.”

He swallowed, glancing at the sharks below. They moved in wide, deliberate circles below him. The platform creaked faintly under his sneakers, and Percy forced himself to keep going until he was standing beside her.

The guide placed her hand on a small control panel bolted to the edge of the platform, where three levers jutted out at an angle, her nails clicking lightly against the metal. Her hand seemed too pale under the bright lights, almost translucent, but Percy blinked and it was gone—a trick of the light, maybe. She turned to him, her smile unwavering.

“Right here,” she said as she pointed at the red lever. “All you have to do is pull it all the way down. It’s easy.” She stepped back slightly, giving him room.

The lever gleamed under the bright lights, its handle cool to the touch as Percy wrapped his fingers around it. The guide was standing just behind him, not too close, but he could feel her watching him—too closely. A shiver ran down his spine.

“You’re not nervous, are you?” she asked, her voice dropping to a quiet, almost teasing tone. Percy glanced over his shoulder, and her smile hadn’t changed, but her eyes were sharper now, like they were waiting for something. He shook his head quickly.

“No,” he muttered, gripping the lever a little harder.

“Good,” she said softly. “Go ahead. Feed the sharks.”

The metal groaned faintly as Percy pulled the lever down. It moved smoothly at first, then clicked into place with a heavy clunk. He let go quickly, stepping back as the machinery beneath the platform began to hum. For a moment, nothing happened. The water below stayed calm, the sharks circling lazily just beneath the surface.

Then the platform shuddered.

At first, it was just a small vibration, barely enough to make Percy flinch. But it grew stronger, a groaning sound rising from the mechanism below as the platform began to tilt. Slowly at first—just a few degrees—but then faster, its weight shifting like a seesaw. Percy grabbed the rail instinctively, his heart pounding as he looked at the guide.

She didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on the water, her expression calm, almost expectant. The tremor grew into a jolt, hard enough to knock a few kids off balance, and Percy’s classmates began to shout in confusion.

“Mrs. Prescott!” someone yelled. Percy turned, but before he could process what was happening, the machinery let out a deep, grinding clunk. The platform tipped suddenly, and Percy’s stomach lurched as the rail slipped from his grasp.

He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the control panel, his fingers clawing desperately for a hold. Around him, screams erupted as his classmates slid toward the edge, their shoes skidding helplessly against the slick metal.

The platform tipped further, spilling kids into the tank below with panicked cries. The room filled with the sound of bodies hitting the water, splash after splash, mingled with the shrieks of kids trying to stay afloat. Percy clung to the part of the platform that remained upright, his heart pounding as the tilt grew more severe.

His throat tightened as he stared down at the water. The sharks had gathered beneath him, their movements quick and erratic now, tails churning the water in tight circles. It was as if they were waiting for him. But it wasn’t the sharks that terrified Percy—it was the water itself.

He couldn’t swim.

He’d never learned. His mom never wanted him near the sea—or pools, for that matter. It was because of his dad. He’d managed to piece together enough hints to guess his dad had disappeared at sea. Even though it’s been years and she never talked about it, grief seemed to cling to his mom like a shadow. She hated water. Never went near it.

No beaches. No pools. No long baths, either. Showers were all Percy had growing up, his one indulgence—until Gabe came along and ruined even that. Gabe, who’d decided Percy cost too so no long showers for him now. Five minutes, tops. “Utilities don’t pay for themselves, kid,” Gabe had said more than once, his sour breath fogging the air.

Percy blinked hard, trying to push the thoughts away. This wasn’t the time. He tightened his grip, his knuckles aching from the effort. He wouldn’t fall in. He couldn’t.

Around him, the chaos was deafening. Kids thrashed in the water, their voices overlapping in cries for help, and Percy could hear Mrs. Prescott shouting something, though the words were drowned out by the noise.

He forced himself to focus, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts as he managed to pull himself up just enough to steady his grip, his fingers trembling as he clung to the edge of the platform. The part he was on seemed solid enough—for now. He glanced around, and his chest loosened slightly when he saw the guide nearby, her calm face turned toward him as she stepped closer. Relief flooded him. She’d help. She wouldn’t let him fall in.

The guide stopped just above him, her polished shoes inches from his grasp. Percy craned his neck to look up, expecting her to reach down or offer him a hand. But she didn’t move. She just stood there, watching him.

Their eyes met, and his relief curdled into confusion. Why wasn’t she helping ?

“Good effort,” she said softly, her voice dripping with mock sweetness.

Percy opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, pain shot through his fingers like fire. He gasped, his grip faltering. Around him, the chaos raged—shouts and splashes, the distant cries of his classmates echoing through the cavernous space—but it all felt distant, muffled, as if the world had narrowed to the searing pain in his fingers and her gaze locked on his.

For a moment, her face seemed to flicker, like a bad signal on a TV. Her eyes glinted a bright, unnatural yellow, slit down the center like a cat’s, and the edges of her form wavered, losing solidity. It was as if her whole body were dissolving into smoke, tendrils of mist curling off her shoulders before snapping back into place. Percy blinked, and it was gone.

The pain again, dragging his attention downward. He looked down, and his stomach dropped. Her polished shoe was pressed against his right hand, the weight unbearable, like his fingers were being crushed in a vice. She was leaning into it, her heel twisting as if to drive the point home.

Percy stared at her accusingly, his vision blurring as the pain swelled, but the pressure only increased, grinding down until it was too much to bear.

His arms gave out.

The last thing he saw before the water swallowed him was her delighted smile and the blurred edges of her silhouette.

Chapter Text

Percy squeezed his eyes shut just before the impact. The force of it seemed to shock every nerve in his body at once. The water engulfed him, rushing into his nose and mouth before he could clamp them shut. His senses scrambled to adjust—everything was distorted, too fast, too overwhelming.

Instinct kicked in. He flailed, kicking his legs and throwing his arms out, trying to push himself toward the surface. Up. He had to go up. His chest burned as he fought the urge to breathe, his limbs moving with frantic, uneven jerks.

Then something brushed against his arm—a smooth, solid bump that made him freeze. Another slid along his leg. Then another.

He froze. And suddenly he remembered the sharks.

His mind filled with a single, terrifying image: rows of sharp teeth snapping shut around him, staining the water with his blood. No. No, no, no. He thrashed harder, his legs kicking out wildly, his arms flailing as if he could fight off the water itself.

His heart hammered as their sleek bodies pressed in from every direction.

One hit his side. Another skimmed his shoulder, a slick, rubbery slide against his skin. A powerful tail slapped his ribs, and another fin skimmed past, leaving a faint sting where its rough edge grazed him. Percy tried to kick them away, but they swarmed closer, inescapable.

One nudged him hard in the stomach, sending him tumbling backward. Down. They were pushing him down. He flailed, desperate to reach the surface, but the sharks herded him deeper. No air. His hands clawed at the water, searching for something solid, but there was nothing—just the unyielding pull downward.

Then he felt it.

A light scrape—barely more than a brush—against his ankle. Shark’s teeth. A grip. Firm but not breaking the skin. Yet.

His panic peaked, and he gasped involuntarily.

Water rushed into his mouth and down his throat. He choked, bracing for the suffocating burn—but it never came.

Instead, his lungs expanded. The water flowed in like air. Cool. Steady. Normal.

His brain screamed at him, certain he should be dying. His chest should have burned, his throat should have been on fire. Every instinct told him he needed air. And yet.

He froze, his arms going limp as his mind tried to catch up.

Breathe.

It was wrong to even think the word. He hesitated, waiting for the pain to hit, waiting to start choking again—but nothing happened. Another slow, cautious inhale filled his chest, and the panic began to unravel at the edges.

The water didn’t choke him. It didn’t sting or drown him.

His lungs just… worked.

Percy’s hands drifted to his sides, trembling slightly as he took another breath. Then another. It felt wrong. It felt right.

What was happening to him?

He could breathe underwater.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the thick, distorted glass of the tank’s walls and the panicked faces pressed against it. Visitors on the other side were shouting, their hands slapping against the glass, their movements frantic as they pointed toward him. Each sharp impact sent faint vibrations through the water, shivering against his skin.

He’d always thought underwater was a silent world—calm, still, and muted. But now that his panic had receded and the blood no longer roared in his ears, he realized how wrong he’d been.

The water was alive with sound.

The frantic splashes and muffled cries of his classmates echoed in warped bursts around him, their limbs churning as they struggled to stay afloat. Even the voices of the people beyond the glass reached him—muffled, but distinct enough to catch fragments of their panic.

And, of course, the sharks.

Their sleek bodies glided through the water, tails swishing, the occasional click of teeth adding to the symphony around him. They circled him, and it took a moment for the truth to sink in—they weren’t attacking. No snapping jaws, no violent bursts of motion.

Just smooth, eager movement. As if they were waiting for something.

The swarming that had terrified him moments ago now seemed… different.

They weren’t hunting him.

They were just… happy. Excited.

Like a pack of dogs bounding up to greet their owner, full of restless energy and too much affection to contain.

One of the sharks nudged him gently, its solid body brushing against his side. Percy tensed. It nudged him again, then turned back, circling tightly before returning.

Slowly, tentatively, Percy reached out. His hand brushed the shark’s rough skin, and he froze, expecting it to flinch or attack. Instead, it slowed, its body twisting slightly, inviting him closer.

Percy let out a shaky breath, his fingers pressing against its side. The texture was strange—rougher than he expected, like sandpaper. The shark nudged him again, harder this time, and Percy’s hand instinctively began to move, rubbing along its side in slow strokes.

That’s when he heard it.

Yes. Just there. Little prince, that’s so good…

Percy’s hand stilled.

Was it… speaking to him?

In his head?

His heart thudded as the words echoed again, soft and almost pleased, threading through his thoughts like they belonged there.

Here. More. Yes. We like you, little prince. Welcome.

Percy’s hands moved without thinking, brushing over the shark’s rough skin, trailing over its side in shaky strokes.

He wasn’t supposed to be alive right now—let alone breathing underwater and hearing sharks talk inside his mind.

Had the lack of air messed with his head? Was he going crazy instead of drowning?

The voice came again, soft and oddly pleased, like someone being scratched in just the right spot.

So small. So loud. But good scratcher.

Percy froze. Small? His face heated with indignant disbelief.

“Small?” he muttered, the words bubbling uselessly into the water. His size was the least of his problems right now, but the insult still managed to sting. “I’m not—”

The shark beneath his hands gave a full-body shudder, sending a ripple through the water. The others flicked their tails in what felt far too much like amusement. Percy’s face burned.

They were laughing at him.

He huffed, rubbing a little harder along the shark’s side, more out of stubbornness than anything else. The amused hums in his head deepened, pleased.

He puffs up like a little pufferfish! Look at him!

Another shark nosed in, bumping against Percy’s shoulder. No, no, scratch me! Me next!

A third swam closer, brushing past his legs. He has two hands! He can do two at once!

Percy blinked. Were they… fighting for his attention?

For a moment, the absurdity of it left him stunned. But when one of them nudged him insistently, Percy couldn’t help but laugh—an airy, bubbling sound that startled even himself.

“Alright, alright,” he said, shifting both hands to rub along two sides at once.

The voices in his head turned into cheerful, overlapping chatter.

Yes, just there. Good, little prince.

He’s quick to learn. Maybe he’s not so small after all.

Still small, one said with a smug hum. But a quick learner.

Percy rolled his eyes, rubbing more confidently now. The sharks circled like excited puppies, nudging closer, their tails flicking in what could only be described as glee.

Another shark bumped his foot, making him wobble slightly in the water.

Oops! it said, sounding anything but sorry.

Percy laughed again. He wasn’t scared anymore. Not even a little.

He was in the middle of the strangest cuddle pile, surrounded by sleek, overexcited friends who were way too pleased with themselves.

One of his new friends swam up, baring its teeth in what might have been an attempt to impress him—or just a very shark-like grin.

See? Big teeth. Good teeth.

Percy snorted, bubbles escaping his nose as he grinned. “Yeah, I see them. Very nice—”

Something solid gripped him beneath the arms, cutting him off mid-sentence.

Human hands.

The water resisted, pressing against him as if reluctant to let him go. But the diver kicked powerfully, yanking him upward with a single, decisive pull.

The last thing Percy saw of his new friends was them circling below, their tails flicking in a frenzy as they watched him go.

Percy blinked, dazed, as he was hauled toward the edge of the tank. Hands grabbed at him—too many hands—pulling, dragging, wrenching him from the water in a single, jerking motion.

The floor beneath him was hard and cold, the chill seeping through his soaked clothes. He lay there, blinking up at the high ceiling, everything spinning. The voices around him blurred together, muffled and distant, as if his head were still underwater.

For a moment, Percy missed the water.

The world felt too loud. Too bright. Too solid.

He swallowed against the strange ache in his chest, blinking hard as the ceiling swam into focus. His ears rang, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the water or the shouting all around him.

“He’s alive!” someone yelled, their voice cutting through the haze.

Hands gripped his shoulders, tugging him upright. The floor’s cold was replaced by the crinkle of something metallic—a survival blanket draped around him. The material scratched against his wet clothes, but he barely noticed, because suddenly, Mrs. Prescott was there.

“Oh, thank goodness!” she cried, dropping to her knees in front of him. Her arms wrapped around him in a tight, crushing hug, and she let out a laugh—thin, shaky, half-hysterical.

Percy stiffened. He had no idea what to do with the sudden embrace.

“I thought—I thought we lost you!” Mrs. Prescott’s voice cracked on the last word, her breath hitching as she pressed her face into his shoulder.

Percy blinked at the top of her head, his heart twisting in confusion.

For a moment, she just held him, her breathing uneven. “You scared me, Percy,” she murmured, softer now, almost gentle. “I thought we’d lost you.”

Then, just as quickly as the warmth had come, her grip shifted.

Her voice sharpened. “What were you thinking?”

She shook him—not hard, but enough to jolt him. “You could have died! All of you could have died!” Her voice cracked, and her expression twisted into something between anger and disbelief. “Do you even realize what could have happened? How could you be so careless?”

Percy blinked, the shift in tone making his stomach sink. “I didn’t do anything!” he protested, his voice high and defensive.

Mrs. Prescott’s lips thinned. “Percy—”

“I didn’t!” He clenched his fists in the survival blanket, his chest heaving. “Why are you acting like this was my fault?”

Before she could respond, the guide reappeared, gliding toward them with on quiet, measured steps. The damp soles of her shoes squeaked softly against the floor, and Percy’s stomach turned at the sound.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice honeyed and smooth. “I made it very clear—under no circumstances was he to touch that particular lever.” She sighed, shaking her head in disappointment. “And obviously, he didn’t listen.”

Percy felt the words like a slap.

“No, I didn’t!” His voice cracked as he lurched forward, fists tightening around the scratchy blanket. “You’re lying! You told me to pull it!” His breath came fast and uneven, tripping over itself in his desperation to be heard. “And you— you stepped on my hand!”

The guide didn’t even blink. If anything, her expression softened with condescending sympathy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, tilting her head. “You must be mistaken. I would never do that. If it happened, it must have been in all the confusion—I didn’t even realize…”

She was enjoying this.

Percy saw it in the way her lips curled ever so slightly. In the gleam in her eyes.

How could nobody else see?

“Percy,” Mrs. Prescott said sharply, cutting through his spiraling thoughts. “This isn’t the time for lying.” Her tone was clipped, but there was exhaustion. The kind of tired that said she’d been through this too many times before.

Percy’s cheeks burned. He hunched in on himself, staring down at the floor as his heartbeat pounded in his ears.

What was the point?

Nobody ever believed him anyway. Not about the weird things. Not about anything.

“All of you,” a staff member called, ushering the kids toward the door, “please follow me to the conference room. We’ll be contacting your parents shortly.”

The students shuffled forward, their survival blankets crinkling with every step. They huddled into themselves, small bodies shaking with leftover fear and cold. Percy trailed behind, the only one not shivering.

He didn’t need to see their faces to feel the weight of their stares.

He tried not to listen. He really did.

The whispers reached him anyway, low and biting.

It’s always him.

Bet he did it on purpose.

Why does this stuff always happen when he’s around ?

Each word landed like a stone, heavy and sinking.

Percy pulled the blanket tighter around himself, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor. He kept walking.

The conference room was sterile and unwelcoming, filled with stiff chairs and a long table that gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights.

The guide hovered near the door like a shadow.

Percy couldn’t shake the feeling that her eyes never left him. Even when she wasn’t looking directly at him, he felt them—like tiny claws scratching at the edges of his awareness.

Every time he dared to glance her way, her eyes were already there—watching. Waiting.

When he squinted, her face seemed to ripple.

For a heartbeat, he wasn’t looking at a person—he was seeing the strange, alien features he’d glimpsed before he fell. Those sharp, cat-like eyes. The faint outline of mist curling around her form.
Then he blinked.

And it was gone.

No one else seemed to notice.

But Percy was done doubting himself.

Deep in his gut, in the prickling at the back of his neck, in the instinctive tension in his muscles—he knew. She was dangerous. If this was just his mind playing tricks, his body wouldn’t be screaming at him to run.

The minutes dragged by. One by one, parents trickled in. Each time the door opened, Percy’s heart leapt, only to sink again when it wasn’t his mom. He kept his eyes on the floor. He tried not to look at the guide. But her presence felt like a weight pressing against him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was waiting to get him alone.

And then the door opened again. Percy didn’t need to look up. His stomach twisted as he recognized the heavy footsteps and the sour smell of cigarettes. His heart plummeted into his shoes.

It wasn’t his mom.

It was Gabe.

The sight of him turned Percy’s stomach to lead.

Of course. He couldn’t catch a break.

With mounting trepidation, he watched Gabe talk to Mrs. Prescott near the doorway. His greasy, cigarette-stained fingers gestured wildly as he spoke, his voice oozing false charm and forced exasperation. Percy didn’t need to hear the words to know the tone. It was the one Gabe always used when someone expected him to act like a decent person.

He didn’t even look at Percy. He just jerked a thumb toward the door and waved him over. Percy hesitated, his eyes darting to Mrs. Prescott, hoping—praying—she’d intervene. But she just gave him a small, pitying smile and a nod. As if Gabe was the solution and not the next problem.

Dread settled like a rock in Percy’s stomach. He slung the scratchy survival blanket tighter around his shoulders and shuffled toward Gabe. The man didn’t say a word, didn’t even glance down as he grumbled under his breath and gestured for Percy to follow. Percy trailed behind, the weight of stares from the teachers and staff pressing into his back.

The aquarium corridors stretched long and empty ahead of them, the glow of the tanks casting faint ripples of light on the walls. Gabe didn’t speak, but Percy could feel the storm building. It was in the way his shoulders bunched and his fists clenched, the smell of cigarettes clinging to him like a cloud.

They turned a corner, leaving the main hallway behind. The moment they were out of sight, Gabe stopped abruptly and whirled around, his face already twisted in a scowl.

“What the hell is wrong with you, huh?” Gabe hissed, jabbing a finger into Percy’s chest. “You think I got nothing better to do than chase your sorry ass down after you pull some stupid stunt?”

“I didn’t—” Percy started, but Gabe cut him off with a snarl.

“Shut it. Don’t want to hear your excuses, you little punk.” Gabe’s face flushed red, his breath wheezing as though yelling alone exhausted him. “You think this is funny? Getting yourself into trouble? Making me leave the apartment—wasting my time—just to clean up your mess?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Percy snapped, his fists balling at his sides. “It wasn’t me! She’s lying—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Gabe barked, his voice echoing off the walls. His hand shot out, gripping Percy’s arm hard enough to make him wince. “You’re always causing problems. Always dragging people down with you. And now you’re making me look bad in front of those teachers.”

Percy yanked at his arm, but Gabe’s grip tightened. His knuckles were white, his face twisted into something ugly. “You want to act like a punk, huh? Maybe it’s time someone taught you a lesson.”

The words hit Percy like a bucket of ice water. His breath caught, his mind spinning as realization dawned. He was going to be alone with Gabe. For hours. His mom wouldn’t be back until late. The thought sent a cold shiver down Percy’s spine.

No. No, no, no.

He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t.

Before Gabe could react, Percy twisted sharply, dislodging his grip. Gabe’s fingers scraped against his sleeve as Percy wrenched free.

“Get back here!” Gabe roared, lunging forward, but Percy was already running. His legs pumped furiously, the survival blanket slipping off his shoulders and tangling around his feet before he kicked it free. He didn’t look back—he didn’t need to. Behind him, Gabe wheezed like a punctured tire, his shoes slapping unevenly against the floor.

Percy darted around a corner, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. His lungs burned, but he didn’t stop. Gabe’s shouts grew fainter, his footsteps slowing and uneven. Percy risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Gabe clutching his side, gasping for breath as he staggered to a stop.

Good. But Percy didn’t slow down. He didn’t dare.

He burst through an exit door, the cold air hitting him like a slap. The pier stretched wide and empty before him, the dark water lapping at its edges.

Panic clawed at his chest as he scanned the area. There wasn’t much cover—just a few benches, some trash cans, and rows of parked cars. His eyes darted frantically, searching for a place to hide.

Maybe he could crawl under a car? He crouched to check beneath a sedan, but no—it was too exposed. Gabe would spot him immediately. The thought of those rough hands yanking him out by the ankle made Percy’s stomach churn.

He kept looking, desperation mounting.

And then he saw it.

A gold, open-roofed Chrysler parked near the edge of the pier. Its surface gleamed like solid gold under the midday sun, as though it had been carved from a solid ingot. It practically glowed—too bright, too perfect to belong in a place like this.

The open roof was an invitation. Percy scrambled over the door and into the backseat, wedging himself beneath it. The space was cramped, his knees pressed to his chest and his breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts. But it was hidden. Safe.

For now.

The door to the fire exit slammed open. Heavy footsteps thudded closer, each step dragging. Gabe’s curses echoed through the open space. “Where are you, you little brat?!”

Percy pressed himself against the floor, willing himself to stay still, to stay silent. Gravel crunched under Gabe’s weight as he passed by the Chrysler without stopping. Percy squeezed his eyes shut, his heart hammering in his ears.

The footsteps slowed. Stopped. Silence hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Percy’s breath hitched. Was Gabe testing him? Waiting for him to slip?

Minutes dragged by like hours. Then, finally, a car door slammed shut in the distance. A mutter. Fading steps. Gone.

Maybe.

Percy didn’t move. He stayed curled beneath the seat, too scared to even breathe.

What now?

Chapter Text

Percy didn’t know how long he’d been curled up beneath the seat, barely daring to breathe. Time stretched in the silence, his heartbeat the only thing filling the space between the distant hum of city life beyond the pier. The golden Chrysler didn’t feel like a bad hiding spot, but the longer he stayed still, the more his muscles ached, coiled tight like he was waiting for the world to end.

Then, footsteps. Unhurried. Confident.

Percy held his breath.

Gravel crunched under heavy boots as someone approached the car. A pause. The sharp clink of metal against metal—the trunk being unlocked. Something heavy landed inside with a dull thud, shifting slightly before settling into place.

The driver’s door creaked open. The weight of a body sank into the seat, followed by the low, rumbling growl of the engine coming to life.

Still, Percy didn’t move.

The car rolled forward, pulling away from the pier, and the golden roof began to slide shut with a faint mechanical hiss.

The moment it clicked shut, the driver sniffed.

Once. Twice.

Slowly, like a predator catching an unexpected scent on the wind.

The hairs on Percy’s arms stood on end.

There was a soft metallic sound—a click, a scrape, something shifting just out of sight. The sound sent something primal racing through Percy’s veins, though he couldn’t say why.

Then, a voice. Low. Rough. Unimpressed.

" Whoever you are. Your stench is polluting my car. Show yourself before I drag you out."

Percy tensed. The voice wasn’t particularly aggressive, but it didn’t need to be. It carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed.

A flicker of movement. A rustle of leather.

“I won’t ask twice.”

Percy sucked in a sharp breath and slowly uncurled himself from the footwell, pushing himself upright until his head just cleared the seat.

‟Hah. Thought I smelled a rat.”

Percy scrambled up, sitting properly in the backseat, and took his first look at the driver.

Long, unruly black hair spilt down past his shoulders, wild and untamed. In the rearview mirror, Percy caught the faintest glint of something strange—a sheen of gold obscuring the man’s features. A mask.

In the same instant, something rasped—a whisper of steel against leather. Percy’s eyes darted down. The man's hand was just now uncurling, fingers loosening their grip on something.

A sword.

The man had been holding a sword.

Percy pressed himself as far back on the seat as he could, and the man made a sound—something between a surprised sigh and an unimpressed grunt.

"Seriously? They’re getting younger every year.", he muttered, almost to himself. Then, louder, with something like mockery curling at the edges, "Breaking into people's property at your age?” His voice was dry, unimpressed. “Your father must be proud.”

Percy stiffened. There was an assumption buried in those words, something just beneath the surface.

"Dunno. Don’t care," he said flatly.

At that, the man let out a humourless chuckle. "Hah. You and me both, kid."

The unexpected camaraderie sent a strange wave of relief through Percy.

Too soon.

"Unfortunately for you," the man continued, voice turning cold, "I have zero tolerance for stowaways” He reached for the gear shift, one hand steady on the wheel. “So I’m taking you back.”

Percy’s stomach dropped.

Back.

Back meant Gabe.

Back meant those meaty hands grabbing his arm, that sour breath in his face, the sneer, the punishment waiting for him the moment the apartment door would shut behind them.

His mouth moved before he could think. "I’ll tell them you kidnapped me!"

Silence.

Not the dismissive kind. Not the angry kind. Just… skeptical.

The man didn’t turn, didn’t move, didn’t even sigh in annoyance. He just sat there, hands resting on the wheel, radiating the heavy silence of someone deeply unimpressed. It was absurd how expressive he could be with no visible expression at all.

Panic bit at the edges of his nerves. He had no real plan, no way to force this guy to help him get away, but he couldn’t just sit there and accept being thrown back to Gabe. So, he doubled down, his words tumbling out faster than he could stop them.

“Okay,” he said, forcing a confidence he didn’t feel, “so maybe I kidnapped myself. But who do you think the police are gonna believe? The creep with the ugly mask or the innocent seven-year-old stashed inside his car?”

The tires screeched as the car lurched to a sudden stop.

Percy nearly flew forward, catching himself just in time.

Slowly—so much slower than necessary—the man turned fully in his seat. For the first time, Percy saw the full extent of the mask.

The expression was frozen in something between a snarl and a scowl, lips curled back over bared teeth. The ridges above the eye sockets were deep-set, furrowed, making it seem like the face was caught mid-glare.

Framing the face like a twisted crown, were writhing, interwoven shapes. Snakes. Dozens of coiled bodies in a chaotic tangle, their mouths open in silent, eternal hisses.

Sculpted from polished gold, the mask gleamed, its surface smooth, the slits of its hollow eyes swallowing all light. Percy’s own reflection stared back at him in warped gold—small, wide-eyed, utterly insignificant.

“Do I strike you as someone who gives a damn about little mortal laws?" The man said flatly.

Percy shook his head—because obviously, no. No, he did not. But the man wasn’t looking for an answer.

Without another word, he turned back to the wheel.

"Now scram."

A sharp click.

The car door swung open—on its own.

With leaden limbs, Percy climbed out of the car. The moment his feet hit the pavement, the door swung shut behind him with a final thunk.

The golden Chrysler rumbled back to life and slipped back into the city traffic.

Percy stood there, frozen, watching it go.

There went his exit card.

One second, Percy was standing there, numb and dejected, staring at the empty stretch of road he was left with.

The next—

A hand clamped onto Percy’s shoulder, vice-tight fingers digging deep into the fabric of his shirt.

He barely had time to flinch before he was yanked around, air ripping past his ears—

CRACK.

Pain exploded across his cheek. His head snapped to the side, ears ringing.

For a moment, the whole world blurred—just a wash of colors and the sharp taste of copper on his tongue. Percy staggered, barely catching himself before he fell.

“You little shit,” Gabe spat, his voice thick with fury. “Think you can just run from me like some little street rat?! You think I wouldn’t find you?”

His grip tightened, fingers twisting the fabric of Percy’s shirt until it burned against his skin. He shook him—hard—like he was trying to rattle his brain loose.

Percy flinched, a useless instinct. He wasn’t trying to fight, but his body had never learned how to just take it. His arms jerked up, struggling out of habit, but Gabe only sneered.

“Yeah, go ahead, squirm,” he mocked. “Ain’t gonna help you, boy.”

Another shake. Harder.

Percy’s head snapped forward, dizzy with the force of it.

“First, you embarrass me at the damn aquarium. Then you make me chase you all over the goddamn pier like some idiot babysitter? You think I won’t make you pay for that?”

Percy braced for it. He could feel the shift in Gabe’s stance—the way his grip tightened, the way his arm cocked back just enough—

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Then—

TIRES SCREECHED.

Loud. Sudden. Like the air itself had been ripped apart.

The golden Chrysler.

It came out of nowhere, swinging into a brutal, flawless U-turn, engine purring like a beast barely restrained. The driver’s door swung open mid-motion—

—And slammed right into Gabe’s gut.

With a pathetic, wheezing grunt, Gabe went down hard, arms flailing, legs folding beneath him as he crashed onto his back like a stunned cockroach.

Percy stared, stunned.

The Chrysler never even stopped moving.

From the driver’s seat came a voice—smooth and bored. “Quit gawking, brat. Get in.”

Percy didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

He scrambled forward, diving into the passenger seat without a second thought, barely managing to get inside before the door snapped shut behind him.

The car never even jerked. The movement was so smooth, so controlled—the way a perfectly-timed action scene was shot in a movie.

His breath came fast, his heart still hammering against his ribs.

The Chrysler purred, tires gripping the asphalt like it had never even considered stopping.

From the driver’s seat, the man sighed, as if this entire situation was just so tedious.

“Honestly,” he muttered, shifting gears with one hand, the other resting lazily on the wheel. “You are a lot of trouble.”

Percy, still trying to process what had just happened, only managed a strangled, breathless, “Yeah.”

He twisted in his seat, chest heaving, still gripping the door handle like he’d just pulled himself out of hell itself.

Behind them, through the rear window, Gabe was still crumpled on the pavement, wheezing like a deflated balloon.

The Chrysler rolled on, smooth and unbothered.

The man didn’t even look back.

Percy was still breathing hard, heart racing, hands gripping the seat like the world had just flipped upside down—which, to be fair, it kind of had.

“That,” he gasped, eyes wide, “was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Where did you learn to do that?”

The man didn’t answer immediately. He shifted the gears with an easy flick of his wrist, the Chrysler gliding smoothly through traffic, as if running over stepdads was just another Tuesday.

He was preening.

It wasn’t obvious. Not a full-blown yes, I am that good smirk (impossible to check anyway, with the mask), but Percy could see the way he settled a little deeper into his seat, the way his fingers drummed lightly against the wheel, like he was enjoying being admired. Like the praise was his right, and Percy was simply wise enough to recognize it.

“Tch.” The man exhaled sharply, like none of this was a big deal, but the barest hint of amusement curled under his words. “I am very good.”

Percy grinned. This guy was so cool.

Then— “Where’s your home?”

Percy’s grin faltered.

The man didn’t even look at him, just asked it like it was an afterthought. A dismissal.

Percy hesitated, shifting in his seat. “Uh…”

The man hummed impatiently. “Kid, don’t tell me you’re lost.”

“No, I, uh—I have a home,” Percy said quickly. He peeked at the man’s fingers, still resting loose on the wheel, his very capable hands ready to throw him right back into Gabe’s. He needed to think. Fast.

“It’s just—if you drop me off now, I’ll be alone.” His voice was careful. Just enough truth, just enough hesitation. He glanced down, working a nervous swallow into it for effect.

Then, he looked up.

He turned his face just enough to try and catch the man’s gaze—not that he could actually see his eyes. The only thing staring back at him were the hollow slits of that golden mask, swallowing all light. But still, Percy tilted his chin just so, widening his eyes, pulling his shoulders in like he was small and defenseless (which, technically, he was). He had no idea if it would work, but his mom always said he had big, soulful eyes, and if that was his only weapon right now, he’d use it.

“My mom won’t be home for a while,” he added, voice just a little softer, just a little more uncertain. “Just, uh… him.”

Silence.

A muscle in the man’s jaw ticked.

Percy didn’t move, keeping his face as pitiful as possible. It was hard to tell if the man was actually looking at him or just through him, but the air in the car changed. Percy could practically hear the irritation building, like a storm winding up behind the golden mask.

Then came the grumble. Low. Exasperated. Like the universe itself was conspiring to make his life inconvenient.

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “brats” and “cursed luck.” Then, louder, with deep reluctance, “Fine. You stay with me. Until six.”

Percy hesitated. “Eight?”

The man groaned. “Unbelievable.” A hand ran through his unruly black hair before dropping back to the wheel. “Fine. Eight. But,” he said, shooting Percy a warning glance, “you follow my rules. Not a squeak unless spoken to. You do exactly what I say, when I say it.” He exhaled sharply. “I don’t make a habit of taking in freeloaders.”

Percy could totaly do that.

He opened his mouth to say something—what, he wasn’t sure—but the golden mask turned sharply in his direction.

“Not a squeak.” The words were flat. Final.

Percy’s lips pressed together.

The man nodded, satisfied. Without another word, he flicked the radio on.

A rich, commanding voice filled the car, deep and dramatic, rolling syllables like ocean waves. The sound was old, theatrical—an audio play? Some kind of performance?

At first, Percy didn’t recognize the language. The words were foreign, twisting like they belonged in an old temple somewhere.

And yet—

His brain did something weird.

It was like hearing two voices at once—one speaking the original words, the other overlaying them in perfect English. He wasn’t thinking about the translation. He just… understood.

It was automatic. Effortless.

Like breathing underwater.

‟Swear by the Gods, swear by love, swear by blood—but tell me, when the wind turns and the years grow long, will you still remember what your tongue promised? Or will you call it Fate, and let me be the only one who pays the price?”

Wow. Dark.

His head snapped toward the driver, half-expecting him to say something. To acknowledge how insanely weird this was.

The man didn’t react. He just kept driving, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, radiating the kind of confidence that said he belonged behind the wheel of a golden car tearing through New York.

Percy swallowed and cautiously opened his mouth.

The golden mask turned sharply in his direction.

Percy shut his mouth.

Yeah. Not the weirdest thing that had happened to him today anyway.

Chapter Text

Percy stirred as the car dipped underground, the shift in light pulling him from sleep. Somewhere between the dull drone of the radio play and the hypnotic hum of the engine, his eyelids had just...given up the fight. He blinked groggily, half-formed dreams slipping away as he pushed himself upright in the passenger seat."

The golden Chrysler glided down a ramp into an underground parking lot, the overhead lights casting long, sterile glows across polished concrete. The walls were lined with sleek metal signs.

ΟΛΥΜΠΙΑΚΟΣ ΣΤΑΘΜΟΣ – Εξουσιοδοτημένη Πρόσβαση Μόνο

Which was… not English. And yet, his brain read it anyway. Olympus Parking – Authorized Access Only.

Welcome to his new reality. At that point, he should stop getting surprised.

They passed row after row of luxury cars—sleek Lamborghinis, polished Rolls-Royces, a ridiculous number of high-end convertibles, all of them looking like they belonged to the kind of people who had drivers instead of licenses. The golden Chrysler was fancy too, but next to these, it looked almost... understated.

And then they passed into another section—one set apart by thick golden pillars and a massive VIP ACCESS sign.

Inside a cramped booth just before the entrance, a parking attendant lounged behind a desk, flipping through a newspaper like he had more important things to ignore. Empty coffee cups and a half-eaten bagel littered the space, but the moment he caught sight of the Chrysler, he jolted upright, shoving his paper aside

He leaned out of the window, adjusting his high-visibility vest like it made him very important. "This is VIP access only!"

The driver did not stop to listen.

The attendant sputtered, indignant, trying to find his words, but the Chrysler was already rolling forward like the conversation was over.

"Hey!" the attendant barked, waving his clipboard like a weapon. "Hey, you can’t—!"

The golden mask didn’t even turn to glance at the guy. He just rolled down the window, lifted his hand off the wheel, and flipped him off in one smooth, practised motion.

The attendant let out a strangled noise of bureaucratic outrage, his clipboard clutched like a lifeline, but Percy’s savior made a noncommittal grunt, rolling the window back up like the whole thing had never happened. The Chrysler purred on, slipping past the golden pillars and into the VIP section without another glance.

And then Percy got a look at the vehicles parked here.

The ones before had been expensive. These? Way cooler.

A massive, black-and-chrome Harley Davidson gleamed under the fluorescent lights, the metal etched with stylized flames.

A few spots down, a Bentley convertible sat with its top down, the paint job shimmering between soft pink and deep red depending on how the light hit it. The rims were heart-shaped—which seemed like a design crime—but the custom license plate, "LUVME", told him exactly what kind of person owned it.

And then there was the bus.

A massive, purple-and-gold party bus tilted slightly like it had seen better days. It was covered in dust, its tires locked with one of those giant metal clamps they slap on illegally parked cars. A notice had been slapped on the windshield: "IMMOBILIZED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.”

It had clearly been there for a while. Probably long enough that whatever party had been happening inside had ended with a very rough hangover.

The Chrysler rolled toward the far end of the lot, where a few spacious parking spots stood apart from the others. It eased into the middle one. The wall in front bore a fancy fork symbol with three prongs, painted in deep ocean blue.

The space to the left was empty, but the wall in front of it bore another painted emblem: a skull-shaped helmet in black, the kind that looked like it belonged to a gladiator or some kind of ancient warrior.

To the right, a black stretch limo oozed self-importance, sprawled across multiple spots like it had claimed dominion over the entire lot. A gold-chromed lightning bolt crowned the hood—because of course it did. Subtlety? Never heard of her.

The masked driver exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he cut the engine. “I have to work for a few hours.”

Percy blinked. Work? Somehow, he hadn’t pictured this guy holding down a nine-to-five.

“I’m taking you with me,” the man continued, reaching for the door handle. “But remember the rules—”

“I do what you tell me to do, I know,” Percy cut in, rolling his eyes.

The intimidation factor had faded the moment he heard the man let out a suspiciously wet sniff at the big betrayal scene in the radio play—right before Percy finally lost his battle with exhaustion.

The golden mask turned toward him. ‟And?” The head tilt that followed was pure menace—silent, heavy, filled with unspoken threats of doom.

Percy plastered on the biggest, wide-eyed look he could muster. Pure, angelic confusion.

The stare held.

Percy blinked. Slowly. Like a clueless baby seal.

The man exhaled through his nose, the long-suffering sound of someone deeply regretting all his life choices. “And you shut up.”

Percy mimed zipping his lips, locking them, and—just for effect—chucking the imaginary key over his shoulder.

The man stared for half a beat longer. Then let out a short, incredulous breath—somewhere between a scoff and a sigh—before shoving the door open and climbing out.

As Percy followed, he frowned. Work? What kind of work did a guy like this do?

Had to be finance. A Wall Street big shot, probably. Some terrifying hedge fund guy with too much money and a corner office. Maybe this was one of those glass towers where people screamed into phones and threw around billions like Monopoly money.

Then he saw the man shift, and the sword at his hip caught the light.

…Right.

Percy reconsidered.

Mafia boss?

Yeah, that made more sense.

While the man busied himself with the trunk, Percy’s mind spiraled.

What if, instead of dropping him off back home, the guy just—kept him? Swept him and his mom away from that dump of an apartment and into a life of luxury?

Like a Hallmark movie.

Percy imagined himself and his mom in some huge mansion, sitting by a pool, eating whatever rich people ate while this guy did his Mafia business in the background. Maybe a butler. Maybe unlimited hot chocolate. The good kind, too—with real whipped cream, not the sad instant packets.

Percy could live with that.

Then the trunk slammed shut, snapping him out of his fantasy like a popped soap bubble.

The man hefted a heavy-looking bag over his shoulder, clearly preparing to leave. Just in time.

A shout rang through the parking lot. "How many times do I have to tell you?! You do not have a membership! You can't park here!"

The parking attendant from earlier came barreling toward them, clipboard raised like he was ready to smack someone with it.

The masked man did not wait to argue. With a sharp tsk, he turned on his heel and bolted toward the elevators.

Percy scrambled to follow—but his legs were shorter. Way shorter.

The distance between them stretched.

The attendant was gaining.

And then Percy’s feet left the ground.

The world flipped, his stomach swooped, and suddenly, he was thrown over a shoulder like a sack of particularly annoying potatoes.

From his new (and very undignified) perch, Percy got an excellent view of the furious attendant chasing after them.

He grinned.

Then, just to be a menace, he stuck his tongue out.

The man shouted something incoherent, clipboard flailing wildly as he ran.

The world jolted with every step, Percy’s vision lurching up and down in rhythm with his ride’s pounding footsteps.

Bounce.

The high-vis vest flickered—no, shifted—into something else.

Armor.

Shining metal plates, a crested helmet, a short sword strapped to his side—

Bounce.

Neon vest again.

Bounce.

Back to armor.

What a weird day. Cool. But weird.

The elevator doors came into view. The masked man picked up speed. The attendant was falling behind, panting hard.

Still, he wasn’t giving up. "You think you can just—" wheeze "—escape every time?! That’s it! I’m writing you up! You’re getting a ticket!"

The masked man did not slow.

Percy squinted.

Definitely a filthy rich criminal, then. No one ignored parking tickets that confidently unless they were too loaded to care.

They skidded into the elevator. The doors slid shut just as the attendant reached them. Through the narrowing gap, Percy got one last glimpse of the man furiously scribbling on his ticket pad, rage practically steaming off of him.

Then—ding. The doors closed.

Percy let out a breath.

"You can put me down now," he muttered.

The man dropped him like he weighed nothing. Percy staggered, barely catching himself before he face-planted. "Whose spot did you take?"

The man shrugged. "Father’s."

Percy frowned. "Won't he be mad?"

The man snorted. "He’s not here to complain, is he?" Then, with a dismissive flick of the wrist, "And it’s the least he owes me."

Ah. Deadbeat dad.

Percy nodded sagely.

In his opinion, that was worse than his own situation. His dad might be dead—he knew what kind of euphemism "disappeared at sea" was, thank you very much, Mom—but at least he hadn’t walked away on purpose.

Percy glanced at the two figures reflected back on the mirrored walls—one small, scrawny, with a bruised cheek already darkening from a well-placed backhand. The other tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in black, his face swallowed by a mask of gleaming gold.

They had the same hair.

Wild, unruly black waves, sticking out in every direction like they had a personal vendetta against brushes.

Percy frowned.

If his dumbest, most ridiculous Hallmark-fantasy became reality and this guy somehow ended up as his new stepdad, people would take one look at them and assume they were related.

The only obstacle would be convincing his mom to take a chance on a guy who stomped around in a creepy golden mask like an escaped theater prop.

Then again—Percy tilted his head, considering—he’d watched enough movies with her to know she had a weakness for the black-haired, temperamental, arrogant ones. It wasn’t hopeless.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to reveal a grand, marble-floored lobby.

Percy recognized it immediately. Polished brass fixtures. Towering columns. An information desk that looked like it belonged in an old-timey movie, complete with a stern-looking receptionist who could probably incinerate people with a glance alone.

They had just stepped into the lobby of the Empire State Building.

Percy’s head snapped toward his companion, expecting some kind of explanation, but the masked man just strolled forward like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Okay. Sure. They were in the most famous building in the city. Maybe the guy’s office was in one of the upper floors?

But instead of heading toward the elevators, the man veered straight for the exit.

Percy blinked. Huh.

He followed, dodging past tourists dragging rolling suitcases behind them. The city hit him like a wall—blaring taxi horns, the smell of roasted nuts from a street cart, the general chaos of Manhattan in full swing.

Okay, so maybe the guy’s office was in a nearby building. Parking in the Empire State Building’s VIP section was probably just a convenience thing. Or an annoy-the-heck-out-of-his-dad thing. Percy would’ve done the same.

They walked for less than a block, weaving through the crowd. People here were too busy to pay attention to anything weird. A guy in a big, clunky, horrific-looking golden mask? No one even blinked.

Percy loved New York.

And then they stopped in front of hot dog stand.

A golden hot dog stand.

The masked man stepped behind it, set his bag down, and started opening it like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Percy stared.

Then stared harder.

His fantasy of a high-stakes mafia life crumbled into dust.

So much for assumptions.

“Don’t just stand there,” the man grumbled, pulling out a folded menu board and shoving it at him. “Put the menu out.”

Percy took it automatically. “Yes, boss.”

“It’s captain.” The golden mask shot back like a reflex.

Percy blinked. Then, with the gravitas of a seven-year-old fully committing to the bit, he snapped to attention and threw up the sloppiest, most dramatic salute known to mankind.

“Aye aye, Captain!” he barked. “Permission to hoist the menu, Captain!”

The man let out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing his temple beneath the mask. “Just put it up, brat.”

Percy lugged the menu board to the front of the stand, struggling a little with his wimpy seven-year-old arms, but eventually managed to set it up.

He straightened, wiped his hands, and glanced at the sign.

The letters weren’t English, not at first. Then his brain did that weird thing again.

NO OLYMPIANS ALLOWED.
Line Cutters Meet the Sword.
Drachmas or Nothing.
No Discounts.
If You’re Not Happy With the Price,
Swim Back to the Aegean and Get It Yourself!

Olympians. There it was again. Had to be the father’s workplace. Man, the grudge must run deep if he refused to serve the whole company.

Inside the cart, the man was unloading items from his heavy bag and arranging them in a glass display case.

Percy rocked onto his tiptoes, craning his neck for a better look.

And froze.

These weren’t ketchup bottles or napkin dispensers.

They were fancy. Ancient-looking. Gold, silver, bronze—rings, coins, pendants, stuff that looked like it had been dug up from some ruined temple and was probably supposed to be in a museum somewhere.

Percy’s dream of a criminal stepfather came roaring back in full force.

Okay. So, maybe he wasn’t a mafia boss. But a smuggler? A black-market treasure dealer? That was at least twice as cool.

And definitely a step-up from Gabe-can’t-even-cheat-at-poker-Ugliano.

He just had some reserves about the setup. This didn’t seem like the ideal location for shady dealings. Parked right in front of the Empire State Building wasn’t exactly the kind of discrete, back-alley operation he imagined criminals preferred.

Then again…

Maybe that was the point.

Hiding in plain sight.

After all, who would suspect a smuggling operation in the middle of a place constantly crawling with tourists and policemen? In a gold hot dog stand no less.

Gold car. Gold mask. Gold sword.

This guy really knew how to stay on theme.

Percy’s mind started drifting. Did he own a gold house? A gold bathtub? A gold toothbrush? Now that would be commitment. A—

Percy snorted. A goldfish.

The thought was so stupidly funny he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. What about—

His thoughts swerved abruptly.

Gold food.

Which, naturally, led to food.

Which led to his stomach growling loud enough to echo off the hot dog stand.

The masked man turned.

Percy’s face went red. “Uh. Sorry.”

The man huffed. Then, before Percy could react, he was lifted like he weighed nothing and plopped onto the counter.

Percy yelped. “Warn a guy, would you—”

The man ignored him, crouching down to rummage through the storage cabinets beneath the cart. Clanks and thuds followed as he shoved aside various objects, muttering under his breath the whole time. Percy caught snippets. Something about messy subordinates. Lack of organization. The deep sigh of a man personally victimized by other people’s incompetence.

Then—

“Aha!”

The man emerged victorious, holding a slightly squashed box of cookies like it was some legendary artifact. He ripped it open, pulled out a cookie, and handed it over without preamble.

Percy blinked. “Oh—uh, thanks—”

The man shoved the cookie into his mouth.

Mid-word.

Rude.

The edges of the cookie tugged at the split on Percy’s lip, making him wince. But it was food, and he was starving, so he chewed, swallowed—

And immediately choked.

Crumbs went down the wrong way. His body betrayed him. Percy hacked violently, smacking his chest, flailing for assistance.

The man let out a long sigh, grabbed a cup of water, and held it out.

Percy reached for it—

—tipped it instead.

Water sloshed straight onto his face.

He gasped. Spluttered.

The man went still.

Deathly still.

Percy coughed, wiping water from his chin. He sniffed. Blinked. Looked up—

The man hadn’t moved.

Frozen, mid-motion, his gaze locked onto Percy like he’d just seen something impossible.

Percy hesitated. Then, experimentally, waved a hand in front of the golden mask. “Uh. Hello?”

Nothing.

The man’s fingers twitched. Then, as if shaking off whatever had just short-circuited his brain, he exhaled sharply and grabbed Percy’s face, tilting it up, bringing it closer—like he was trying to identify a bug under a microscope.

A gloved thumb pressed lightly against Percy’s cheekbone at the edges of his bruises. Percy tensed, bracing himself instinctively—but it didn’t hurt. He relaxed.

The man did it again.

Percy swallowed. “Um. Personal space?”

The man ignored him, head tilting slightly, examining him from different angles, his breathing a little heavier than before.

Then, at last, he spoke—weirdly intense.

"Who did you say your father was, already?"

Chapter Text

"Who did you say your father was, already?"

Percy blinked. "Uh… I didn’t say?"

"Yeah." The man’s voice was flat. "That was me actually asking."

Oh.

Percy scratched the back of his neck.

‟Dunno. Missing at sea."

What else was he supposed to say? His life story?

The man finally let go of Percy’s face, threw his head back, and laughed. Full-bodied, shoulders-shaking, clutching-his-sides kind of laughter, like Percy had just told the funniest joke in existence.

Percy knew he could be hilarious—but that? That wasn’t even a joke.

Weirdo.

While the guy all but fell apart, Percy shrugged and went back to the cookies. No point in letting them go to waste. By the time the man finally pulled himself together—wiping at his mask like it had tears to dry—Percy was well on his way to finishing the box.

The man let out one last lingering chuckle, then exhaled sharply and straightened.

"Name’s Chrysaor." It was said like it meant something. Like it should have landed with some big, dramatic impact.

Percy, mid-struggle to swallow a too-big bite of cookie, nodded and managed a slightly muffled, "Cool."

For a moment, Chrysaor just… stared.

Percy had no idea what expression he was making under that mask, but judging by the way his shoulders twitched, like he physically didn’t know how to process what just happened, it had to be something dramatic. Then, slowly, his head tilted—just enough for Percy to recognize the look of a man debating whether or not he should be offended.

Apparently, he settled on offended.

With a sharp huff, he turned on his heel and resumed unloading his bag, placing each object into the display case with far too much force. A silver chalice clunked aggressively against the glass. A coin purse landed like a death sentence. The next item—some kind of old bronze brooch—was practically slammed down.

Percy watched, bemused, as Chrysaor grumbled the whole time, muttering under his breath.

"No recognition," CLUNK. "No respect," THUD. "Kids these days—no sense of history, no education, what are they even teaching them now—"

Sensing the impending arrival of a full-blown "in my time" rant, Percy quickly cut in. "Mine’s Percy, by the way."

Chrysaor didn’t acknowledge him, still too busy punishing the display case.

Percy sighed. "It’s short for Perseus," he added, throwing a bone in solidarity. From one poorly-named guy to another.

That did it.

The masked man froze mid-motion.

Like, really froze.

Not just a slight pause or a head tilt—he went statue still, like someone had yanked the plug on his whole existence. The object he was holding slipped from his fingers and hit the counter with a sharp clink. He didn’t even twitch.

Dramatic.

Which—wow, not nice.

After Percy had restrained himself on the guy’s own name.

And he’d had such good material.

Come on. The guy’s name was Chrysaor and he drove a Chrysler. That was comedic gold.

Percy squinted.

The man still hadn’t moved.

Okay, rude. Percy was starting to get offended.

He knew his name was unfortunate, no need to go that far. He got teased about it often enough at school. Honestly, that was his one gripe with his mom—he didn’t even know where the name came from because she refused to tell him.

The man still hadn’t moved.

Now Percy was starting to get worried.

Was he having a seizure? A stroke? Was this some kind of attack?

His full name always got some kind of reaction, but this was a first.

He shuffled closer on the counter, craning his neck to get a better look. Maybe the golden guy had actually fried his circuits. He put a hand to his mouth, trying to feel for breath and pressed his ear against the guy’s chest.

…Heart beating.

Breath breathing.

So far, so good. Not a stroke, then.

But this close, Percy could feel something else—how tense Chrysaor was. His whole body coiled like a spring about to snap. His hands were clenched into fists, fingers white-knuckled. His jaw was tight, teeth grinding. The whole man was vibrating like an idling car engine.

Huh.

Maybe it was a seizure.

Someone had come to school last semester to talk about them. Two types, right? The full-blown convulsions one, and the kind where people just… zoned out.

This definitely looked like zoning out.

Percy squinted, trying to remember what they were supposed to do.

Step one: Stay calm.

Easy. Percy was the picture of Zen.

Step two: Reassure them.

Percy stretched his arms out and tried to hug him.

It was not that easy.

For one, his arms barely reached around the guy’s chest. For another, Chrysaor was solid muscle. Who even needed that much muscle? What was the point?

But now was not the time for that line of questioning. He needed to stay focused. What was the next point?

Ah.

Step three: Don’t restrain them.

Oh.

Percy immediately dropped the hug. Hesitated. Then started patting his shoulder instead.

“There, there,” he murmured. “Everything’s okay. You’re fine. You got this. Just, uh. Breathe through it.”

The man did not got this.

Still stiff as a board. Still vibrating.

Percy frowned, racking his brain. He was sure there was one last thing. Something about a soothing voice?

Right.

He cleared his throat, adopting what he hoped was a calming tone. “It’s all good, big guy. You’re safe. Nothing to be worried about. Everything’s—”

“Fuck.”

The word exploded out of Chrysaor so suddenly and so loudly that Percy yelled. His whole body jerked in surprise, his hand slipping, and then—

Oh.

Oh no.

Gravity happened.

The counter edge tilted away as he toppled backwards, arms flailing, the ground rushing up fast—

A hand snatched him midair.

Percy let out a strangled gkk! as he was yanked forward, pulled right into Chrysaor’s chest. The momentum swung him up until they were practically nose-to-mask, way too close, way too fast. Percy had to squint just to keep the guy’s face in focus.

For someone who had just been in full blue-screen mode, those were some damn good reflexes.

"Who gave you that name?" Chrysaor all but growled.

Percy stiffened. "Uh—my mother?" His voice pitched up slightly, confused by the sudden shift. “Are you okay? Do you need help? Do you want me to call someone? Maybe you should sit down?”

Chrysaor abruptly let go and took a step back, hands raised like he was in the middle of a hold-up.

Percy barely resisted the urge to rub at his arms where the guy’s fingers had been. Not that it had hurt, but—man. The intensity.

For a long moment, they just stood there.

Percy had the deep impression the man was blinking at him in confusion under that mask. He wasn’t alone in that. Percy felt like he was being dragged along by a conversation with no context. Mood swings, much?

“I’m good, Sprat,” Chrysaor finally said, slowly, his voice lower than before. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Percy mumbled, “’s okay.”

It wasn’t even that impressive as far as epileptic seizures went. The videos they showed at school were way more dramatic.

Chrysaor exhaled, dragging a hand down his hair. Then he leaned out of the cart, tilting his head back to peer up at the Empire State Building.

"They should’ve noticed I’m open up on their mountain by now," he muttered. Then, shaking himself off, "I need to finish setting up before we're flooded with those barnacle-brained fools."

And with that, he busied himself with the last of his items, retrieving them from his bag and setting them up in the display case—all while keeping a very safe distance from Percy.

Like he was dealing with some skittish animal about to bolt.

Percy squinted at him.

Weirdo.

The first customers arrived exactly as Chrysaor had expected.

They were a strange, varied bunch—some draped in light fabrics not at all adapted to the season, others in very sharp business clothes. Men with silver-threaded hair and sun-darkened skin. Some people of indistinguishable gender. A woman who walked like she wasn’t used to solid ground, her movements just a little too fluid, too weightless, as if gravity were a suggestion rather than a rule.

When Percy glanced from the corner of his eye, their edges flickered, their shapes shifting into something other. A glint of golden scales coiled beneath a man’s collar. A pair of wings sprouting from behind a woman’s ears before smoothing back to normal. A passerby bumped into a hunched old man who let out a musical tsk—not a voice, exactly, but something in the air that rang like struck cristal.

Even the air itself seemed to shift with each newcomer. Some left behind a lingering chill as they walked past. Others radiated heat, too warm for the autumn air.

Percy took it all in stride.

At this point, nothing fazed him anymore.

His job was counting the big golden coins people paid with. The drachmas, Chrysaor had called them. They were heavy in his palm, strangely warm to the touch, stamped with designs that changed from coin to coin.

At first, Percy counted normally. Then he got bored. And started dragging it out. One… two… oh, would you look at that engraving?

Some customers got impatient. Chrysaor did not even grace the first complaint with a response. His looming just got heavier. Fun.

One customer started tapping his foot.

So, naturally, Percy slowed down more.

He lifted a drachma, turning it this way and that. “Huh,” he mused, “shiny.”

Chrysaor made a thoughtful noise. Then, very deliberately, he pulled out his sword and started sharpening it.

Percy just hmm’d and held the next coin up to the light. “Think this one’s real?” he asked, deadpan.

Chrysaor dragged the whetstone real slow along the blade.

The customer swallowed.

Percy bit his lip, barely holding in a grin.

Chrysaor, the menace, didn’t miss a beat. “Dunno, Sprat,” he mused, inspecting the edge of his sword. “Could be a fake.”

Percy clicked his tongue. “Tragic.”

The customer shoved the rest of the payment forward and practically ran.

Percy grinned.

Of course, time flew when you were having fun.

Too soon, the sky had started shifting into twilight, the sun dipping low between the buildings, stretching the shadows long and thin across the pavement. The line of customers didn’t slow, but the stock in the display case steadily dwindled.

Then came the turn of a figure wrapped in a ridiculously long black cloak, a medical mask, and a wide-brimmed hat tilted so low it swallowed their entire face. If they were trying to be inconspicuous, it was an absolute failure. But, Percy gave them points for style anyway. It gave spy movie.

And he was living for it.

Before the figure could even speak, Chrysaor stopped them cold with a pointed jab toward the rules list. "Can’t you read, you blinding nuisance?"

The figure slumped like a scolded puppy. “How did you even know?”

Percy started, caught off guard by the voice—musical, like a full symphony swelling with mournful undertones, rich and layered, too deep for the honking taxis and hurried footsteps of New York streets.

Chrysaor folded his arms. “Your hands are glowing.”

Percy did a double take.

Sure enough, soft golden light seeped from beneath the black sleeves, like the last lingering rays of the sun were trapped under the fabric.

Huh.

The figure tucked their hands further into their sleeves. “Can’t you make an exception?” they tried, wheedling.

Chrysaor scoffed. “Not happening.”

He barely got the words out before, in one fluid motion, he spun—his hand flashing to his belt—and thunk.

A dagger buried itself cleanly between the outstretched fingers of a would-be thief, stopping barely an inch from their palm.

Percy gawked. That was unnecessarily cool.

"Try me, Autolykos," Chrysaor said, his voice slipping into a lazy drawl." And see what happens,"

The man in question—grey-haired, with the kind of sharp nose that belonged on statues—stilled completely. Then, far too charmingly, he smiled.

Percy did not like that smile. It was the kind of smile people had before asking, Hey, kid, wanna see a magic trick? and then making your quarter disappear forever.

Autolykos let out a breathy chuckle and very slowly—very carefully— withdrew his hand. “My bad, Chrysaor,” he said, all easy charm. “Can’t help myself. You know how it is.”

He started backing up, hands raised in a what-can-you-do kind of shrug, grin still locked in place like he’d never been caught doing anything bad in his life.

Chrysaor wasn’t having it. He held out his hand, expectant. “Forgetting something?”

Percy’s eyes flicked back to the display case. Sure enough, a gaudy golden brooch was missing.

Autolykos sighed, lifting his palms. “You caught me in time. Honest.”

Chrysaor did not look convinced. “Turn your pockets out.”

The grin didn’t waver.

That was starting to freak Percy out. No one smiled that much. It wasn’t natural.

Autolykos turned out his pockets, one by one, flipping them inside out with theatrical flair. A brass compass. A handful of dice. A piece of string tied in a complicated knot. A half-eaten apple. Nothing that even remotely looked like a stolen bauble.

“See?” Autolykos said, all wide-eyed innocence and perfect smile. “Nothing of yours.”

Chrysaor snorted. “Do you take me for last winter’s greenhorn guppy?” He jabbed a finger at the mess of objects. “Transform it back.”

For the first time, Autolykos’ smile faltered.

Pop. The brass compass shimmered and melted into shape, reforming into the missing brooch.

Percy jumped. “Whoa.”

With a dramatic sigh, Autolykos plucked the brooch from his own pile of junk and tossed it back onto the counter. “You’re never any fun,” he grumbled, stuffing the rest of his trinkets back into his pockets and turning on his heel.

Chrysaor just rolled his eyes and put the brooch back in place.

The steady line of customers never seemed to slow.

Percy found himself impressed so many people were willing to fork over handfuls of gold for what basically amounted to old stuff. People came, people went. The stock in the display case reduced bit by bit.

Then, in the middle of an otherwise uneventful transaction, Chrysaor stiffened.

Percy felt it more than saw it—the sudden shift in posture, the way his shoulders squared just slightly, muscles coiling tight under his shirt. Then, without a word, he bent down to Percy’s level and pointed discreetly at a man standing in line.

“Be careful with that one.”

Chapter Text

“Be careful with that one.”

Wow. Ominous.

Careful how? Like don’t-trust-him careful? Don’t-make-eye-contact careful? Don’t-ask-him-about-his-tragic-backstory careful? Because Percy was gonna need specifics here.

None came.

Just pure, premium-grade ominousness.

The man in question didn’t seem all that alarming. He was youthful—though something about him made it hard to pin an exact age. His hair, golden-blond, had a strand that fell onto his forehead in an annoyingly perfect way, like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.

His turn came quickly. He didn’t browse, didn’t linger—just quickly selected a gold laurel necklace, placed a small pile of drachmas on the counter, and turned to leave just as swiftly as he’d arrived.

Taking Chrysaor’s annoyingly vague warning to heart, Percy double-checked the coins.

And then frowned.

One extra.

He glanced up. Chrysaor was occupied, listening to a client making some sort of special order.

Percy hesitated.

Technically, it wasn’t his problem. Chrysaor probably wouldn’t even notice—if he did, he wouldn’t care. The guy didn’t exactly scream scrupulous businessman. But Percy? Keeping something that wasn’t his, even by accident, made his skin itch.

And if this guy was sketchy enough to make even a man like Chrysaor wary, then Percy figured it was better to just avoid any trouble altogether.

Still.

He sighed, hopped down from the stand, and darted after the man. Chrysaor probably wouldn’t thank him for it—but hey, not like Percy was doing it for himself.

The guy was quick, slipping through the crowd like he knew exactly where the gaps would be before they opened. Percy had to push past groups of slow walkers, sidestep a street performer mid-juggle, and nearly tripped over a stack of newspapers just to keep up.

Only when he finally caught up did Percy notice something weird—the guy was completely bald on the back of his head.

Like, completely.

Shiny as a new coin.

What an absurd fashion choice. If you were going to be blessed with model-tier hair, shouldn’t you have to commit to it all the way?"

“Wait! You overpaid!”

The man turned, brows raised and expression warm. He reached out, swiftly plucked the extra drachma from Percy’s palm, and let out a small chuckle. “What an honest young man!”

Just as quickly, geniality faded and turned to disappointment. A slow shake of the head, theatrical, exaggerated, like a teacher scolding a particularly slow student. "I'm appalled you let a chance like that slip by."

Percy blinked. “Uh… sorry?”

“You really are too cute for your own good,” the man murmured, leaning in closer and peering straight through his eyes. “That won’t do.” His voice took on a lilted light, teasing. ‟You need an intervention.”

Percy had no idea what kind of intervention he was supposed to need, but judging by the way he was looking at him—like some half-finished project that needed fixing—he wasn’t sure he wanted one.

And then the man’s voice shifted—richer, layered, like it was speaking in more than one place at once. He lifted his hand, index and middle finger extended—then tapped them lightly against Percy’s forehead.

For a second—just a second—everything lurched.

The street noise dulled, like someone had thrown a thick wool blanket over the city. The air went thick, syrupy. A slow, dragging sensation curled under Percy’s skin, like he was suddenly being pulled by an unseen tide. His heartbeat thumped heavy in his ears—one slow, deliberate beat, stretched too long—before everything snapped back into place.

“You’ll learn to recognize an opportunity when it stares you right in the face.”

The words settled in him.

A hum in his ribs, coiling like a spring, tensing at the base of his spine. Warm and watchful, like a wave about to crest.

His mouth felt dry. “Uh—thank you?” he stammered. Licked his lips. “But I just didn’t want to take something that wasn’t mine. I’m not a thief.”

The man smiled.

And oh, that was worse.

Percy had the distinct feeling he’d played right into his hands.

“Not a thief, huh?” the man mused, tapping the recovered drachma against his palm. “Makes sense—your kind isn’t exactly known for stealing.”

Percy blinked. My kind?

Before he could ask, the man’s gaze flicked past him, toward Chrysaor, who had just joined them. The masked man’s hand landed on Percy’s head, grounding. At the same time, he shifted just enough to stand between them, a wall in black and gold.

“Well,” the blond man added, tone light, almost conversational, “except for one.”

Chrysaor bristled. Took a step forward. “What did you say?”

The air around them felt heavier, like the humidity before a thunderstorm.

The man lifted his hands in faux guilelessness, expression smooth as ever. “Me? Nothing at all.”

Chrysaor huffed, muttering something distinctly unfriendly under his breath. His voice dropped into a growl. “So what do you want, you opportunistic bastard?”

The man smirked, tilting his head. “Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?”

Chrysaor’s jaw flexed. “What. Do. You. Want. Kairos”

Percy had no idea what was happening, but he was pretty sure he was witnessing some kind of heavyweight grudge match. Chrysaor looked like he was about to commit a felony. Kairos looked like he’d enjoy watching it happen.

The man’s smile sharpened, but he leaned casually against the wall, easy as ever. “You know what I want.”

Chrysaor’s hands clenched at his sides. Then, his tone went deadly. “I already said no.”

Kairos only shrugged, gaze flickering between Percy—still half-hidden behind Chrysaor, thoroughly confused—and the Empire State Building towering above them. “Suits yourself.”

Chrysaor swore under his breath. Then, grumbling, “That’ll teach me to be kind,” he ground out, “Fine. I’ll get it to you in—”

Kairos straightened, all geniality again. “Before the spring equinox.”

Chrysaor glared. Hard. “Fine.”

Kairos grinned, utterly pleased with himself. “Always a pleasure—”

“Get out of my sight.”

Kairos just winked at Percy and and tipped an imaginary hat before sauntering off.

Percy squinted, trying to focus—

And there it was. The flicker. Like before, something just beneath the surface, shifting at the edges of sight—like a coin catching the light at the perfect angle, just for a second, before slipping away again.

A tightness curled around his eyes, a creeping pressure, like he’d been staring into the sun too long. He leaned in slightly, trying to make sense of it—

A firm hand clamped over his eyes.

"Not him," Chrysaor muttered. "You don’t want to go blind."

Wait—that was an option?

Like, full-on, no-takebacks, congratulations-you’re-now-a-human-bat kind of blind?

Huh.

Weirdness, he could handle. Getting thrown into a shark tank? Hadn't been fun, but he'd survived. Turns out breathing underwater was a pretty great cheat code. But if he hadn’t had that trick? Yeah. He’d be fish food by now.

And now, apparently, looking at the wrong guy could straight-up fry his eyeballs?

What next? A pack of feral dogs mauling him for stepping on the wrong sidewalk square?

…Actually, considering his day, he probably shouldn’t put that one out into the universe.

Percy had been vibing with everything so far, but maybe he should start keeping a list of Things That Can Instantly Kill Me.

Right.

Good thought.

Kairos had spooked Chrysaor.

Like, seriously spooked.

One second, Percy was standing there, still trying to process whatever weird psychic forehead tap had just happened—

And, more importantly, mourning the loss of his previous life, where the worst thing that could happen from looking at someone was getting aggressively cussed out of the subway.

—The next he was bodily grabbed by Chrysaor and tucked under one arm.

Like a particularly uncooperative duffel bag.

"Hey—!" Percy squawked, arms flailing as his feet left the ground. "What the—"

Chrysaor ignored him.

In fact, Chrysaor was ignoring a lot of things.

Like the customers still waiting in line.

Like their very vocal protests as he shoved aside a guy reaching for a silver spoon.

Like the old lady trying to haggle over a locket who screeched, "I WASN’T FINISHED!"

Nope. No time for that. Apparently, everything was closed now.

With one hand, Chrysaor slammed the lid of the display case shut. With the other—still occupied with the child-sized carry-on luggage under his arm—he shoved a heavy iron lock onto the register, and stormed off at dead speed like a man on a mission.

Percy bounced helplessly, kicking at thin air. “Would it kill you to let me walk?!”

Chrysaor didn’t answer.

He did, however, break several pedestrian laws plowing through the sidewalk.

Percy caught a blur of startled faces, someone yelping as they dodged out of the way, and—yep—an overturned coffee cup hitting the pavement with a tragic splurt.

By the time Percy gathered enough breath to resume yelling, they had already cleared the block and barreled into the elevator.

Chrysaor slammed the button for the parking level like it had personally wronged him.

Percy took a second to catch his breath, then threw his hands up. "Okay—what the hell was that?!"

Because seriously. He’d put up with a lot today, but this? This was excessive.

Chrysaor didn’t answer.

Just stood there, vibrating with tension, fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword like he was physically restraining himself from committing a crime that would definitely make the evening news.

The elevator doors slid shut.

A second of silence.

Two.

Then—

Chrysaor turned, grabbed Percy’s face, and squished his cheeks together.

“Okay,” Percy mumbled through forcibly squashed lips. “Not an answer.”

Chrysaor leaned in, inspecting him with laser focus like he was trying to x-ray scan his soul.

"You," Chrysaor said, voice dangerously low, "are not about to tell me you told Kairos who you are."

Percy frowned. "I… didn’t?"

Chrysaor narrowed his eyes.

"Didn’t?" he repeated, like he was giving Percy one last chance to rethink that statement before he started flipping furniture.

"Yeah?" Percy said, then, realizing that sounded uncertain, cleared his throat. "I mean, no? I just—look, he bought something, left too much change, I gave it back, and then he, uh—"

He hesitated.

Because now that he was saying it out loud, the next part sounded weird.

Chrysaor, however, was having none of his hesitation.

"Then he what?"

"...Gave me a free forehead boop and said something cryptic about opportunities."

Silence.

A long, tense, horrifyingly silent silence.

Then—

Chrysaor immediately switched gears from angry to horrified.

"You let him touch you?!"

"Okay, see," Percy said, pointing, "phrasing it like that makes it sound a lot weirder than it was."

And it’s not like Percy could’ve stopped him. The guy was tall—not warrior-machine tall like Chrysaor, but that annoying, elegant kind of tall that made Percy feel like a hobbit in the wrong franchise.

Chrysaor wasn't listening—he had fully moved on to running a mental diagnostic check on Percy’s entire existence.

Which, honestly, was kind of offensive.

"Okay, okay, okay," Chrysaor muttered, hands in his hair, pacing now. "What exactly did he say?"

Percy blinked. "Uh. Something about recognizing opportunity."

Chrysaor snapped his attention back to Percy so fast it was a miracle his neck didn't break.

"Word for word," he ordered.

Percy squinted. "That feels like a high bar to set for a guy who just spent the last five minutes getting rattled around like loose change."

"Word. For. Word."

Percy sighed. "Okay, okay, hold on." He shut his eyes, backtracked in his brain, and recited slowly,"You’ll learn to recognize an opportunity when it stares you right in the face."

Chrysaor stared at him.

Percy stared back.

Chrysaor exhaled—deep, slow, tension leaving his shoulders like air out of a balloon.

The elevator dinged.

Parking level.

Without another word, Chrysaor turned and walked out.

Percy remained standing there.

Brain still buffering.

"That’s it?" he muttered.

Chrysaor did not answer, because he was already across the garage, striding toward the car with the full confidence of a man who was done with this conversation.

Percy hurried after him, legs working double-time. Because if he trailed behind too much, he was absolutely getting grabbed again, and he was at his limit for today on being treated like an inconvenient piece of luggage.

Chrysaor tore the parking ticket off the windshield with all the grace of a man ripping out an enemy’s throat. Percy watched as he crumpled it with unnecessary aggression, tossed it to the ground in pure, unfiltered disdain, and stormed toward the driver’s side.

They climbed into the car. Chrysaor shoved the key into the ignition. He asked for Percy’s address, and they tore out of the parking lot, tires screeching, barreling toward the exit like they were fleeing the scene of a crime. As they sped past the parking attendant’s booth, the sudden burst of speed sent a violent tremor through the little structure, rattling the windows and knocking over the guy’s half-empty coffee cup.

The city blurred past outside the window, but Percy barely noticed—too busy stewing in his very justified, very reasonable annoyance.

He’d been a total champ about everything so far. Okay.

Rolling with the weird. Adapting fast. Ignoring the fact that reality had been doing some very questionable things all day.

Considering his excellent track record of not freaking out, he figured he’d earned at least some kind of explanation about why they had to leave in such a hurry.

He narrowed his eyes. Time for answers.

Percy opened his mouth.

Chrysaor turned his head.

Well. The mask turned toward him, anyway.

Percy snapped his mouth shut.

Okay. Fine. That was still intimidating.

But he really, really wanted answers.

He tried again, tilting his head just so, widening his eyes a little.

He sensed a waver.

Bigger eyes.

Chrysaor looked away.

Darn. Too much.

Before Percy could try again, Chrysaor flipped on the radio.

A bright, dramatic symphonic-pop anthem was already blaring through the speakers—just in time for the grand finale.

The music swelled, strings rising in a fever pitch, the deep rumble of drums rolling like an oncoming storm. A triumphant brass section blasted as the singer’s voice soared, drenched in self-importance and at least three key changes too many.

"Dark coils writhe, the mountains scream,
But no beast stands where the Sun-God beams!"

The choir erupted, harmonizing in a way that suggested they were either standing at heaven’s doors or about to burst into flames from sheer intensity. A lone electric guitar riffed wildly in the background—because why not?

"My arrows soar, my wrath takes flight,
Bow before my golden might!"

And then—the moment.

A final earth-shattering drumroll, blaring trumpets, violins screeching toward an impossibly high note, and, of course, the singer holding the last syllable just a little too long, milking it for all it was worth.

“And that was Python’s Reckoning!”

Percy blinked.

That was...something.

Fine. Back to business.

Percy cleared his throat. Leaned forward slightly. “So—”

“Written, composed, and performed by yours truly, the Sun Chariot of Sound, the Lyre of Olympus, the One, the Only—”

Chrysaor turned the volume up.

“APOLLOOOOOO!”

Percy got the message.

He settled into his seat, arms crossed, and pouted.

Chapter Text

The golden Chrysler rolled to a stop in front of Percy’s apartment building, the engine humming like a satisfied beast.

Without a word, Percy reached for the door handle. No goodbye, no thanks for the ride, nothing. Maybe a little petty, but whatever. The guy had been ignoring him the whole way back, and Percy wasn’t about to be the first one to break the silence.

The door clicked open, and he swung one foot out—then froze.

Up above, in the window of their apartment, a shadow moved. The curtain twitched. Then, framed against the dim yellow glow of the kitchen light, Gabe’s silhouette leaned forward, scanning the street.

Percy’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t think—just yanked his foot back inside, slammed the door shut, and turned stiffly forward like nothing had happened. His pulse pounded in his ears.

He felt Chrysaor watching him, but the man stayed silent for a beat before saying, ‟I swore to keep you till eight. You’ve still got twenty minutes on my deck."

Percy exhaled slowly, tension ebbing out of his shoulders.

For a guy who was a walking storm of arrogance and attitude, he could be infuriatingly decent.

Percy huffed, sinking into the seat, gaze shifting to the subway exit across the street. The entrance yawned open, swallowing commuters one after another, each one vanishing into the underground like they were being devoured.

The radio still played, but at least the new host wasn’t as dramatic. Gone were the too-many key changes and the overblown ballads. The new voice was smoother, easier to ignore. Percy had no idea who it was, but at least they weren’t delivering every line like they expected the heavens to open in applause.

Small mercies.

A radio jingle burst through the car’s speakers, cutting the song mid-bridge with an obnoxiously catchy trumpet flourish.

‟Good evening, dear listeners! You’re tuned into another exclusive edition of Olympus Unfiltered: The Divine Dish, your premier source for late-breaking developments, high-stakes whispers, and all the drama you didn’t know you wanted to hear!"

The voice slid smoothly into the car—casual, charismatic, and just a little too pleased with itself.

"And folks, do we have a storm brewing tonight—"

The radio crackled, like it was holding its breath before the punchline.

"Big news from the West Coast—Los Angeles just lit up like a storm, and not the kind you check the forecast for. A flash, a crack of thunder, and just like that—someone’s existence isn’t so secret anymore. And judging by the way the ground’s shaking? My uncle-down-below has taken notice and is not happy about it."

On Percy’s left, Chrysaor had gone still.

The voice on the radio continued, smooth as ever.

"And honestly? Can’t say I blame him. Not when it’s a proof dear-old-Dad has—shall we say—violated the very oath he forced his brothers to swear."

A rumble rolled through the speakers—not a normal interference kind of crackle, but the deep, distant growl of something much bigger.

The voice picked up again, crisp and far too entertained.

"Yes, dear listeners, you heard that right. An actual, living, breathing new sister of mine has been found. And judging by the sheer volume of monsters reportedly swarming out of every dark corner of the West Coast, I’d wager she won’t stay hidden for long."

BOOM.

Thunder detonated through the speakers—Percy jumped.

Somewhere in the city, a bolt of lightning split the sky. But when Percy looked up? The sky was still perfectly clear.

"Okaay—" the voice wavered just slightly, the first sign of hesitation slipping through his otherwise flawless delivery. "Yep. That’s our cue, folks. This is Hermes signing off, and—uh—moving to a less conductive location."

There was a hurried shuffle, like someone gathering up papers, followed by an exasperated mutter.

"Best of luck, new sib—wherever you are. And may the Fates be with you—because Zeus sure won’t."

ZAP.

The radio shrieked. A high-pitched, ear-splitting screech of static—it cut out.

A beat of silence.

Then—

It came back on with a new voice. Deep. Solemn. Rolling syllables like an actor delivering the opening lines of an ancient tragedy.

Percy blinked at the radio. Then out the window, where another bolt of lightning flickered in the distance.

The sky was still clear.

"I feel like I'm missing something," Percy said slowly.

Beside him, the golden mask turned.

A beat.

Then, flat, dry, pure sarcasm. "You have no idea."

A longer silence.

Then—the golden mask snapped back toward him. A sharp flick of Chrysaor’s wrist, and the radio cut off mid-sentence.

"You have no idea?!?!"

Percy blinked. "Uh…"

“You—” Chrysaor made a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a curse. He turned fully toward Percy, staring like he’d just been personally insulted by the universe. “This whole afternoon—and you—”

Then, as if deciding it was simply too much to unpack right now, he exhaled sharply. "Not my problem."

He turned the radio up.

Percy slumped back into his seat, frowning at the return of the dramatic monologue.

...Yeah. He was definitely missing something.

The voice on the radio shifted, the smooth cadence of a recitation taking over.

"No woman—no mother—no daughter,
A thing of horror, cursed and cast down!
Look not upon her, lest your flesh betray you,
Lest your bones cry out and turn to stone!
She who crawled from the ruin of temples,
She whose breath is the rot of the earth,
She who wears death as a mantle,
Her tresses a wreath of vipers,
A beast—"

The radio cut off with a violent click.

Chrysaor’s hand was still on the dial, fingers clenched tight.

Then—BANG.

His fist slammed into the headboard.

Percy flinched. Not from fear—no, the feeling curling in his gut wasn’t fear. More like a draw, the same kind as when the sky darkens too fast, when the wind shifts and the air turns thick, charged with the promise of a storm not yet broken. The golden Chrysler creaked under the tension. Percy swore he heard the faintest groan from the metal, the whisper of condensation blooming across the windows, like the air before the first drop of rain.

Chrysaor’s chest heaved. His shoulders were bunched, his whole body locked tight with fury barely contained. His mask had no expression, but Percy could feel the storm behind it. Something deep and old and aching.

BANG.

Another hit—hard enough to make the dashboard rattle.

His breath was ragged now, bordering on a snarl.

BANG.

The next blow was coming down, the muscles in his arm coiled like a striking snake.

Before it could land—Percy moved.

Both his hands shot out, wrapping around Chrysaor’s wrist. He caught it mid-swing, stopping the force behind it before it could crash into the headboard again.

The contact stunned them both.

Percy half expected the man to rip free, to shake him off like a dog snapping out of a daze. Instead, Chrysaor froze. His whole body locked up—like Percy had pressed a pause button neither of them knew existed.

His breath was still uneven, but there was a hitch now—like he didn’t know what to do with the hands holding him still.

Slowly, Percy guided the captured hand downward, not letting go. He pressed it against his own chest, right over his heart.

And he breathed.

Deep. Steady. Slow.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

For a long, stretched-out moment, neither of them moved.

Chrysaor’s fingers twitched under Percy’s grip, but he didn’t pull away. His breathing, still ragged, matched Percy’s slower rhythm. His shoulders eased, just slightly. The pressure in the air dulled—not gone, but tempered, like heavy clouds thinning at the edges, holding back the downpour.

Percy had no idea why the poem had sent Chrysaor into a rage.

But he didn’t need to.

He felt it.

Not a wound, but the deep ache of a scar long closed over. The kind of pain that sat heavy in a person’s chest, making every breath feel like a battle—like screaming without sound, like fighting without ever landing a hit.

Percy had no idea what had carved that pain into Chrysaor’s chest, but he knew what it was like to be powerless. To want to strike back and know it wouldn’t change anything. To hold it all in because there was no other choice.

So he stayed there.

Just breathing.

Just existing.

Chrysaor let him.

Time blurred.

Then—

His mom.

The moment she stepped onto the street, Percy’s head turned—an instinct as natural as the tide finding the shore. No matter the crowd, no matter the noise, he knew when she was here. Always.

Excitement surged in his chest, breaking the moment like a pebble tossed into a still pond. He started to move, turning toward the door—

Then stopped.

He was still holding Chrysaor’s hand.

His fingers curled around the man’s wrist, an instinct he didn’t quite understand.

Slowly, hesitantly, he looked back.

Chrysaor was already watching him.

Something about the way he was looking made Percy’s chest feel tight. Like he was memorizing his face. Like he was engraving the moment somewhere deep inside, making sure it wouldn’t fade.

Then—gentle. So gentle it nearly broke something in Percy’s ribs.

Chrysaor reached out.

Brushed a hand through Percy’s messy hair.

And simply said, “Go.”

His voice—so soft.

Percy’s throat felt weird. Thick. Tight.

He didn’t want to go.

Some stupid, stubborn part of him wanted to stay. To sit here and breathe in the quiet just a little longer. To hold onto the ridiculous, impossible fantasy that had taken root somewhere between this golden car and the stolen moments of safety it had lent him.

The one where he kept this man.

Chrysaor pressed his hand lightly against Percy’s shoulder.

“Go, guppy.”

Still so gentle.

Percy swallowed hard.

Then, with what felt like a hundred extra years dragging at his limbs, he let go.

He climbed out of the car.

The door shut behind him.

And the golden Chrysler rolled away.

Chapter Text

The moment Percy’s feet hit the sidewalk, he ran straight to his mother. He barreled into her, arms wrapping tight around her waist. She smelled like home—like laundry detergent and the faintest trace of caramel and powdered sugar. She pulled him close, her warmth wrapping around him, fingers carding gently through his hair.

And just like that—everything caught up to him.

The aquarium’s guide. The sharks. Gabe. Kairos. And Chrysaor.

All of it.

His throat tightened. A tremor ran down his spine. The breath he hadn’t realized he was holding shuddered out of him, unravelling in the space between them. His fingers curled into the fabric of her coat, holding on like that could keep everything from spilling over.

His breath hitched, words tumbling out faster than he could catch them, chest tight like he’d just sprinted a mile.

“Mom—you won’t believe—there were sharks, and I was supposed to fed them, and then everything went crazy—” He pulled back just enough to look up at her, talking fast, rushing through it like he had to get it all out before his brain exploded. “And then Gabe—uh—was awful, obviously, but then there was this car, and it was gold, and I got inside ‘cause—uh, well, I just did—but then the guy came back, and he was so cool, Mom, you should’ve seen him, he had a sword and everything—”

Her grip on his arms turned vice-tight. “Percy—”

She didn’t let go. Didn’t even seem to notice. Her fingers clung like she needed something to hold onto.

“And then we went to his job, except it’s not really a job, ‘cause it’s a hot dog cart but also not—like, not at all, and there was this guy who tried to steal, and Chrysaor threw a knife, and it was so awesome, but he was kind of scary too, but not to me—”

“Chrysaor?” His mother echoed, voice sharp.

Percy blinked. Took a breath. “Uh, yeah?”

Her face tightened—worry first, then something brittle at the edges. Fear.

Percy hated it. Hated seeing it on her face, hated that he’d put it there.

Still, he kept going, not sure how to stop. “And then we went back to the Empire State Building, ‘cause—”

His mother’s fingers dug into his arms. Hard.

“He took you where?”

Percy froze.

The street noise seemed to dim, or maybe that was just his own pulse hammering in his ears. His mom’s face had gone pale—not just pale, gray. Like all the colour had been drained straight out of her.

The dull panic in her voice made something cold skitter down his spine.

“Did—” she swallowed, her grip tightening, “did someone see you?”

Percy frowned. “I mean… yeah? A lot of someones?”

For a second, he thought she might collapse right there on the street.

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but no sound came out. She pressed a hand over her mouth, breath coming fast and shallow, eyes darting like she was searching for something that wasn’t there.

“Mom?” Percy asked hesitantly. “What’s—”

But it wasn’t a good day to be curious.

“We don’t have time to waste,” she said, voice taut. “We have to go. Now.”

Go where?

She grabbed his hand, already moving.

Percy had no choice but to stumble after her.

The elevator was out. Again. His mom didn’t even hesitate. She all but hauled him up the first flight of stairs, moving fast, barely sparing breath to mutter under her own.

They reached their floor, passing their neighbour as they rounded the corner—a huge guy, broad-shouldered, built like a walking wall. He was in his usual work clothes, a tool bag slung over one arm. He was a plumber, didn’t talk much, but he was nice. Checked on them sometimes.

Percy barely managed a quick wave before his mom yanked him past without so much as a glance.

The guy didn’t wave back. His eyes followed Percy, too focused, too still. Something about it snagged in Percy’s brain—off, but not enough to make sense of right now. Not when his mom had just ignored him completely.

She was never rude.

His stomach twisted with dread, a bitter, stale taste creeping at the back of his tongue.

The second they stepped inside, Gabe was on them.

"Well, well." Gabe’s voice oozed satisfaction, thick with beer and something mean. He was slouched in his ratty recliner like a spider in its web. His beady eyes locked onto Percy, and his lip curled. "Had yourself a nice little adventure, did you?"

Percy didn’t answer.

Didn’t get the chance.

Gabe heaved himself up. His beer sloshed, foam spilling over his fingers. "Thought you could leave me stranded, huh? You little punk." His voice was thick with something ugly, laced with the sour bite of alcohol. "Thought you could make a fool outta me?"

Sally stepped between them, firm but calm. “Gabe—enough.” Her hand found Percy’s back, guiding him away. “Percy, go grab a bag.”

Gabe scoffed. “To go where? I didn’t agree to anything.”

Percy hesitated.

Sally pushed harder. “Go.”

He went.

Gabe scoffed. "That brat doesn’t deserve a damn—"

Percy didn’t hear the rest.

His mother was saying something, voice low but insistent, but he was already in his room, yanking open drawers, searching.

A bag.

Right.

A trip. That’s what his mom had said. A trip.

Right?

His room was small, barely more than a bed, a rickety dresser, and a few shelves crammed with books and junk. Blue dominated the space—bedsheets, posters, the old Yankees cap his mom had found at a thrift shop and said look, your favorite color and your least favorite team, perfect! Nestled between stacks of books and school papers, sat the big conch shell he nicked from his mom’s room years ago, because sometimes, when the apartment was too loud with Gabe’s poker parties, he’d press it to his ear and swear he could hear something calling his name from inside.

He grabbed it now, fingers tracing the spiralled ridges, the smooth weight of it grounding him.

A photo album, too.

His hands hovered over his drawer, his brain stuttering on what else to take—because suddenly, it had caught up to what his body had already understood.

This wasn’t just a trip.

They weren’t coming back.

The yelling in the other room spiked.

Gabe’s voice, louder.

His mom’s voice, quieter.

Something was wrong.

He edged toward the door, peering through the crack.

Gabe was in her face now, jabbing a finger into her shoulder. “You think you can just make decisions without me?” His voice slurred, thick with beer and anger. “Like you call the shots? Newsflash, sweetheart, you don’t.”

Sally stood her ground. “We.Are.Going.”

Gabe’s hand shot out.

Gripped her wrist.

Squeezed.

Percy went still.

He felt the moment slot into place, something cold and sharp sliding between his ribs.

For years, he had kept quiet. Taken it. The insults, the sneers, the grabs too firm on his own arm, the way Gabe wielded his size like a club, looming, cutting, punishing.

He had told himself it was better that way.

If he stayed quiet, Gabe wouldn’t hurt his mother.

But now—

He saw it. The way her mouth pressed into a thin, resigned line. The way her shoulders curled inward, the way she let it happen because—

Because she had been thinking the same thing.

Percy’s heart slammed against his ribs.

She had been letting it happen for him.

And he had been letting it happen for her.

The fury hit like a tidal wave.

Roared through his veins, drowned out all sound but the rush of blood in his ears.

The air shifted.

Outside, the sky cracked open.

Rain hammered the windows. A gust of wind slammed through the apartment, rattling the walls, bursting open the latch on the nearest window with enough force to send papers flying.

Gabe startled, just for a second.

Percy lunged.

Sank his teeth deep.

Sweat. Beer. Salt. Skin. The taste flooded his mouth, hot and awful and real. He bit down harder."

Gabe bellowed, wrenching back.

His meaty hand swung, caught Percy across the face.

The world went sideways.

Percy crashed into the wall, his skull slamming against plaster. Pain sparked across his vision, but through the ringing in his ears, he heard something else—

His mother.

Screaming in fury.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH MY SON!”

She was on Gabe before he could turn.

Sally Jackson wasn’t big, but she was fast. And she hit like seven years of swallowed fury finally breaking loose. She tackled him, nails digging into his face, her entire body a tensed spring of rage and desperation.

Gabe staggered, thrown off balance—

But he was big.

Too big.

He caught her wrist.

Wrenched.

Forced her down.

Then his hands were around her throat.

Percy’s stomach flipped.

No.

No, no, no—

He scrambled up, still dizzy, crashing into them, grabbing at Gabe’s arms, trying to pry his fingers off her—

Nothing.

He bit again.

Tore at him.

A meaty fist slammed into his face—Percy hit the floor, hard.

Pain flared up his side. He barely felt it.

His fingers scraped against something solid.

Heavy.

The gaudy, ugly ashtray—Gabe’s, always in reach, always in the way.

His arms shook. His vision swam.

He grabbed it.

Wobbled to his feet.

Gabe was still on top of his mother.

Percy swung.

CRACK.

The sound split the room.

Gabe swayed.

His mouth opened—like he might say something—

Then he dropped.

Rain pounded against the walls, the ceiling, the floor. The wind howled through the open window, rattling the picture frames, sending stray papers whipping through the air. The whole apartment felt like it was coming apart.

Percy stood in the wreckage, swaying. His breath heaved in his chest, his head light, ears ringing. The ashtray was still clutched in his hands, slick with something wet.

Gabe wasn’t moving.

His mother was.

Slowly.

She pushed herself upright, one hand braced against her knee, gulping in air like she’d just surfaced from deep water. Then she turned, found Percy, and grabbed him. Arms tight, locking them together, crushing the breath from his ribs.

She sobbed.

Laughed.

Both at once, hysterical and breathless, shaking against him.

Percy didn’t laugh.

He barely breathed.

His legs wobbled, his limbs felt wrung out, but he clung back just as fiercely.

Neither of them spoke.

Then—

BANG.

The door slammed open.

Percy jerked.

A shadow filled the frame—huge, broad, looming.

The neighbor.

He held a tool—no, a club.

Percy’s breath caught.

The edges of his vision blurred. His skull buzzed. It wasn’t just the neighbor standing there anymore—

It was something bigger.

Massive.

One eye.

A giant.

No. No, no, no—

A scream tore from his throat.

His mother moved instantly.

She charged.

Snatched the broom, swung it like a baseball bat.

“Percy—your bag! And the one under my bed! NOW!”

Percy bolted.

His legs carried him on instinct, his brain still scrambled. He crashed into his room, yanked his backpack from the floor, shoved in whatever clothes his hands touched.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t stop.

Just moved.

His mother’s room—he skidded inside, dropping to his knees.

His fingers closed around the handle of his mother’s bag.

He staggered back to his feet.

A mirror.

His face.

Blood.

His mouth was bloody.

And it wasn’t his.

A deep, slow rumble coiled in his chest. He liked that it wasn’t his.

He wrenched his gaze away and ran.

Back to the living room.

His mother was still fighting.

The man—the giant—wasn’t fighting back.

His club lay discarded. He was trying to grab her wrists, trying to stop her.

Percy bared his teeth.

There was a sound.

Low. Dangerous. Rumbling.

It came from his chest.

The giant froze.

His hands raised, his stance shifting back.

Percy snarled.

He could smell the fear.

His mother wrenched the bulging messenger bag from his grip. Grabbed his wrist.

“We’re leaving.”

Percy stumbled, dizzy, feet dragging—but his mother just hauled him up.

Held him.

And ran.

The stairwell blurred past them. Rain hit as soon as they crashed onto the street—cold, stinging, relentless. It drenched them in seconds.

Percy’s head cleared.

His skin tingled. His veins hummed.

Energy surged back into his limbs, his muscles steadying. He squirmed in his mother’s hold, and the second his feet hit the pavement, they ran together.

They didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

Block after block, street after street, they ran until they reached the small square by the pharmacy.

A bench.

His mother collapsed onto it.

Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him into her lap, clutching him so tight he could barely breathe.

She kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his nose—her breath frantic between words.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

She said it over and over again.

Percy pressed his face into her shoulder.

Didn’t answer.

Just let her hold him.

Let the rain wash them both clean.

Night settled over the city, thick and heavy. The rain slowed to a drizzle, mist rising from the pavement, curling in the glow of streetlights.

Percy and his mother sat on the bench, quiet, drained, just breathing.

The square was mostly empty—just the usual night-walkers. New Yorkers dragging their dogs out for one last round before bed, or, more accurately, dogs hauling their reluctant humans along for the ride.

Percy tilted his head back, looking at the sky.

No stars.

Not surprising. Too much light, too much smog. The city swallowed them whole.

Suddenly—

A pair of eyes glowing.

Then another.

And another.

The hair on Percy’s arms stood on end.

The shapes were low to the ground, prowling between the trees, between the trash cans and the benches.

His body tensed.

Then—a man stepped forward, a dozen leashes coiled in his hands.

Percy let out a breath.

Just a dog walker.

The man adjusted his grip, giving the leashes a tug. The glowing eyes flicked back to him, obedient.

Okay. Dogs. Just dogs.

Percy forced himself to relax.

The man didn’t.

He was still watching them.

No New Yorker worth their salt stared that long into another New Yorker’s eyes.

Percy’s pulse kicked up again.

His hand tightened around his mother’s.

She squeezed back.

They stood—casual, slow, like they weren’t in a rush, weren’t trying to get away.

But the exit was on the other side. Behind the man.

They were cornered.

The dog walker smiled.

Too wide.

Too many teeth.

The smile stretched—past his lips, past what should have been possible.

Percy blinked.

The man had a dog’s head now.

He let go of the leashes.

The dogs didn’t bark. Didn’t snarl. They just moved.

And Percy—

Percy moved too.

He kept hold of his mother’s hand, his grip like iron, and weaved.

Through the dogs, through snapping jaws and reaching claws, slipping just beyond their reach.

A lunging mouth missed his arm by inches.

A set of teeth snapped shut where his ankle had just been.

Left. Right. Duck. Twist. Move.

Perfect timing.

It was like stepping through a dance he’d never learned but somehow knew. Like the gaps parted for him. Like the world was shifting, neon walk lights flashing green in his mind—guiding him step by step, just fast enough to keep ahead of the jaws snapping shut behind him.

His mother followed, trusting his lead. They twisted between the hounds, slipping through spaces that shouldn’t have existed, breaking free from the square like the path had been waiting for them all along.

And then—

They ran.

Their feet pounded against the pavement.

Behind them, the dogs followed. Playing with their food.

Nipping at their heels. Letting them think they were getting away, only to surge forward again, closer each time.

Percy’s legs burned.

His mother’s breath came hard and fast.

They weren’t fast enough.

It looked like the dogs were getting bigger.

They were bigger.

The shapes stretched, the shadows warped, the padding of paws against the pavement became the dull thud of something heavier, something meant for hunting.

Percy’s lungs ached.

He stumbled.

His mother grabbed for him, shielding him with her body—

Light.

Bright. Blinding.

A flash of gold.

The roar of an engine.

Something huge slammed into the nearest hound—

The beast yelped—

The golden Chrysler screeched to a stop.

"Climb on!" Chrysaor barked from the driver's seat.

Percy didn’t hesitate. He scrambled into the passenger seat, his mother climbing into the back. A sharp jolt of déjà vu struck him as the door slammed shut behind them.

The car peeled off, tires screeching against wet pavement.

Percy twisted in his seat, panting, and looked out the rear window.

The dogs were still following.

No—not dogs.

They ran like shadows peeled from the night.

Impossibly fast. Impossibly big.

Their eyes burned, their paws hit the ground without a sound, their sleek black bodies cut through the street like living knives. One of them—easily twice the size of a motorcycle—leaped over a parked car like it was nothing.

"They’re keeping up!" Percy’s voice cracked.

"Yeah, no kidding," Chrysaor growled, wrenching the wheel.

The Chrysler swerved, slipping between traffic like it wasn’t even there. Horns blared. Headlights flashed past in streaks of white and red. Pedestrians yelled, but Chrysaor didn’t slow down.

Percy barely had time to clutch the dashboard before they took a sharp turn down a narrowing road—straight toward the pier.

"Uh," Percy said, "the road kind of ends here—"

Chrysaor didn’t answer.

He floored it.

The car rocketed forward.

The barriers at the pier exploded on impact. The front wheels lifted off the ground. For a breathless second, they were airborne—suspended, weightless, a single heartbeat stretched too long.

Percy sucked in a breath, stomach dropping as they hung in the air—

—Braced for the plunge. For the world to lurch. For the nose to dip. For the waves to engulf them—

Then the car hit the water.

And kept driving.

On the water.

Percy’s eyes went wide. His breath caught.

His mother let out a sharp, shuddering exhale from the backseat—half a gasp, half a prayer.

Behind them, the hounds skidded to a stop. The biggest one braced at the very edge of the pier, claws scraping concrete, teeth bared—

A dark shape curled up from the depths, wrapped around the hound’s back leg, and dragged it under. Percy watched, stunned, as the water swallowed it whole—like it had never been there at all.

The other hounds hesitated. Growled. But none of them followed.

The city receded behind them, swallowed by the night.

Percy let out a breath. His whole body slumped. His muscles uncoiled.

The culmination of an impossible day.

He turned to Chrysaor. "How did you find us?"

Chrysaor didn’t look away from the road—er, the bay. He just nodded toward Percy’s pocket. "Look inside."

Percy frowned, reached in—

And pulled out a single drachma.

He blinked. "You—"

"I always know where my gold is."

Percy's fingers curled around the coin. He turned it over, tracing the weight of it. "...But how did you know we needed you?"

Chrysaor snorted. "I didn’t."

Percy’s breath caught in his throat.

He came back because he wanted to.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Percy twisted in his seat and latched on—arms wrapping tight around Chrysaor’s middle, like holding on might keep the night from spinning out all over again.

Chrysaor startled. "I’m driving, you limpet—"

But he didn’t push him away.

Didn’t shove him off.

He just sighed, adjusting Percy across his lap awkwardly. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other braced against Percy’s back, fingers carding through his hair in an absent, careful motion.

The Chrysler skimmed across the water, cutting through the waves like it belonged there.

The hum of the engine. The warmth. The hand in his hair.

Safe.

Percy’s eyes drooped.

Sleep pulled him under.

Chapter Text

Percy woke up to the gentle rock of the deck beneath him. The scent of salt filled his nose, thick and briny, carried by the wind that tugged at his hair. He surfaced from sleep slowly, blinking against the salt-heavy air. He shifted against the surface beneath him—a coil of rope, thick and rough, easily twice his size. Something heavy and warm draped over him, and when he pushed himself up, the waterproof fabric of a black coat slid from his shoulders.

He squinted at the horizon.

New York’s skyline still glittered in the distance, a haze of golden lights against the deep blue stretch of night. But the city felt far away now, like something belonging to another world. The waves lapped gently against the hull, their rhythm settling into his pulse. Soothing.

Percy sat up fully, rubbing at his eyes.

He was on a boat. A big one.

Wooden beams stretched high overhead. Thick ropes coiled neatly along the deck. The whole thing looked ancient but solid, like something from a history book. No steel. No engines. Just sails and oars—rows upon rows of oars, slicing cleanly through the water.

And the rowers—

Percy stared.

Hundreds of them. Sat in lines of five, stacked across three levels. Backs strong. Arms rippling with effort. But where their heads should have been—there were dolphins.

Not helmets. Not masks. Actual, moving, blinking dolphin heads.

Percy’s brain stalled.

Boom.

A breath.

Boom.

The sound rattled into his ribs, shoved his thoughts back into motion.

One of them, possibly the biggest, sat at the center of the deck, pounding a massive drum to drive the rhythm. His biceps bulged with every movement, his skin inked with impressive tattoos that covered his arms and shoulders. He would have been intimidating—if not for the round, eerily cheerful face of a beluga perched atop all that muscle.

Percy had learned something once about dolphins. How they were playful, sure, but also ruthless hunters. He watched the rhythmic pull of the oars, the effortless teamwork, the way the pod moved like a singular entity.

Yeah. He’d keep his guard up.

Still feeling slightly off-balance, Percy pushed himself to his feet. The deck rocked beneath him but his legs were steady like he’d been sailing all his life. He turned, gaze sweeping the rest of the boat—not searching, just confirming.

His eyes landed on the captain’s wheel, and there she was, deep in conversation with Chrysaor.

Her back was to him, shoulders tense but nothing alarming. Chrysaor stood beside her, leaning one arm against the wheel, his golden mask catching the moonlight. He gestured with his free hand, speaking low, his voice lost beneath the wind and the steady splash of the oars.

Chrysaor noticed him. Paused.

Percy felt the shift, even without seeing his face.

Then his mother turned too.

Took a deep breath. Bracing.

Then she crossed the deck like a woman on a mission. When she reached him, she didn’t speak yet. Just pulled him into her arms and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

He didn’t protest.

Breathed in the scent of rain-soaked cotton and sugared vanilla. Of her.

She was the only one who could grab him anytime, anywhere, and he wouldn’t mind in the slightest. Honestly? If he could spend whole days hanging off her neck like some overgrown koala, he probably would. Her arms were the best place on earth.

She guided him past the rowers, past the towering mast, to a quiet corner behind a stack of crates. It was more private here, away from too many prying eyes.

She sat first and pulled him in, squashing him to her chest like a plushie she needed to squeeze for courage.

Kissed him between the brows. The way that always made him go cross-eyed.

Then, finally, she started speaking.

She spoke of a man she met one morning in Montauk—when, at her wit’s end from lack of sleep, she braved the tempest just to scream at the storm that wouldn’t let her rest.

A man whose steps crumbled cliffs and carved canyons. Whose hands could cradle the smallest creature without shattering its fragile shell.

A man whose breath could call the wind or drown the shore. Whose laugh rumbled as deep and untamed as his wrath.

A man whose eyes held the shifting colours of the sea. Whose gaze swept you up like a riptide—so strong, so certain—that drowning felt a little like belonging.

They loved each other for one wonderful summer. And then, one morning, he left with the tide—his parting gift a tiny swirl of life inside her.

Percy.

Percy, whose existence was a taboo.

Percy, who became her everything.

She spoke of gods—of thrones high above and hands that shaped the world, but never held their own children. Of power so vast it cracked the sky, but never spared a thought for what it left behind.

She spoke of a baby with too-sharp teeth, who knew no comfort but the water’s embrace—whom every drop clung to as if it had found its home. Of waves too small to name, answering hands too small to know.

She spoke of monsters that lurked at the edges of the world, always sniffing, always waiting—who could wear any face, slip through any crack. A snake in a crib. A kind nurse with too many teeth. A shadow that stretched the wrong way at dusk.

At last, she spoke of Gabe. A price she choose to pay. A necessary evil. A reek so strong it smothered out even the divine—so she could finally allow herself to sleep.

And Percy listened.

Let the truth settle inside him, reshape the bones of what he thought he knew, until she was all out of words but the only ones that truly mattered.

‟I love you, baby,” she whispered hoarsely, ‟I’m sorry.”

Percy only held on tighter, arms small but fierce, trying to press every drop of love he had into her skin.

Until she could feel it.

Until she could drown in it.

Until it was enough.

She sighed—a shuddering, tired thing—and curled around him like she could keep him there forever. Fell asleep.

Percy stayed still for as long as he could. He let her warmth sink into him, let the steady rise and fall of her breathing press against his ribs. He counted the beats between, matching his own breaths to hers, as if that could make the moment last longer.

She had earned this.

For once, she didn’t have to be the one holding everything together. She didn’t have to be on guard, ready to shield him from whatever came next. She could rest. Just rest. And if Percy had to stay perfectly still forever to keep it that way, he’d do it.

But forever was a long time.

His body betrayed him first—the restless hum under his skin, the creeping itch in his fingers, the way his legs twitched with the need to move. He tried to fight it. Breathed deep, focused on the sound of the waves, the rhythmic creak of the ship.

Didn’t work.

His knee bounced. His fingers drummed against the deck before he caught himself. He clenched his fists, willing himself to be still.

Didn’t work.

The restless energy built, coiling tighter and tighter until it was either move or explode.

Carefully—so carefully—Percy started to untangle himself.

He eased his arm from under hers, breath held tight, shifting slow enough that she wouldn’t stir. Her fingers twitched, gripping his sleeve for half a second before relaxing again. He froze. Counted to three. Waited.

She didn’t wake.

Bit by bit, he pulled away until he was free, her warmth lingering on his skin. His pulse was too loud in the quiet. Even now, he felt guilty leaving. But she needed this.

She had given him everything. Letting her sleep was the least he could do.

He reached for the coat he’d woken up with—Chrysaor’s probably, thick and heavy, smelling faintly of salt and leather—and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric swallowed her whole, pooling at her sides.

Better.

His hand hovered over her hair, fingers twitching with the urge to smooth it back. Instead, he curled them into his palm and stepped away.

She’d be warm. She’d be safe.

That was enough for now.

The air was colder than he expected. Or maybe it just felt that way after leaving his mother’s embrace. Percy shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way across the deck. Moving on instinct. He wasn’t sure what he’d say when he got there.

He just knew where he wanted to be.

Chrysaor wasn’t by the helm anymore.

Percy hesitated at the entrance to the lower cabins, glancing back once at his mother’s sleeping form before slipping below. The ship creaked gently, the scent of salt and aged wood thick in the enclosed space. He followed the corridor’s narrow path, his steps light against the worn planks, until he reached a heavy wooden door.

The captain’s cabin.

Percy raised his hand to knock—

A figure stepped into his path.

Broad shoulders. A sturdy stance. Skin dark and weathered, rough as driftwood left too long in the sun. But the head—

Smooth. Sleek. Like the polished surface of the sea. A bottlenose dolphin, its expression unreadable, eyes dark and still.

He spoke in a series of rapid clicks and whistles, a crisp command barring the way—no entry without permission.

Percy understood. Not guessed. Not inferred. Understood.

Like with Ancient Greek.

And now he knew why.

Legacy.

A voice now becoming familiar cut through the air.

Chrysaor’s.

“Let him in.”

The dolphin-headed sailor didn’t so much as glance back. He simply stepped aside.

Percy hesitated for half a beat, then stepped through.

The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

The sudden brightness after the dim corridor made him squint.

Because apparently, even ancient ships had better wiring than his apartment.

Former apartment.

The thought hit like a sucker punch. A crack in his focus, and suddenly—

Copper.

Bitter, metallic, pooling under his tongue. The phantom taste of disturbing satisfaction. Pressure on his gums. The distant echo of teeth sinking into—

Not now.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

He forced his shoulders to stay loose. Forced his breath to stay steady. Shoved the tremor down—buried it, crushed it, stomped it into something small and caged.

The cabin was bigger than he expected, but it wasn’t the size that struck him first—it was the sheer order of it.

The furniture was heavy and solid, built to withstand the sway of the sea.

Chrysaor was hunched over a book big enough to eat Percy—one of those ancient, villainous-looking tomes that probably held either the secrets of the universe or really aggressive tax records. Brass and wooden instruments were arrayed around him in precise rows—things with dials, curved arms, and etched markings that meant nothing to Percy.

Chrysaor finished scribbling something in the margins before his pen stilled between his fingers, his focus shifting to Percy.

Percy rocked on his heels.

Didn’t move closer. Not yet.

His looked around.

Shelves lined the walls. No dust, no clutter but treasures everywhere his eyes could reach.

A bronze lion, surface smooth from age. A puzzle box in deep red lacquer. Stacks of thick-bound tomes, spines stamped with curling golden letters—none of them in a language Percy recognized.

A jade seal further down, set on top of a bundle of maps. Next to it, a wooden idol with pearl-white eyes.

His eyes darted all around, restless.

Gold Wings.

A horse, frozen mid-flight where the light caught it just right. Gilded. With so fine details Percy expected it to stir to life between one blink and the next.

His attention snapped again.

Near the far wall, two armchairs, angled just so, close enough for quiet conversation. A strangely placed curtain hung between them—not large enough to divide the space, but positioned just right to obscure a direct line of sight.

Percy exhaled.

He squarred his shoulders.

Enough stalling.

His feet finally carried him forward, closing the space between him and the broad desk that took up most of the room. Chrysaor hadn’t moved, just waited unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

Percy opened his mouth.

The question was there—half-formed, pressing at the back of his throat. But the weight of it sat too heavy, too raw.

He closed it again.

Instead, his eyes flicked down. The book.

Safe. Neutral.

Percy leaned in. The pages were thick, yellowed, crammed with markings that meant nothing to him at first glance. Just curves, dots and some jagged lines. “What are you doing?”

"Planning a route." Chrysaor said it like Percy had just asked if water was wet. Like he should’ve known that from birth.

Wait.

Percy blinked.

“—these are maps?”

Chrysaor huffed, amused. “And here I thought you were a smart one.”

Percy leaned in again. Looked closer.

He could see it now. Curves for coasts. Dots for islands. And the jagged edges—probably mountains beneath the water.

Percy frowned. “How does that work?”

Chrysaor finally looked up, one brow raised. “What?”

“This. Mapping. Figuring out where you are without, you know—street signs.”

Chrysaor snorted. “Not that different, really. Just takes being observant and knowing how to read a map.”

He flipped a few pages, fingers skimming over the inked lines. “You start with reference points—landmarks, celestial markers, currents. Match what you see to what’s on the map.”

He turned a few pages, smoothing out a crease along the spine, fingers pressing the parchment flat. “Like right now, we’re—”

Percy’s hand moved first.

Without thinking. Without hesitation. His finger landed on a point near the center of the page.

“—right here.”

Chrysaor’s voice trailed off. His fingers drummed once against the table, a quiet tap-tap before stilling. Then, slowly, he straightened, weight shifting as he leaned back slightly. The light caught on the gold of his mask, tilting just so—watching, considering.

“Very good, guppy,” he said simply.

Another of those weird instinctive feelings.

But Percy didn’t brush it off this time.

He didn’t shove it under the rug, pretend it wasn’t happening.

He reached for it.

Instead of feeling surprised, he leaned into it. Followed the pull of knowing.

Chrysaor rolled his shoulders loose before tapping another part of the map, continuing as if nothing unusual had happened.

And maybe, for him, it hadn’t.

Mom had said he was millennia old.

A lifetime to Percy was barely a footnote to him.

Absurd, really, to feel this connected to someone when eons separated their births.

But did it truly matter?

Percy’s gut already knew the answer.

“See this?” Chrysaor flipped to another section. “Imagine that’s our heading. To reach it, we would—”

Percy saw it. Knew it.

The depth of the water. The thick, shifting kelp forests swaying at the bottom. The names of the currents, winding through the sea like veins. The best way to catch the wind, the exact angle, the pull that would carry them forward.

How simple it would be—how easy—to coax the water, to gather the right current beneath them and let the sea want them to move faster.

The words poured out of him, unrestrained.

Exhilarated.

Certain.

It was glorious. The joy of knowing, of understanding—of competence, for the first time ever. It lit up every inch of him, tangled his senses, made the air taste sharper, the lantern light feel too bright, the shifting deck beneath him a heartbeat he could suddenly read.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even think to. The thoughts tumbled from his mouth, one after another, faster and faster—until his lungs burned.

Percy sucked in a sharp breath, chest rising with the effort.

Only then did he realize—

Chrysaor had been watching him—not speaking, not interrupting, just listening.

The moment stretched.

Then—

A quiet huff. Amused. Almost pleased. His fingers flicked the map once, subtle, like a nod. “We’re going to make a sailor out of you yet.”

And his hand ruffled through Percy’s hair. So warm he could taste the smile in his fingertips.

Chapter Text

At first, they were tracing currents, Chrysaor explaining not just how water moved—but how it thought. Then it was the wind—how to read it, how to feel the subtle shifts before they happened. Then the ropes, the sails, the thousand small adjustments that made the difference between smooth sailing and being at the ocean’s mercy.

At some point, Chrysaor pulled him onto his lap and just continued pouring knowledge into him—like he hadn’t just moved Percy like a wayward piece of rigging.

Percy absorbed it all, his brain lighting up with each new piece. He leaned forward, pressing his palms against the desk, rattling off questions one after another.

And Chrysaor didn’t stop him.

For someone so naturally prickly, he was a surprisingly eager teacher— meeting every question with an explanation deeper than Percy expected. Anticipating the next before Percy even asked. Like he was enjoying this just as much as Percy was, though he’d never say it outright.

Somewhere between one lesson and the next, Percy stopped feeling like a kid at a chalkboard and more like a deckhand learning the ropes.

Then—

Chrysaor tapped a page and pointed toward the ceiling. “All of that is useless if you don’t know the sky.”

Percy blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. But even as he asked, he knew the answer.

“The stars?”

The barest pause. A satisfied nod.

“The stars.”

Chrysaor stood, rolling his shoulders before grabbing a heavy wool jumper from the chair behind him.

Before Percy could react, it was being yanked over his head, the thick fabric swallowing him whole.

He spluttered, arms flailing for a second before he managed to push the collar down from his face. The sleeves dangled well past his hands. The hem practically hit his ankles. He looked like a deep-sea creature that had tried to disguise itself as human and failed miserably.

Chrysaor stepped back, eyeing his work with satisfaction.

“There. Like that you won’t freeze.”

Percy scowled up at him, tugging uselessly at the sleeves. “Great. Now I have two moms.”

Outside, the air was crisp, the deck quieter than before.

The ship was anchored now, the waters still beneath them. A few figures moved in the dim glow of lanterns—the skeleton crew, keeping watch—but beyond that, everything felt hushed.

The thought came out of nowhere.

But, given Chrysaor’s track record…

“You know, I would’ve expected a gold boat.”

Silence.

Percy blinked. “Wait. Is it actually gold?”

Chrysaor shifted beside him, arms crossed. “…Not really.”

Percy squinted at the deck beneath them, tapping a foot against the wood like he could somehow test for gold content.

Percy squinted. “Not really how?”

A beat.

Chrysaor exhaled through his nose, the sound very I-refuse-to-be-embarrassed-but-I-really-am. “The hull is gold-plated, that’s all, okay.”

He walked ahead in offended dignity, but Percy wasn’t about to let him off that easily.

He let the silence stretch. Drew it out just enough.

Then, slowly, deliberately—“That? That’s me judging you.”

Percy could feel the glare burning through the mask.

They settled on the raised deck at the stern—aphlaston, Percy mouthed the word he just learned, testing the shape of it like a coin between his teeth—letting their feet hang above the waves. The sea stretched dark and endless below them.

Percy’s sense of time had unravelled somewhere in the lesson, lost between the pull of the maps and the rhythm of Chrysaor’s voice. He had no idea how late it was. No way of knowing how long they had been at it.

The ship rocked gently beneath them, the only sound the quiet lapping of the waves against the hull. The air smelled of salt and damp wood, carried by the night breeze.

Neither of them spoke.

It was just the two of them, the silence and the ocean stretching endlessly below.

After a while, Percy glanced sideways, catching the way Chrysaor’s masked face was angled upward.

Right.

The stars.

Percy tilted his head back, bracing himself for something—anything—a dazzling spread of stars, a sky so full of constellations it would blow his mind.

And instead…

A whole lot of nothing.

Just murky, light-polluted haze smothering the sky like a too-wet blanket. A void where there should have been infinity.

Thanks, New York.

He pouted. “There aren’t any stars.”

Beside him, Chrysaor let out a quiet hum. A low sound, rough at the edges, almost smug—like a cat watching a mouse struggle with a puzzle. “You’re sure?”

Percy looked again.

Squinted. Hard. Like if he just tried hard enough, the stars would magically appear.

Still nothing.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “Pretty sure.”

“Not like that.” Chrysaor reached out, pressing his hands lightly over Percy’s eyes.

His palms were warm and calloused.

Percy swallowed.

“You know how to look beyond,” Chrysaor murmured.

Look beyond.

Something in the way he said it—soft, certain—sent a shiver down Percy’s spine. Like a door creaking open inside his chest.

His mind jolted back—to the shifting edges of things, the way reality had started to feel just slightly off ever since the shark tank incident. Like something had been peeling away, layer by layer, revealing cracks in the world he thought he knew.

He breathed deeply.

Chrysaor lifted his hands.

Percy opened his eyes.

And gasped.

The sky—

It was too much. Too big. Too real.

It wasn’t just stars.

It wasn’t just constellations.

Or at least not the kind you barely made out if you squinted, nor the faint clusters of light from the planetarium.

No. It was like an astronomy chart come to life.

They stretched across the heavens, outlined in shimmering celestial fire, like inked illustrations against the deep canvas of the sky. Figures drawn in gleaming silver and gold, their shapes moving, shifting, flowing like something straight out of an ancient star map.

This wasn’t just some starry backdrop.

It was a story, written in starlight.

A whole, shifting world above them—ancient, alive, impossible.

He tore his gaze from one to the next, barely able to take it all in. His heart pounded in his chest, his skin tingling with the sheer enormity of it.

Without thinking, he reached out—grabbing Chrysaor’s sleeve, gripping the fabric like he needed something real to ground himself.

“Are you seeing this?” he whispered, even though he already knew the answer.

Chrysaor let out a quiet huff, somewhere between amusement and approval. “Took you long enough.”

Percy barely registered the words. His gaze locked onto a constellation he couldn’t name—a massive, coiled beast of molten starlight.

Suddenly—a streak of gold.

An arrow slammed into its stinger. The beast shuddered, its burning outline flickering.

Percy’s breath caught. He followed the shot back—to a figure with a bow, already drawing another.

Percy’s fingers clenched around Chrysaor’s wrist, eyes wide with wonder.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, that’s cool.”

The breeze was cold, but beneath his grip, Chrysaor felt warm—like the lingering heat of something pulled from the sun.

For a second, the muscles beneath the fabric stiffened.

Then, a slow exhale.

Something coiled in the space between them—soft, quiet, winding around him so gently it felt like an embrace.

Percy didn’t question it. The sky held all of him now.

The constellations shifted overhead, a slow, silent dance across the boundless dark. Somewhere in the stillness, Chrysaor had taken his hand. Percy wove their fingers together.

Chrysaor seemed in no hurry to move. He let the silence linger for a moment before tilting his chin upward, eyes tracking the heavens. Then, with a lazy gesture, he pointed.

“There,” he said. “See those two?”

Percy followed the line of his finger.

Two fish, silver-lit against the dark, curving around each other in an eternal loop. A thin tether of stars linked them, barely visible—drifting, but never separate.

“Fish?” Percy guessed.

Chrysaor let out a quiet huff. “Pisces,” he corrected. “Aphrodite and Eros.”

Percy nodded like that meant something. Then frowned. “Huh?”

Chrysaor sighed. “The love goddess and her son.”

“Oh.” Percy glanced back at the constellation. “Right.”

Chrysaor exhaled. “The story goes, when Typhon—the biggest, meanest monster to ever walk the earth—came for Olympus, the gods panicked. Most ran straight for the hills. Aphrodite and Eros jumped into the sea and changed into fish to escape.” He tilted his head slightly. “Smart, really. Even the gods run when they have to.”

His voice was casual. Too casual.

The words were tossed out like a stray coin—offhand, careless—but Percy could hear the weight behind the words, the way Chrysaor was watching him just closely enough to not look like he was watching.

An opening.

A space left empty where Percy was supposed to say something.

Talk about what happened.

Percy could feel the words pressing against his ribs, waiting to be said. About Ga—no.

About the moment when staying had felt impossible, when running had been the only thing left.

About the hellhounds. About the moment the leash slipped from the dog walker’s hand and those glowing eyes locked onto them.

About the way his mom had gripped his wrist, her fingers cold and tight, the way her breath had hitched—just for a second, just long enough for him to realize—

That she was afraid.

She had been afraid.

And that? That was worse than anything.

Because if she was scared, then it meant there was something to be scared of. It meant the danger was real. Bigger than them. Bigger than anything he could fight.

More than the teeth, more than the chase, more than the way his lungs had burned as they ran—that was what stayed with him.

He could say it. He could.

None of it came out of his lips.

“Guess running’s better than getting stepped on,” he said lightly instead, playing oblivious.

Chrysaor didn’t press. Just made a low, noncommittal sound in his throat, like he expected that answer.

Percy tipped his head back. “Huh. That’s a nice ending, though. Both of them get away, no one gets eaten, no one dies.” He glanced sideways at Chrysaor. “Are all myths like that?”

Chrysaor went a fraction too still.

Percy wouldn’t have noticed.

Except that his hand was still in his.

The change was there. Small. A fractional pull in the tendons beneath his fingers, a quiet resistance before smoothing away. Not a flinch—just something. A flicker of tightness so quick Percy might’ve imagined it.

But it had been there.

Percy hesitated.

Then stopped thinking and squeezed Chrysaor’s hand.

A small, brief pressure. There and gone. A silent apology. A peace offering.

Chrysaor stilled again.

Not quite in the same way as before.

Something in his grip eased—not all at once, just enough. His fingers unfurled, resting against Percy’s instead of holding them.

Percy didn’t look at him when he spoke again, voice deliberately casual.

“So,” he said, tipping his chin toward the sky. “Which one’s your favorite?”

Chrysaor exhaled slowly, like he was already regretting where this conversation was going. His gaze flicked over the constellations like he was scanning a ledger, double-checking inventory. Then, after a pause, he shrugged.

"None," he said flatly.

Percy blinked. “None?”

“They’re just tools,” Chrysaor said, tone flat. “Useful for navigation, sure. But that’s all.”

Percy narrowed his eyes. Liar.

Percy didn’t buy it.

He tilted his head, considering his next move. Then, casually, he hummed, dragging the silence just long enough to make him uncomfortable. Chrysaor’s fingers flexed slightly against his knee, like he was resisting the urge to strangle him.

Percy went in for the kill.

“So what’s the real answer?”

Chrysaor sighed, long and dramatic, like this was such an ordeal. Then, finally, begrudgingly—

“…Pegasus.”

Percy smirked. Gotcha. “So you do have a favorite.”

Chrysaor shot him a look. “Not the point.”

Percy ignored him, scanning the sky. “Wait—where is it?”

Chrysaor exhaled, then tilted his chin slightly, motioning toward a cluster of bright stars. “There.”

Percy followed his gaze until he found it—the outline of a horse, wings flared, poised mid-flight.

He squinted. “…Huh.”

Chrysaor huffed. “What?”

Percy crossed his arms.“I don’t know. Just kinda thought you’d pick something with more… bite.”

Chrysaor snorted. “Like what? Hydra?”

Percy shrugged. “Maybe. Or, I don’t know, at least something with fangs.”

Chrysaor made an unimpressed noise. “He’s got hooves.”

“Yeah, for galloping majestically into battle.”

Chrysaor muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like And kicking people in the face, but Percy chose to ignore that.

Instead, he just grinned, waiting—because there was something in the way Chrysaor held himself, in the way his usual bite softened, just a little.

Then, voice gruff and reluctant, like he hated every word leaving his mouth—

“…He’s my twin.”

Percy’s brain short-circuited.

Twin.

Twin?

Twin brother?

He whipped his head toward the constellation of the winged horse gleaming in silver fire.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Pegasus.

Chrysaor’s… brother.

His horse brother.

His winged horse brother.

Which was cool by the way.

But still.

A horse.

…Okay.

Still cool.

“Wait.”

If Pegasus was Chrysaor’s twin...

A pause.

A long, painful pause.

Then—

“I’m related to a horse?”

A realization.

A terrible, world-shifting realization.

“I’m related to a horse,” he repeated, horrified.

Chrysaor froze.

For a second, Percy thought he might have broken him.

Then, the dam cracked. Chrysaor lost it.

Not a quiet chuckle. Not a huff of amusement. A real, full-bodied laugh—sharp and loud, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Percy scowled. “What?”

Chrysaor smirked. “You think that’s bad?” He squeezed Percy’s hand, still shaking with laughter. “Guppy, you have no idea what kind of family you’ve just inherited.”

Percy hummed, turning the thought over. Weird family members? Yeah, that tracked. He was already dealing with one.

His gaze flicked back to the stars.

“Why does he get his own constellation?”

Chrysaor’s voice took on a dry, unimpressed edge. “Got the dubious honor of being the Mighty King’s personal thunderbolt delivery service.”

Percy snorted. “That bad?”

Chrysaor made a vague, dismissive gesture. “Pegasus doesn’t think so. Loves the job. Stupid creature.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “And vain at that.”

The outline of stars that formed Pegasus’ wings stretched. The points of light flared, his silhouette sharpening against the sky. Then, like a goddamn parade stallion, he arched his neck, lifted his chin, and struck a pose.

Percy gawked. “Did—did he just flex?”

Chrysaor let out a long-suffering sigh. “See what I mean?”

Percy stared at the sky. Then at Chrysaor.

Back to winged horse that was currently flexing in the sky like a divine show pony.

Then at the man who wore a golden mask, sailed a gold-plated ship, and had the audacity to call someone else vain.

Not twins for nothing those two, that’s for sure.

Chrysaor grumbled something under his breath that Percy didn’t quite catch.

And then, as he watched Chrysaor watching Pegasus, the final realization settled in.

For all of Chrysaor’s cynicism, for all the mocking disinterest—Percy could tell.

He was jealous.

His twin got to be known, remembered, honored.

Chrysaor got nothing.

Percy didn’t say it out loud.

But he knew.

He let the silence stretch for a second, watching the way Chrysaor’s gaze lingered—not resentful, not bitter, just… distant.

Then, casually—like it wasn’t something important—Percy shrugged.

“Eh. I think you got the better deal.”

Chrysaor’s head turned slightly. Not all the way—just enough that Percy caught the flicker of something in his posture, in the tilt of his head, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

Percy kicked his feet idly over the water. “I mean, glorified cattle?” He nodded toward the constellation. “That guy spends eternity being someone’s personal Uber. You get to do whatever you want.”

Chrysaor huffed, but something about it was softer.

Percy didn’t push the point.

Didn’t need to.

He just sat beside him, fingers still weaved together, watching as Pegasus preened above them, basking in the glow of his own importance.

Chrysaor scoffed.

Percy smirked.

Yeah. Chrysaor definitely got the better deal.

After all, out of the three of them—

Percy was obviously the best brother.

The thought made him snicker internally, his own private little joke. He barely stopped himself from grinning outright.

For a moment, he just sat with it, feeling stupidly pleased with himself.

His amusement lingered at the edges of his expression, but somewhere between one breath and the next, something inside him tipped.

Like calling Pegasus his brother in his mind had forced him to acknowledge the flesh-and-blood one sitting beside him.

The words had been pressing against his ribs since the start of this conversation. He hadn’t wanted to say them, hadn’t been ready—

But now?

Now, it almost felt stupid not to.

He let out a small breath.

Then, casually—like it wasn’t the first time he was saying it out loud, like it wasn’t something big at all—

“So we’re brothers.”

Chrysaor didn’t move. Didn’t react.

For half a second, Percy thought maybe he hadn’t heard him.

Then, just when the silence was stretching long enough to feel weird, Chrysaor exhaled, turning his head back to him. “Figured that out, did you?”

Not really.

His mother had to tell him.

Because, truthfully, he hadn’t figured out anything.

Chrysaor spoke about myths like they were common knowledge like everyone just knew them. But Percy didn’t know anything.

Three hours ago, he didn’t even know the gods were real, didn’t know there was a whole world behind the one he’d been living in.

That morning? He hadn’t suspected anything supernatural. Hadn’t even questioned it.

And yet, here he was now.

A son of a god.

Sitting next to another one.

The thought was too big—too much to wrap his head around all at once.

But there was one thing he could ask.

“Is that why you came back?”

Chrysaor scoffed, shaking his head.

“Got plenty of brothers, guppy. None of them that I’ve spoken to for centuries—‘cept me twin.”

Percy sat with that for a second, turning it over in his mind.

He didn’t miss the implication.

Chrysaor hadn’t come back for Poseidon.

Hadn’t come back because of some divine sibling bond.

He came back for him.

A weird, tight feeling curled in Percy’s chest.

Not bad.

Just… foreign.

Like something fragile and important had been placed in his hands, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

The smartass part of his brain immediately offered up a joke. But the words didn’t come.

Instead, he just looked at Chrysaor, how he kept his focus on the sky like this conversation wasn’t anything important.

Like it wasn’t a big deal.

But it was.

And if his grip around Chrysaor’s hand tightened just a little—

If neither of them moved, if neither of them even breathed—

Just sat there, watching a sea of stars reflect on the sea that bore them—

Well.

Neither of them said a word.

Chapter Text

The world rocked gently around him, the slow rise and fall of waves lulling him somewhere between sleep and waking. Percy groaned and burrowed deeper into the oversized wool sweater that had somehow become his personal survival cocoon. It smelled like salt, old leather, and something briny and vaguely dangerous—Chrysaor’s scent. The fabric was scratchy in a way that should’ve been annoying but wasn’t, and the air outside of it was just cold enough to make leaving feel like a terrible life choice.

A hand ruffled his already wild hair.

"Rise and shine, baby," his mother’s voice was soft but merciless.

Percy made a noise that was neither a word nor human.

"Five more minutes," he mumbled into the wool, like it could shield him from responsibility.

His mother hummed, clearly unimpressed. "That’s what you said five minutes ago."

"Did not."

"Did too."

Percy groaned louder, burrowing deeper. The outside world was cold, loud, and full of expectations. The sweater cocoon, on the other hand, was warm. Quiet. Free of consequences.

The sweater cocoon was safe. The sweater cocoon would protect him. The sweater cocoon—

The hammock lurched. Percy yelped, flailing to keep from rolling straight onto the floorboards. His heart did a brief panic tap dance in his chest before settling. From above, his mother only laughed, utterly unrepentant.

"Mean," he muttered, cracking one eye open.

"Necessary," she countered. "Breakfast is waiting, and you’re not skipping it. Up."

Percy opened the other eye. "What’s on the menu?”

She raised an eyebrow, the unimpressed mom version that could level empires.

Percy considered arguing, but his stomach betrayed him, rumbling audibly at the mention of food. His mother pulled that very specific mom-smug expression. The one that meant she had already won, and they both knew it.

"Fine," Percy grumbled, peeling himself out of the hammock like a reluctant caterpillar. He scrubbed a hand over his face, still half-tangled in Chrysaor’s sweater. "But I’m not eating anything weird."

She smiled, brushing his messy bangs back with a fondness that made his chest ache. "You’ll eat what’s put in front of you."

Percy scowled for dramatic effect but climbed out of the hammock, his feet landing on the wooden planks with a soft thump. The ship creaked around them, the scent of saltwater filling the space. Somewhere above deck, a bell rang—probably signalling breakfast. He sighed like the weight of the world had been placed upon his very soul.

His mother steered him toward the stairs. "Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s see if sailor food meets your exacting standards."

Percy blinked against the early morning light as they emerged onto the deck, squinting into the salty wind. The sea stretched wide around them, choppy with the morning tide, but in the distance, a strip of coastline rose from the water—tall, grassy dunes sloping down to narrow, rocky beaches.

Not the endless skyline of New York. Not a place he recognized.

“Where—?” His voice came out rough, and he coughed before trying again. “Where even are we?”

His mother shot him a sideways look, something unreadable in her expression. “Almost home.”

Almost.

Percy frowned, turning toward the shore, but before he could ask what she meant, the bell rang, sharp and urgent, cutting the moment in two.

The mess hall was loud. And warm. And way too alive for this early in the morning. Heat slammed into Percy, thick with the clamor of voices and the deep bitterness of coffee strong enough to melt a spoon.

Boots thudded against the wooden floor, voices layered over each other—some speaking, some clicking, some whistling like actual dolphins. A few sailors threw crusts of bread at each other. Someone cackled so loudly it rattled the cutlery.

And at the heart of it all, like some eldritch sea god in an apron, was the cook.

The guy looked like someone had slapped a full-grown octopus onto a human torso and called it a day. Eight thick, curling tentacles unfurled from where his neck should’ve been, each one moving independently—stirring, chopping, flipping, grabbing spices from high shelves without him even looking. He cracked eggs three at a time. He flipped pancakes while stirring a massive pot. One tentacle grabbed a loaf of bread, another sliced it midair. The entire display was so mesmerizing, so weirdly elegant, that Percy forgot to be annoyed about being awake.

His mother chose that exact moment to scoop him up and dump him onto Chrysaor’s lap.

Percy squawked, flailing, but Chrysaor caught him without even looking—one arm hooking around his waist, adjusting him like a loose barrel rolling across the deck.

Percy froze. Scowled.

“Seriously?”

Already across the room, his mom shot him a perfectly innocent smile and walked off to get food.

Percy thunked his forehead onto the table. “I hate mornings.”

Chrysaor hummed in agreement and shoved a piece of bread into his hand.

Percy ate it in silence, still waking up, not really thinking about anything. His brain was at minimum power mode, running on autopilot. Then, mid-chew, something occurred to him.

Chrysaor was eating.

And—okay, Percy wasn’t the brightest student, but basic physics existed. Chrysaor’s mask was solid gold. Food couldn’t go through it.

So, logically, that meant he must’ve taken it off.

Casually—very casually—Percy turned his head, just to check.

Mask still on.

…Huh.

Maybe Percy had just missed it. Maybe Chrysaor had one of those sneaky, half-lift techniques. Or maybe he was stupidly fast. Which, honestly, wasn’t that crazy. Percy could breathe underwater. At this point, he wasn’t ruling out anything.

Fine. No big deal.

He wasn’t interested or anything. He was just curious. A normal level of curious. A totally rational amount of curious.

Percy took another bite of bread, watching from the corner of his eyes as Chrysaor lifted his fork.

Right as the food reached his mouth, Chrysaor angled his head—just slightly—blocking Percy’s view.

He tried again. This time, Chrysaor took a sip of coffee.

The mask dipped—just enough to suggest movement—but at an angle Percy couldn’t see.

Okay.

Percy shifted very naturally and not suspiciously at all. Chrysaor shifted too.

A forkful of food? Subtle tilt to the left.

A sip of coffee? Conveniently angled shadow.

A piece of bread? A mystery. An enigma. A crime against basic physics.

This was fine. Percy didn’t care. He wasn’t obsessed or anything.

But, like. Hypothetically. Just for the sake of logic. If someone—not him, obviously—wanted to see what was under there, how would they do it?

He did not lean slightly to the right.

Chrysaor did not immediately shift slightly left.

Percy definitely did not lean the other way to test the theory.

Chrysaor absolutely did not adjust, effortlessly keeping the mask out of sight.

Percy’s frustration built like a storm cloud over the Atlantic.

Okay.

Maybe—maybe—he wanted to see just a little.

It wasn’t like it was his fault Chrysaor was being all secretive and dramatic. If anything, he was the weird one for making a mask such a big deal.

Before he could stop himself, the words blurted out: "Do you even take that thing off at night?"

Chrysaor took his time chewing. Swallowed. Smirked. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"

Percy would not like to know.

Because he didn’t care. At all. About the mask. Or the face under it.

But, hypothetically, if he did care—which, again, he did not—then, in theory, he could sneak in at night and take a quick look.

Maybe Chrysaor left it on the nightstand.

Maybe he only took it off when he was alone.

Maybe there was some weird ancient curse and his face was just a black hole or an endless void or something.

Maybe—

"Don’t even think about it," Chrysaor said flatly, not even looking at him.

Percy absolutely did not think about it.

He wasn’t thinking about it when he stared at the mask.

He wasn’t thinking about it when his fingers twitched.

And he definitely wasn’t thinking about it when, before he could stop himself, he shot a hand up to yank the mask off his brother’s stupid smug face.

The moment his fingers brushed gold, three things happened at once.

1. Chrysaor caught his wrist—fast—with a grip that said “Really? This is your move?”

2. His mother returned.

3. Percy realized, with an immediate and visceral wave of regret, that he might’ve miscalculated.

"Percy Jackson!"

Percy froze like a kid caught elbow-deep in the cookie jar.

Her Mom Look™ could level armies. It could shatter worlds. It could make teachers backtrack mid-lecture and New Yorkers apologize unprompted. And right now?

It was aimed directly at him.

Her arms were full of plates, her expression was pure disappointment, and Percy’s soul left his body.

"You do not just go yanking things off people!" she scolded, marching toward them with terrifying motherly authority. "That is an invasion of privacy, young man!"

Percy floundered, still caught in Chrysaor’s grip. "I wasn’t— I just— It was—"

"You were trying to rip his mask off his face!" his mother snapped.

Okay, fair point. But in Percy’s defense, Chrysaor was being difficult on purpose.

She let out a sigh, rubbing her temple. "Percy, people wear things for a reason. You don’t get to decide when they take them off—just like you wouldn’t want someone yanking your hoodie down if you were trying to hide."

Percy froze for half a second.

…Okay. That was fair. He knew what it was like to hunch into his hoodie when he didn’t want to be seen, to pull it tight when he needed space. If someone tried to rip it off him? He’d—

He winced, guilt settling uncomfortably in his chest.

Maybe he really shouldn’t have—

Then he felt it.

A vibration. A small movement.

Chrysaor was snickering.

Any twinge of guilt he might’ve had died instantly.

Oh, his mom couldn’t see it, thanks to that stupid mask, but Percy was still sitting on the guy. He felt it.

The sheer audacity of this man.

Percy glared up at him, betrayed, as Chrysaor tightened his grip just slightly, like he was saying "Nice try, guppy."

His mother sighed, placing the plates on the table. "Percy, apologize."

Percy did not want to apologize.

Percy wanted to win.

Percy wanted to see THE face.

But Sally Jackson had spoken.

"...Sorry," he muttered.

Chrysaor’s grip finally loosened. He gave Percy a little mocking pat on the head.

Percy’s eye twitched.

This wasn’t over.

He didn’t know when, he didn’t know how, but Chrysaor was going to pay. Maybe he’d steal the mask in his sleep. Maybe he’d wake up to find his stupid gold accessories rearranged into modern art. Maybe Percy would just start staring at him all the time, to make him crck under the pressure.

Something. Anything.

His mother, oblivious to the war happening right under her nose, sat down. "Now, both of you, eat."

Percy seethed internally but grabbed his fork. For now.

The second the taste hit his palate, Percy forgot about everything else.

Chrysaor. The mask. His personal quest for justice.

All of it.

Because food.

He hadn’t realized how starved he was until the first bite hit his tongue, and then—yeah, this was it. This was life now. He shoveled in eggs like it was his last meal, barely pausing to breathe.

Above him, the conversation shifted.

Serious voices. Adult voices.

And Percy—still sitting on Chrysaor’s lap like some kind of oversized parrot—caught pieces of it. Apparently, they were near Montauk, in the Hamptons. New York was out of the question. Too dangerous.

For...reasons.

Percy had definitely missed the part where that was discussed, but sue him. The last thing he’d eaten was the squashed box of cookie from Chrysaor’s hot dog stand. He had priorities.

His mother sounded tired but determined. Something about keeping him safe. About his scent being too easy to track.

Percy blinked.

His what?

Mid-chew, he subtly lifted his wrist to his nose and sniffed.

Salt. Sweat. A vague ocean-y something, but that was probably just the ship.

Mostly? He just smelled like a kid who needed a shower.

Above him, Chrysaor’s shoulders shook. He was still talking, still sounding perfectly serious and engaged in conversation with his mom and the big beluga-headed sailor, but Percy could feel the silent laughter. Again.

He narrowed his eyes at his plate and shoveled in more food aggressively.

This was officially the worst breakfast of his life.

At one point the conversation shifted to logistics. Where they’d stay. What they needed. How to avoid drawing attention...

Percy might’ve tuned most of it out—right up until he saw his mother start giving orders.

The crew—all muscle, all twice her size, all vaguely fish-adjacent—stood at full attention like she was the actual captain here, not Chrysaor.

Percy’s dad might be a mighty god.

But his mother?

His mother was a QUEEN.

Even Chrysaor had noticed.

Percy caught him watching her, silent, considering. Like even he had to acknowledge that Sally Jackson was the real force to be reckoned with here.

Which—obviously.

A completely rational thought popped into Percy’s head.

This. This was the Hallmark moment.

Chrysaor, the mysterious stranger, sweeping into their lives with danger, wealth, and a tragic backstory. The reluctant but charmingly roguish older man who’d take them far away from their old lives and into a future of luxury and adventure.

The handsome, brooding figure standing on the ship’s deck, watching Sally Jackson with something unreadable in his gaze.

They’d build a new life, together. Chrysaor would whisk them off to safety, make sure they never wanted for anything again, and—

Percy’s chewing slowed.

Wait.

WAIT.

NO.

CHRYSAOR. WAS. HIS. BROTHER.

His brain slammed the brakes so hard he nearly gave himself whiplash.

EW. EW. ABORT. ABORT.

He was already on a boat. There was nowhere to run.

DEAR OCEAN, SWALLOW HIM NOW.

He physically recoiled from his own thoughts.

NOPE. NEVER MIND. CHOKING NOW.

There went that fantasy, right into the deepest, darkest trench in the Atlantic, where it would never be seen again.

He shoveled in more food, desperate to physically bury the thought under carbs.

With their plan apparently settled, his mother sent a group of dolphin sailors to land to scope out potential places for them to live—whatever that actually meant when your real estate agents had blowholes. Were they scanning for empty houses? Listening in on fishermen gossip?

No clue. But his mom seemed confident they’d get results, so Percy just rolled with it.

Chrysaor had to leave to do captain things, which Percy generously assumed involved yelling at sailors, brooding dramatically at the horizon, and possibly challenging the ocean to a duel.

Which Percy hoped he lost.

No. He was definitely not still petty about the mask thing.

And since his current seat—Chrysaor’s lap—was leaving, Percy did the only logical thing. He latched onto his mom instead.

He shifted over, pressing against her side, and she didn’t hesitate. Her arm curled around him, warm and steady, her hand moving in slow, absentminded circles against his back.

Percy exhaled, letting himself sink into it.

The rest of the day was just them.

No running, no fighting, no monsters lurking in the shadows. Just breathing. Just being.

They snuggled, because after everything that had happened, neither of them really wanted to let go.

Percy finally took a very necessary shower, because even if he couldn’t smell the divine scent that was apparently drawing monsters to him like a beacon, he could smell the sweat, salt, and general filth clinging to him. And yeah—it was bad.

Afterward, Mom told him stories about his father.

Poseidon.

The actual, real-life, god-of-the-sea Poseidon.

Percy tried to wrap his head around it, but the more his mom talked, the less real it felt.

A god. His dad. Some kids had firefighters or teachers or guys who did normal office stuff. Percy? He got the immortal ruler of the entire ocean.

And the myths Mom told him? They didn’t help.

She told him about how Poseidon had split the world with his brothers, about how he could shatter islands and summon storms, about how he had created horses, and about how he had once lost an entire city because he thought gifting a coastal town a salty water source was a great idea.

Percy listened, but he couldn’t connect the larger-than-life figure in these stories to the man who had once talked to his mom, laughed with her, kissed her—

Ugh. Nope, not that part. Nope nope nope. Moving on.

Eventually, he just let go of trying to make it fit. He just listened to the stories for what they were. Big, weird, sometimes cool, sometimes unfair, and often ridiculous.

But not his father’s life.

That part, he wasn’t ready for.

In return, Percy told her about yesterday—the absolute fever dream of an afternoon that involved a shark tank fiasco, a hot dog stand that wasn’t, and customers who were definitely not human.

She listened carefully, the way she always did, even when his stories sounded completely insane. She asked just the right questions, filling in the blanks he hadn’t realized were there.

By the time night fell, Percy was warm, safe, and full—easily one of the best days of his life.

But his mind wouldn’t shut up.

The ship rocked gently beneath him, the rhythm steady, soothing. His mother’s breathing was slow and even, warmth pressed against his side where she still held him close.

Everything should’ve been perfect. Quiet. Still.

And yet, his thoughts kept spinning.

Because his father was a god.

A god. His father.

Percy had spent all day trying to process it, but every time he thought he had a handle on it, the idea just slipped through his fingers. It was too big. Too unreal.

His mom had explained everything—how Poseidon had to stay away to keep him safe, how Percy’s existence wasn’t just unusual, but against the rules.

A forbidden demigod.

Which, honestly? That was kind of awesome.

Not the danger, not the monsters, but the fact that his mom—his brilliant, stubborn, impossible mom—had somehow convinced a god to break an unbreakable oath.

Percy grinned sleepily into his pillow. He was so proud to be her son.

And he understood, really, he did.

But that didn’t stop him from wanting something.

It wasn’t even that he expected Poseidon to show up or suddenly become a dad-dad. It was just...

There were things Percy wanted to say. Things he wanted to ask.

And no way to do it.

His words felt like they were jammed somewhere in his head, stuck with nowhere to go.

Maybe he should try praying.

His father was a god. Gods were supposed to listen to prayers, right? That was, like, a thing.

…How did that even work?

Did he just think really hard and hope Poseidon picked up the signal? Or did he have to say it out loud?

Would putting his hands together help? Or was that just a church thing?

Wait. If the Greek gods were real… was God God real, too?

…Yeah, nope. Not going down that road tonight.

Back to prayers.

Was there some kind of divine delivery service? Like USPS, but for prayers? What if there were delays? Misdeliveries?

Hold on.

What if his prayer got sent to the wrong god?

What if it went to Zeus?

...Would that get him smote??

The more he thought about it, the more his brain looped and tangled in on itself, spinning off into increasingly ridiculous scenarios.

Somewhere in the middle of worrying about divine postage errors, Percy drifted off to sleep.

Prayer? Completely forgotten.

Chapter Text

The next morning started much the same—warm hammock, scratchy wool sweater, and an unceremonious plop into Chrysaor’s lap. No warning. No discussion. Just gravity and inevitability. He barely even protested this time. Resistance was futile. Chrysaor just adjusted him like he was some overstuffed satchel, patted his arm, and went back to his coffee. Like this was just how mornings worked now.

Fine. Whatever. He could accept this.

Breakfast was the new usual: fish, rice, something pickled, and enough water to drown a lesser child. He barely tasted any of it. Today wasn’t about eating—it was about doing.

Today was the day. He was gonna learn to sail. For real.

Chrysaor had talked at length about it his first night onboard—about how a ship was alive, how it breathed with the tide, how no part of it was useless. Percy had listened, and now, finally, he was going to do.

Percy threw himself into work the second he got the chance. He might’ve only been on this boat for a couple of days, but he knew he belonged here. He could feel it in the sway of the deck under his feet, in the way the ship creaked and breathed with the tide, in the salt-thick air that tasted like something ancient and alive.

Even at anchor, there was always something to do. Ropes to coil, knots to tie, decks to scrub, sails to check. The sailors definitively didn’t need his help, but they let him trail after them anyway, tossing him small tasks like he was an overeager stray. Haul this. Carry that. Hold this for a second. He was pretty sure at least half of it was busywork—like when teachers let you "help" by handing out worksheets—but he didn’t care.

Because this? This made sense.

A good kick snugged a knot tight. A rope slid, hand over hand, like it belonged there. The low groan of the ship in the water—exhaling, inhaling, alive beneath his feet.

Math had never made sense. History neither. But this? This was in his bones.His hands moved like they already knew what to do, and his feet found their balance without thinking.

…Unfortunately, his bones were still attached to a body that was about three feet shorter than everyone else’s.

Which was how he ended up dangling off the deck like an idiot.

One second, he was hauling on a rope, determined to prove he could do it just like everyone else. The next, someone on the other end pulled too fast, and suddenly, Percy was the catch of the day.

Arms flailing. Feet kicking at open air. A stunned, bewildered fish—hooked on a line.

It probably wasn’t even that dramatic. He was only a few feet off the ground—three, maybe four—but that did not make it any less embarrassing.

A heavy sigh rumbled from somewhere behind him. Then, a shadow loomed, and Percy braced himself just in time to be plucked out of the air by a pair of massive hands.

The balloon-headed dolphin sailor—easily the biggest guy on board—hauled him down, set him firmly on his feet, and gave him a look. Not a mean one. Not even a judgy one. Just a look, like this is what we’re doing today, huh?

Percy cleared his throat and smoothed down his sweater with the solemn dignity of a king who had absolutely meant to fall out of the sky. “I’m fine,” he announced, clinging to his dignity like a fish clings to water.

The sailor didn’t answer, just huffed through his blowhole and patted him on the head before walking off.

Percy narrowed his eyes at the crew, who were all suddenly very busy not looking at him.

Suspicious. Deeply suspicious.

“If anyone talks about this,” he announced, dusting off his sleeves for good measure, “I will make them pay.”

Somehow.

He hadn’t worked out the details yet, but sneaks would not be tolerated.

Salt for sugar? Too obvious.

Hiding every mug so they had to drink straight from the pot? Tempting.

Stealing only the left boots? Now that was art.

Petty? Absolutely. But revenge wasn’t about fairness. It was about principle.

There was a moment of silence—too much silence.

Then, somewhere near the rigging, someone snorted.

That was all it took. Like a rope snapping under tension, the whole deck cracked with laughter. The sailors howled. Someone actually doubled over, clutching their ribs. A guy near the mast gave an exaggerated salute like, Aye aye, mighty avenger, and another mimed zipping his lips.

The worst offender was the balloon-headed dolphin sailor, who gave a low, trilling chuckle that sounded way too much like a smug chirp.

Percy crossed his arms. “This is a serious warning.”

A pause. A loaded, crew-wide moment of absolutely fake solemnity.

“Of course, Splashcalf,” one of them wheezed, barely holding it together.

“Deadly serious.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

More laughter. More mockery. Someone mimed a tiny fish flopping in midair.

Percy groaned and yanked Chrysaor’s sweater up over his face, retreating into its scratchy depths. This was his life now.

“I will remember this,” he muttered, voice muffled in wool. “I will have my revenge.”

Oh, he’d wait. Bide his time. Let them think they were safe. Wait for the perfect moment.

Maybe he’d sneak seaweed into their bedding—let them marinate in low tide all night. Or shift their belongings an inch at a time. Swap identical boots between hammocks. Move objects ever so slightly left. Just enough to make them question their own memory.

Or—his best idea yet—the gulls. A few well-timed crumbs. A strategically dropped crust. And soon, the crew wouldn’t be able to take a step without a squadron of beady-eyed seagulls stalking their every move.

Watching. Waiting. Judging.

The cold, merciless patience of creatures that knew: sooner or later, something would fall.

Someone ruffled his hair in a way that was deeply unrepentant. “Sure, Splashcalf. We’re all shaking in our boots.”

Percy’s eyes narrowed. Oh, you will be.

His mind circled back to his masterpiece, his grand design. The gulls.

Oh, he could see it now—sailors scrambling across the deck, hands raised in futile defense as a squadron of shrieking, feathered menaces dive-bombed from above. Bread stolen mid-bite. Hats lifted straight off heads. Boots mysteriously speckled with evidence of an aerial assault. No moment of peace, no meal unwatched, no shoulder safe from the ever-present threat of the flock.

Yes.

A slow, creeping grin spread across his face. Then, a low, ominous chuckle. Half evil. Half mad. Fully, deeply concerning.

The offending hand in his hair vanished like it had been burned. The nearest sailor took an instinctive step back, eyes darting to the rigging like he expected a storm to manifest on the spot. Someone else shuddered, rubbing their arms like a sudden chill had swept across the deck.

Good. Let them feel it.

Percy rolled up the sleeves of Chrysaor’s sweater with the slow, deliberate confidence of a villain preparing their master plan. Then, without another word, he turned and strode toward the rigging, grabbing the nearest length of rope like a man with work to do.

The very image of a diligent young deckhand.

But in his mind?

Chaos.

They had no idea what was coming.

Lunch was loud, messy, and full of sailors arguing over nothing like their lives depended on it.

Percy loved it.

He was already elbow-deep in a bowl of something spicy when Chrysaor finally joined them at the long table. Percy wasn’t sure why, but it was always weird seeing him outside of his usual mysterious-and-brooding captain mode. Like, shouldn’t he be standing at the helm, gazing out at the horizon, making cryptic statements about the wind?

But no. Instead, he just… sat down. Stabbed a piece of fish off someone else’s plate without making eye contact. Poured himself a drink.

Scandalous.

But then the conversation shifted—just some casual, mid-bite banter—and before Percy even realized how it happened, he learned something crucial.

Chrysaor wasn’t just some random sailor.

Percy froze. Fork halfway to his mouth. Brain on overload. “Wait. You’re a pirate?”

Chrysaor barely looked up, sounding deeply unimpressed. “Took you long enough.”

Percy made a strangled noise. His entire existence had been leading to this moment, and somehow, he still hadn’t seen it coming.

“I—You—” Percy made a strangled noise.

How had he not realized this sooner? The boat. The sword. The whole intense, vibe-heavy presence. The gold mask. Oh gods, the gold mask. The guy even dressed like a pirate.

Percy swallowed, staring at him like he was seeing him for the first time. “…Okay. Yeah. That actually makes so much sense.”

Chrysaor snorted.

And honestly? Percy kinda had to respect it. Pirates were cool. The whole gold theme actually fit way better now—like, if you were a pirate, why wouldn’t you lean into the aesthetic? Not to mention the ship, the crew, the—

“Oh, he was obsessed with pirates when he was little,” his mother cut in, smiling.

Percy’s stomach plummeted.

“Mom,” he said, warningly.

“He used to throw the worst tantrums because I wouldn’t let him go to school in costume.”

“Mom, no—”

“I had to hide his hat in the laundry basket just to get him out the door.”

“Mother, I am begging you.”

Sally sighed, resting her chin in her hand. “I used to have so many pictures… but they’re all gone now.”

And just like that, the teasing stopped feeling like an attack. The table noise softened. Percy’s protests died in his throat as his mom’s expression shifted—her eyes going all soft and far away.

Something tugged at his ribs.

He didn’t even think about it. He pushed back from the table and jogged toward the cabin.

Their room was still small, still a little too not-home, but his backpack sat in the corner like a piece of before. He grabbed it and hauled it back to the table, dropping into his seat with a thump.

Then, without ceremony, he yanked the bag open and started rummaging.

A sweatshirt. A conch shell. A suspiciously crushed granola bar. A handful of loose Goldfish crackers that were probably more dust than cracker at this point. One sock—why only one sock? His whole backpack turned into a disaster zone as he shoved things aside, his search strategy approximately zero.

Something clattered onto a plate. One of his school notebooks. Something else hit the floor—his extra toothbrush. Someone grunted as a second sock landed in their lap.

Percy barely noticed.

His fingers brushed something heavy and worn.

The photo album.

He forcefully did not think about what happened after he packed it.

Instead, he pulled it out, set it on the table, and nudged it toward his mom. “Here,” he muttered,shoving a bite of food in his mouth so no one could accuse him of having feelings about it.

Sally blinked—then lit up. “Percy…” She flipped through the pages, smiling wider with every turn. “You got this from the apartment?”

Percy shrugged.

She pulled him into a side hug so tight it nearly crushed his spine.

Worth it.

Then—because the universe hated him—she gasped. “Oh! Here it is!”

She turned the album so everyone could see.

Percy almost died on the spot.

There he was. Tiny, gap-toothed, maybe five years old. Dressed in the most dramatic pirate costume in existence—huge feathered hat, tiny plastic cutlass, so many belts. He had one foot propped up on an overturned laundry basket like it was a treasure chest, and his expression was so serious. Like he was staring down a rival captain in a duel to the death.

Percy groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I can’t believe this. I can never show my face again.”

Somewhere to his right, Chrysaor made an odd sound.

Percy peeked between his fingers just in time to see the man turn slightly away, shoulders shaking.

He was laughing.

At him.

Again.

“Oh, you think this is funny?” Percy accused.

Chrysaor exhaled, steadying himself. Then, like it was nothing, he said, “Let me borrow it.”

Percy squinted. “Borrow what?”

Chrysaor gestured at the album.

Percy recoiled immediately. “Absolutely not.”

But before he could grab it, Sally handed it over.

Percy gasped in betrayal. “Mom, why?”

She just gave Chrysaor a knowing look. “Just don’t lose it.”

Chrysaor didn’t say a word. He just stood, tucked the photo album under his arm, and left the table. Percy watched him go, squinting suspiciously. He was definitely up to something.

Still, he let it go for now, turning back to the mess he’d made. He started stuffing things back into his backpack—sweatshirt, socks, goldfish crumbs, the sock that had somehow ended up in someone’s lap—but before he could grab the last item, his mom’s voice stopped him.

“Oh.”

He looked up.

She was holding the conch shell.

“I thought I’d lost this,” she murmured, running her fingers over its smooth ridges.

Percy froze.

Oh. Oh no, this was bad. This was so bad.

He squirmed in his seat, suddenly very interested in adjusting the straps on his bag. “Uh—yeah. So. Funny story…” He cleared his throat. “I, uh. Found it. One day. Under your bed.”

His mother’s lips twitched. “Found it?”

Percy sat up straighter, hands raised like he was testifying in court. “I did not steal it.” His voice was firm, utterly sincere. “I borrowed it. I meant to give it back. I just… forgot about the giving-back part.”

That got him a laugh. A real one, warm and light, as she ruffled his hair.

“You know,” she said, turning the shell over in her hands, “your father gave this to me.”

Percy blinked. “Wait, what?”

She nodded. “If you say his name while it’s submerged in salt water, he’ll hear it. And if you’re in trouble, he’ll come.”

Percy stared. His father—Poseidon—had just given her a magic conch shell that worked like some kind of divine walkie-talkie? Just—here, babe, have a shell, call me if a sea monster eats your house?

For a second, he considered just handing it back to her. “Uh… then maybe you should—”

But she shook her head and curled his fingers around it instead.

“No,” she said, softer now. “You keep it.”

Percy hesitated. There was something in her voice—something too sad, too certain.

“…You’ll need it more than me.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded. Then, quietly, he slipped the shell into his pocket.

That afternoon, Percy sat at the aphlaston, his favorite place on the ship.

It was the best spot. Hands down. No noisy crew, no clanking ropes or shouted orders—just open sky stretching wide above him, endless ocean rolling out like a moving painting, and the steady, rhythmic rocking of the ship beneath him. He simply let his feet dangle over the edge, the wind teasing at his hair, just breathing as the sea did.

In his hands, he fiddled with the conch shell.

His mother’s keepsake.

From Poseidon.

The god of the sea. His father.

He wasn’t sure why he’d brought it out of his pocket. He just… had.

The shell was smooth beneath his fingers, its spirals worn down from years of handling. His mother had really thought she lost it. And all this time, he’d had it stuffed in a sock drawer, totally unaware it was some kind of magical distress signal.

A magic seashell.

For calling his father.

Percy frowned. The praying thing had been a bust, but if Poseidon could hear his name through the conch, maybe he could hear other things too.

What had his mother said? The conch has to be submerged in salt water.

He stared at it, then glanced at the ocean in front of him.

The ship rocked with the tide, steady and unbothered, the sky stretching on forever. The sunlight danced across the waves in a way that made the water look inviting. Waiting.

Yeah, okay.

He still didn’t know how to swim.

But that hadn’t exactly been a problem in the tank.

Being able to breathe underwater was useful like that. What did he know? Maybe swimming would come just as naturally as everything else sea-related had in the last two days.

And if even sharks—the literal bogeymen of the ocean—had been happy to see him, he seriously doubted he’d find any danger down there.

Yeah.

Percy looked behind him.

All clear.

His mother was probably inside. The sailors were busy.

It’s just him.

The ocean in front of him.

The conch shell in his hand.

And a question he wanted answered.

He jumped.

Chapter Text

The water welcomed him.

It folded around him, deep and absolute. Not just surrounding him, but knowing him. Holding him. The kind of embrace he’d only ever known from his mother.

The temperature? Perfect. Like the ocean had personally fine-tuned the thermostat just for him. The currents swarmed him immediately, like a bunch of overenthusiastic aunties—pinching his cheeks, ruffling his hair, peppering him with invisible kisses. The pressure settled around him, neither crushing nor loose, just... right. Like a favorite hoodie—except, you know, made of salt and ancient magic.

And the taste? Yeah, saltwater was supposed to be disgusting, but this? This was different. Less ugh, I swallowed aquarium tank water and more like biting into the air at the beach—sun-warmed salt, crisp and briny, with something deep and untamed underneath.

Welcome home.

For a second, all he did was drift, weightless, watching bubbles swirl around him.

Then he kicked his legs, tilted forward—

And did a completely unintentional, wildly ungraceful somersault.

Holy heck, this was awesome.

Why had he waited this long to jump into the ocean? Breathing underwater? Amazing. Moving through it like it was second nature? Even better.

He spun back around, grinning, feeling light in a way he hadn’t in... ever. His body just knew what to do here—like the water was helping him, shifting with him instead of against him. Like he wasn’t just in the ocean.

Like he belonged.

Then he caught his reflection in the hull of the ship and nearly choked.

The gold-plated stern curved high above him, shimmering like a freaking temple, and reflected in that temple was him.

Except not quite.

His lips had gone blue—not the ‘oops, you stayed out in the cold too long’ kind of blue, but deep indigo, almost black. His eyes had darkened too, now a deep, stormy gray, like the sea during a thunderstorm.

He lifted his hand to his face, still watching his distorted reflection.

And Oh.

His skin shimmered.

Like—not metaphorically. It caught the light in a way human skin shouldn’t, shifting with every movement, gleaming like scales. And his fingers—

His nails were way longer than they should’ve been, curving at the tips like claws. The color? Not his usual, uneven, bite-marked nails. These were smooth, perfect, iridescent, shifting with pearlescent blues, greens, and silvers. Like someone had carved them straight out of mother-of-pearl.

Huh.

That was...probably normal.

Right?

Before he could spiral too far into questioning it, something small and quick darted into his line of sight. It zipped in close, stopping right in front of his nose, like it had important business.

Percy blinked.

The fish was tiny—maybe the length of his hand—but its pinstriped scales made it look like it had just stepped out of a high-end tailor shop.

It cleared its throat.

Then, with the ceremony of a royal butler, the fish bowed deeply.

“Your Highness.”

Percy froze. His brain took a full three seconds to process that. Then, very slowly, he glanced over his shoulder. Expecting... what? Some actual royal behind him? Poseidon? A particularly important-looking tuna?

But no—just him. Floating mid-water. Alone.

He looked back at the fish.

“Prince,” the fish repeated, its beady eyes practically twinkling with joy, like this was the greatest moment of its life.

Percy’s lips twitched. No. No, he could not laugh. That would be rude.

His brain scrambled for a response, but all he managed was an awkward, “Uh... yeah?”

The fish beamed harder, like it had won a lifetime achievement award. Then, with a flourish, it turned, sweeping its little fins with all the pomp of a maître d’hotel about to announce dinner service. It even hesitated dramatically, milking the moment like a game show host about to reveal the grand prize.

“May I present—”

It didn’t get to finish.

Because, suddenly, the floodgates opened.

A dark cloud of movement surged toward him from below. The water churned as schools of fish rushed in, parting dramatically at the last second to form a wide circle around him. It was like a parade, except… less organized. A lot of fish nearly crashed into each other. A few completely overshot and had to awkwardly swim back.

And then, one of them—oh gods.

One of them was the ugliest thing Percy had ever seen.

Bloated. Warty. Squashed face like it had lost a fight with a ship’s anchor. The fish scowled at him like Percy had personally wronged it. Then, in the deepest, most begrudging croak imaginable, it spoke:

“Scion of the Great Deep. We are humbled by your presence.”

What.

Percy stared. Blinked.

No, yeah. Still an ugly fish. Still addressing him like a character in a period drama.

Was this a prank? Were they paying off the fish? He half-expected to see someone laughing behind the reef.

The pinstriped butler fish nodded approvingly, clearly satisfied with this dramatic entrance.

Percy, at this point, had to physically bite his cheek to keep from losing it. “Uh. Thanks,” he managed, trying not to crack under the sheer absurdity of it all.

And then…

Then, the title war started.

“Tideborn Sovereign.”

“Keeper of the Endless Blue.”

“Heir to the Boundless Abyss.”

Percy’s stomach clenched.

No. No, he was not going to laugh.

But then a fish with long, wispy fins that made it look like it was wearing a haunted wedding veil sighed dramatically and declared:

“Bringer of the Tempest and Heir to the Abyssal Throne.”

Percy lost it.

He slapped both hands over his mouth, shoulders shaking. A snort slipped out anyway, followed by a burst of bubbles.

The butler fish looked deeply pleased.

The ugly, warty fish gave an approving croak.

Percy, meanwhile, was having a crisis.

Because in between the delirium of all these ridiculous titles, an actual thought hit him.

He couldn’t eat fish anymore.

Like. Ever.

It would be cannibalism in every way but the technical one.

Oh, hello, my lord. An honor to serve you, my lord. Also, don’t mind my cousin Greg, you’re eating him.

Absolutely not.

Seafood?

Dead to him.

Actually, hold on—

If fish had royal courts, did that mean they had gossip?

Was there an undersea tabloid running stories about him?

Was he about to make the front page?

Not even twenty-four hours ago, he was just some scrawny, unlucky kid that no one expected anything from. A waste of space, Gabe liked to say. A mouth to feed that didn’t pull his weight. Useless.

And yet—

Here he was.

Crowned in fish worship. Drowning in ridiculous titles. Respected.

And Gabe?

A flash—a body, sprawled motionless.

Another—blood, dark and spreading across the linoleum.

His pulse kicked. Something ugly and sharp coiled in his chest, squeezing tight.

He should feel bad.

Instead, a flicker of satisfaction curled in his gut. Small. Ugly. Real.

A sudden chill prickled under his skin, deep as bone.

No. Nope. Not touching that. Not thinking about it.

His jaw locked. He forced his shoulders to relax, exhaling a steady stream of bubbles.

Focus.

Just in time—because the water erupted around him.

A silver blur shot through the dignified assembly like a firework, sending the carefully arranged fish scattering. The pinstriped butler fish barely dodged a collision, looking personally offended. The warty old grouch let out a furious croak as a dozen small bodies zipped past his face.

Percy barely had time to register what was happening before the blur resolved into—

A full-blown fish riot.

A swarm of tiny, darting fish, fast as lightning, bright as scattered coins.

They moved as one, like a single living mass—a storm of flashing silver ribbons.

And, worse—

They spoke in unison.

“PRINCE! PRINCE! PRINCE! PRINCE! PRINCE!”

Percy flinched as the collective voice engulfed him from every direction.

Then, before he could get a word in—

“DANCE WITH US!”

“What?” Percy sputtered, trying to track them as they spiralled around him like a living hurricane of glitter.

“DANCE WITH US! DANCE WITH US! DANCE WITH US!”

“Guys, I—”

Too late.

The swarm surged forward, pulling him into their momentum without ever touching him, like an invisible tide sweeping him along. Their shimmering bodies whirled in sync, creating dazzling, shifting patterns in the water.

Percy blinked.

…Okay. Yeah. That was kind of cool.

He let himself drift forward, matching their movement, letting the current pull him along. The silver swarm spun faster, their bodies flickering like sunlit waves. Without thinking, Percy kicked off into a slow spin, arms out. The fish exploded into delighted spirals around him.

The water moved with him, through him, like an extension of himself. He didn’t even have to think about it. A flick of his ankle sent him into an effortless roll. Tilting his shoulders made the whole ocean shift like a dance partner, responding before he even finished moving.

He felt weightless. Unstoppable.

“YES, PRINCE, YES!” the fish cheered.

Percy laughed, bubbles escaping from his mouth.

Forget royalty. Forget fancy titles. Forget all the weirdness.

This? This was just fun.

He had no idea how long they spun, but eventually, the school began to scatter, their movements loosening, meandering, like a song winding down.

One by one, they zipped past, their parting words overlapping—

“BYE PRINCE!”

“DANCE AGAIN SOON!”

“DON’T GET CURSED!”

Percy blinked. “Wait, what—?”

But the last of the fish had already zipped away, vanishing into the blue.

Huh. Probably fine.

He exhaled a small stream of bubbles and lifted a hand, waving after them. Then, stretching his arms over his head, he let himself sink.

He drifted down, slow and easy, until the sandy seafloor rose to meet him. The ship loomed overhead, massive and still. From underneath, it almost didn’t look real—just a shape blotting out the sun, its gold-plated hull dull and shadowed.

Percy settled himself at the bottom, crossing his legs. The sand gave beneath him, soft and cool. Something shifted underneath, and he glanced down to find a fish he'd just unknowingly plopped onto.

“Oh—sorry, dude.”

The fish—a well-camouflaged flatfish, nearly indistinguishable from the seafloor—stared at him. Judgmentally.

Then, with great effort, it flicked its tail and scooted a few inches away.

Percy huffed. “Fair.”

He rolled his shoulders, letting the silence press in around him. The ocean had a weight to it—not crushing, but vast, ancient, alive. He could hear it in the stillness. A distant whale call. The shifting of sand. The slow, groaning stretch of the ship above him.

His eyes drifted upward—

Right there, etched into the underside of the ship, half-hidden by barnacles and algae, was a symbol he definitely recognized.

Chrysaor’s mask.

A golden face with hollowed-out eyes, grinning in the dark.

His fingers brushed against the weight in his pocket.

Slowly, he pulled out the conch shell.

He turned it over once, then hesitated.

Percy lifted the shell to his lips, took a deep breath, and whispered, “Poseidon.”

The conch vibrated faintly in his hands, humming like a struck tuning fork. The sound rippled out into the water, disappearing into the abyss.

Percy licked his lips. “Uh—not a distress call, sorry,” he added quickly. “Just... wanted to talk to you.”

The shell fell silent. No response.

So, naturally, Percy kept talking.

“Uh. Hi. My name’s Percy. Short for Perseus. In case you didn’t know.” He winced. “Which, uh, you probably do. I mean, you named me, right? Or—did Mom name me? Wait, I didn’t ask—”

He shook his head. “Never mind. Anyway. Just learned who you are. That’s cool. And it’s okay if we can’t meet—Mom explained. But, um... I dunno. Maybe you might wanna hear about me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Feel free to, uh, send a sign if that’s not the case.”

Silence.

“Aaand I guess that mean I can continue.”

He exhaled. “So... what to say...”

His fingers traced the ridges of the conch.

“Oh, I know! I met Chrysaor.”

His lips quirked. “And he’s the coolest ever.”

The words tumbled out after that, slipping past his lips before he could think too much about them.

Percy talked.

About Chrysaor. About the golden Chrysler he’d hidden in. About getting kidnapped (okay, maybe not the best way to phrase it). About running from monsters, sailing out of the city, and hearing about the gods for the first time.

He talked about his mother.

How she’d held him, warm and unshakable. How she’d explained everything—his birth, his heritage, why Poseidon couldn’t stay.

He talked about the ocean.

How it had felt when it first wrapped around him. Like it knew him. Like it had been waiting for him this whole time.

Like he belonged.

His fingers tightened around the conch.

‟Does that mean I belong to you?”

The silence pressed in, stretching too long. No answer. No flicker of divine presence.

Nothing.

Time slipped away.

The light filtering from above softened, shifting from bright gold to dusky amber. Percy only noticed when he glanced up and saw the sky had darkened.

Wait.

His stomach sank.

How long had he been down here?

A glance at his hands—his fingertips had started to glow faintly in the dimming light.

Oh, no.

Mom was going to kill him.

“Uh—bye, Dad! Gotta go!” Percy blurted, shoving the conch back in his pocket. He pushed off the sand, shooting upward like a cork.

He broke the surface in a rush of bubbles and air, kicking up spray as he gasped.

Yeah.

He was so dead.

Chapter Text

The moment Percy broke the surface, he gasped—more out of habit than necessity. Since, you know, the whole breathing underwater thing. His lungs didn’t burn, his limbs didn’t ache, but the instinct stuck around anyway.

The world above crashed back in. The rhythmic slap of waves. The distant cries of gulls. The groan of wood, the clink of rigging swaying against the masts. A breeze swept across the ocean, cool and briny, making his damp skin prickle.

Afternoon had melted into evening, bleeding gold and violet across the waves, spilling broken shards of light over the water’s rippled surface. The sun was much lower than before. And the once-bright sky had dimmed, softened, shadows stretching longer across the world.

And the ship?

It was farther than he expected.

Huh.

Percy treaded water, staring at the hull. He must have drifted while sitting on the seafloor. Not that he had noticed. He had been too wrapped up in—well. Everything.

The fish. The weirdly fancy way they had treated him. The momentary high of feeling like he actually mattered, followed immediately by the much colder, much uglier realization of what he had felt about—

(Don’t think about it.)

But there was no time to dwell, because—

Shouting.

Boots pounding on deck.

People moving, their voices sharp with urgency.

And then—oh no.

A voice he would recognize anywhere, even across the water.

Mom.

Panic spiked in his chest.

Uh oh. He had been spotted.

Before Percy could even think of a way to explain himself—

There was a splash.

A big one.

Someone had just jumped in after him.

A sleek shape cut through the water, slicing toward him with terrifying speed.

If it was one of the dolphin sailors—

Oh gods, it was.

The sailor was on him in seconds, moving with inhuman efficiency, a flash of webbed fingers and salt-slick hair, their silhouette distorted beneath the surface. Percy barely had time to flinch before they seized him—hands locking onto his upper arm like an iron clamp—and hauled him up like a sack of particularly disappointing potatoes.

And then came the scolding.

A barrage of rapid-fire dolphin speech flooded his ears, a tirade so blistering, so filled with profanity, that even his magical brain auto-translation just—gave up. The words churned together in a fluid mess of shrill whistles and indignant trills, barely making sense through the sheer velocity of their delivery.

But he caught a few things between the cursing.

"—what in the seven tides—"

"—reckless little splashpup—"

"—do you know how worried—"

"—Chrysaor’s going to have your fins for this—"

His brain, still struggling to catch up, fired off an extremely unhelpful thought: Wow. That’s a lot of swear words for a fish.

Meanwhile, his body was ungracefully hauled back aboard the ship, where a whole crowd—including, unfortunately, his mother—was waiting.

Dripping. Dazed. In so much trouble.

…Yeah. He should probably start thinking of an explanation.

Fast.

The moment Percy’s feet hit the deck—

His mother lost it.

It was immediate, all-consuming, and somehow both the best and worst thing that had ever happened to him.

She snatched him up before he could even shake the water off, crushing him against her like she was personally trying to absorb him back into the womb. Percy choked on air (ironic, considering where he had just come from), arms pinned to his sides in an oxygen-depriving, bone-compressing hug.

Then she shoved him back just enough to yell directly into his face.

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG YOU WERE GONE?!”

Before he could answer—

Crushing hug round two. Somehow tighter.

“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!”

Bone-cracking hug.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!”

Soul-snatching hug. Percy briefly wondered if this was how ghosts felt when they got sucked into those weird little vacuums in horror movies.

He was dripping, disoriented, very, very loved, and very, very terrified.

“Uhh…” he started weakly, water pooling at his feet. “Underwater?”

Sally pulled back just enough to glare daggers into his soul.

“DON’T GET SMART WITH ME, YOUNG MAN.”

And then—Hug of eternal wrath and relief.

Percy let himself be squeezed within an inch of his life because, honestly? He deserved it. He had never seen his mom this wild-eyed with worry, and it sucked knowing he was the cause.
The hugs? Great. The screaming? …Not so much.

Off to the side, Chrysaor leaned against the railing, arms crossed, golden mask gleaming in the dying light. He was the epitome of entertained.

“Oh, this is fun,” he commented, voice rich with amusement. “Keep going.”

Percy’s mom whirled, glaring absolute death at him.

Chrysaor was entirely unfazed. "What? I like family reunions."

Eventually, his mother’s breathing calmed slightly (read: she stopped looking like she wanted to ground him until he was thirty-five). She gave Percy one last stern, slightly wobbly look before sighing and running a shaky hand through her damp hair.

"Okay," she exhaled, like she had just put down the weight of the entire ocean. "Explain."

Percy shifted sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. Water dripped from his curls. He hesitated.

“Well… I was thinking about the sharks at the aquarium,” he started. “And I just kinda—wanted to see if other fish would talk to me.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Turns out, they did."

She dragged both hands down her face, exhaling a breath that sounded entirely too exhausted for someone still in her twenties.

"Percy, honey…" she said, voice gentler now, but still firm with lingering mom-fury. "You can’t just disappear like that."

His mother hugged him one last time—but this time, she didn’t let go.

Like, at all.

She kept one arm locked around his shoulders, the other curled protectively around his back, her grip unyielding. It was less of a hug now and more of a maternal vice grip, the kind that said you will never escape my sight again, not even in death.

Percy sighed but didn’t fight it.

Honestly? He wasn’t mad about it.

After a few minutes, Chrysaor stepped up beside them. He didn’t comment on her stranglehold—smart man—but he did ruffle Percy’s damp hair, sending a fresh wave of saltwater dripping down his forehead.

“No more disappearing acts, alright?” Chrysaor said, voice casual but firm. “I don’t need to deal with a grieving mother.”

Percy groaned. “It wasn’t that bad—”

His mom’s arms constricted like a python sensing resistance. “DO NOT TEST ME.”

For the first time, Percy really looked at her.

His mom wasn’t just mad. She was shaken.

Her breath was coming a little too fast, her fingers clutching at his shirt like she was afraid he’d slip right through them. There was something raw in her eyes—something that made his stomach drop because it was not just worry.

It was fear.

And suddenly, it hit him.

Just days ago, she had thrown their whole life into a suitcase, finally running from the man she had convinced herself was keeping Percy safe—only to realize, far too late, that she had been trapping him instead. They had escaped. Faced monsters. Nearly lost everything.

And now?

She was standing on a deck in the middle of the ocean, soaking wet, clinging to him like she was afraid she’d wake up and he’d be gone forever—because for a few terrible moments, he was, and she had no idea if he was ever coming back.

A guilty weight settled on his chest. Not because he had gone underwater—he hadn’t done anything wrong—but because he had made her feel this way.

And that? That sucked.

Percy swallowed hard.

His mom never cried. But right now, she looked like she might.

So for once, he didn’t joke. He just leaned into her and let her hold on.

And just like that, he was officially grounded.

…Well.

As grounded as someone could be on a ship in the middle of the ocean.

With that, the evening settled in.

The deck quieted. The tension melted into the rhythmic rock of the waves, the sky darkening from burnished gold to deep navy. The scent of cooking drifted from below, warm and rich, curling through the cool sea air.

His mother, it seemed, had declared physical contact a non-negotiable condition of his continued existence.

Which is how Percy endeds up hanging off her like a limpet all through dinner.

Her grip was relentless. Not tight, not suffocating—just there. Like a human seatbelt with abandonment issues, locking him firmly in place no matter how much he shifted. At this rate, he was going to have to figure out how to cut his food one-handed or accept that she might just feed him herself.

And if he had to be honest?

Yeah.

Not a hardship.

Turns out, the only reason Percy’s absence went unremarked for so long was because the scouting dolphin sailors had just returned from Montauk.

And, wow.

They did a very thorough job.

At first glance, they looked like normal real estate photos—exterior shots of a small beachside cabin, interior glimpses of a rustic kitchen, a narrow hallway, a single bedroom with a too-small bed.

But then Percy looked closer.

The angles were… odd.

Instead of standard wide, inviting shots, the photos were taken from weirdly strategic positions—shadowed corners, elevated vantages, behind objects that partially obscure the view. A few are grainy, clearly snapped through a window.

A backyard was circled in red.

All locks were annotated.

One page even contained an actual blueprint.

Percy frowned. “Are—are these supposed to be for us?”

The dolphin sailor—the same one who had hauled him out of the ocean like a soggy crime scene—clicked their tongue. “Thorough reconnaissance is crucial.”

Chrysaor hummed approvingly, flipping through the stack. “Not bad. Did you check the structural integrity?”

“Seawater damage along the northern foundation, but nothing catastrophic. The back door is a weak point—single deadbolt, easy to force. The roof will need replacing within the next few years.” The dolphin sailor paused. “Also, the owner owns a dog. A small one. But it is very brave.”

Chrysaor smirked. “Tragic.”

Percy, meanwhile, was staring.

Because what.

He picked up one of the photos, tilting it. It was zoomed-in shot of a window latch. Another had handwritten notes detailing blind spots.

“So,” Percy said carefully, setting the photos down like they might combust in his hands. “Just for my own sanity here. We are planning to buy the house, right? Not just… I don’t know, relocate the current owner?”

His mother—who has been remarkably quiet through this exchange—pinched the bridge of her nose.

Chrysaor huffed. “You wound me, guppy.”

“That’s not a no.”

Percy’s mother sighed, rubbing circles into her temple. “We are not stealing the house,” she said firmly, leveling a don’t push me on this look at Chrysaor, who just shrugged.

“I would never suggest such a thing.”

Percy, who had known him for less than a week but already had a very strong grasp of his moral compass, narrowed his eyes. “But you were thinking it.”

Chrysaor didn’t respond.

Beneath the golden mask, Percy wa absolutely certain there was a grin.

Probably a very smug one.

He sighed, glancing back down at the photos—because honestly, debating ethics with his very sketchy pirate brother was an argument he was never going to win.

The houses weren’t bad. They were all by the sea, some perched right at the edge of the dunes, others set back just enough to have wide porches and weathered wooden decks overlooking the water. Some were bigger than others—still small, still modest, but with enough space to stretch out. One had a rooftop platform, the kind of place he could picture standing on late at night, staring at the waves beneath the stars.

But his eyes kept snagging on a tiny cabin—barely more than a speck against the dunes, almost swallowed by the sea itself.

It wasn’t as open as the others. Tucked low into the sand, half-hidden by wild beachgrass and the skeletal remains of an old wooden fence. But the front garden—if you could call it that—was a riot of blue. Hydrangeas spilled over the pathway, clustered in soft, heavy blooms that nearly drowned the narrow strip of land between the porch and the dunes.

It looked… quiet.

Not in a lonely way, but in a safe way. Like the world forgot about it. Like the wind and the tide and the shifting dunes had wrapped around it to keep it hidden, to keep it theirs.

He exhaled slowly, eyes tracing the weathered siding, the half-shaded porch, the way the sand lapped right up to the edge of the steps, like the sea was always reaching for it.

Yeah.

That one.

Percy ran a thumb over the photo, tracing the edge of the tiny cabin. His fingers drifted lower, brushing over the hydrangeas—just ink and paper, but he could almost feel the softness of the petals, the way they’d brush against his legs if he walked through them. He could almost smell the salt in the air, the damp earth beneath them, the lingering sweetness of sun-warmed blooms.

His mother, still keeping a grip on him like an overprotective octopus, noticed.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just reached out, plucked the photo from his grasp, and studied it for a long, quiet moment.

Then, softly, like she already knew the answer, she asked. “You like this one?”

He nodded.

And immediately after—

He frowned.

Wait.

If they weren’t stealing a house—(which, again, good choice)—then how were they actually getting one?

“Okay,” he said instead, still semi-trapped in his mom’s iron grip. “So assuming we’re not committing home invasion—”

“We’re not,” his mother confirmed, giving Chrysaor a pointed look.

Percy ignored the way his golden brother just hummed, noncommittal. “—how exactly are we supposed to pay for it?”

Because, like… yeah. That was a problem, wasn’t it?

Even if they were buying the house, it wasn’t like they had a pile of cash lying around. They’d never been rich—especially not with Gabe bleeding money like it was some kind of personal challenge.

He wasn’t just bad with finances; he was actively terrible, throwing whatever little he had into poker games, lottery tickets, and get-rich-quick schemes that never worked. If he did win anything, it was gone within hours—lost on another bad bet, another round of cards, another overpriced impulse buy that only ever benefitted him. And when he inevitably ran out of money? He turned to Percy’s mom to cover for him.

Because of course he did.

It wasn’t enough that she worked two jobs to keep them afloat—Gabe still found ways to drain whatever she earned. He made her pay off his gambling debts, cover his bar tabs, front the rent when he “miscalculated” his spending. He acted like her money was his money, like he was owed whatever scraps she had left after keeping them fed, housed, alive. And then—then—he had the audacity to turn around and say Percy was the one ruining them.

That Percy was the problem.

That his “bottomless pit of an appetite” was bleeding them dry.

Like it was Percy gambling away their grocery money.

Like it was Percy drowning their future in debt.

Like it wasn’t Gabe tossing rent money onto a poker table and coming home empty-handed, cursing at the world for being unfair. Like it wasn’t Gabe who took and took and took from his mom, squeezing every last bit of energy and money out of her, and then somehow—somehow—had the gall to act like he was the victim.

A familiar heat crawled up his spine, pooling low in his stomach, the acrid taste spreading to his gums—not just anger, but something uglier, something that made his skin crawl and his teeth itch. His jaw ached with the force of his own clench, his molars grinding until it felt like sparks might catch between them. His fingers twitched, nails biting into his palms, desperate for something to do, some way to push back against the helpless, churning weight pressing against his ribs.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair.

The memory of Gabe’s voice twisted through his head like oil on water. The lazy slur of his words, the way his lips smacked around greasy food, the reek of stale beer clinging to his breath when he spat some new insult across the dinner table. You eat like a damn pig, you know that? No wonder we’re always broke.

Percy’s nails dug deeper.

Gabe had drained them dry, dragged them down with his greed, and still had the audacity to act like Percy was the one who took too much. Like Percy was the burden. Like Percy was the reason his mother stayed up late, working shifts that left her hands raw and her eyes shadowed, scraping together enough to keep them afloat—only for Gabe to snatch it up the second she turned her back.

The rage coiled tighter, burning in his teeth, crawling under his nails like tendrils of hate—until something warm and steady closed over his fist.

His mom.

Her fingers slipped between his, pressing firm, grounding. Percy flinched, the tension snapping like a too-tight wire, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

She didn’t say anything. Just held on, thumb running slow circles over his knuckles, like she was brushing the anger right out of him.

His fists loosened. His shoulders dropped.

The acrid taste in his mouth?

That stayed.

Percy swallowed, glancing down at the papers again, at the plans for a future that didn’t have Gabe in it.

Something steadier than anger settled in his chest. Something that felt a lot like hope. Because for the first time in his life, they weren’t just enduring. They were thriving.

And that meant figuring out what came next.

He exhaled slowly.

“…So,” he said, his voice rougher than he expected. “What exactly is the plan here?”

His mom just gave him a look. The kind that all the actually competent characters in movies gave when they were about to pull out the plan.

She barely even hesitated before glancing at one of the sailors and saying, “Can you fetch the messenger bag from our cabin?”

Percy sat up straighter. “I can—”

Without looking, his mom’s arm flexed—like an automatic restraint feature had just activated.

Ah.

Right.

No more unauthorized Percyscapades™.

He was officially on a do-not-wander-off-under-any-circumstances list. Possibly for life.

The sailor was back in moments—large, bulging messenger bag slung over their shoulder. They set it down with a faint thump, and his mom wasted no time pulling it onto her lap. With the kind of calm efficiency that probably terrified customer service workers, she flipped the flap open, reached inside, and pulled out another bag—this one soft and fabric, its seams straining against whatever was packed inside.

She loosened the tie.

A pearl slipped free, striking the table with a crisp, delicate tock. Then another. And another. A heartbeat later, the bag gave way entirely.

They fell like water.

A shimmering tide, scattering across the wood in a rippling cascade—some rolling in tight, frantic spirals, others bouncing once before coming to rest in uneven, glistening heaps. A few skittered to the table’s edge and teetered there, spinning, before settling into stillness. The air hummed with the soft, fleeting music of them—like raindrops striking stone, like the hush of waves drawing back over a bed of polished shells.

And the colors—gods, the colors.

Not just white. Not the perfect, artificial uniformity of jewelry store pearls.

Some gleamed silver, pale as moonlight on quiet water. Others held the hushed glow of seafoam, green kissed with gold. Some were deep, almost blue, like the ocean when a storm lurked just beneath the surface. Their sheen was restless, shifting with every flicker of light, every tilt of the head, a quiet reminder that they had not come from land.

Percy swallowed. He could feel something pulling at the edges of his memory.

It was in the way they felt.

Not just their shimmer or their weight, but something threaded through his bones, laced into his breath like salt in the air. A recognition deeper than thought, deeper than understanding—like the ocean itself had whispered it to him long ago, and only now had he begun to hear.

“Are—” He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Are those my tears?”

His mom had never let go of his hand.

And Percy—staring at the sea-born currency of his own sorrow, luminous and strange and impossibly his—found he really didn’t mind.

Chapter Text

"Are those my tears?"

The moment he said it, he knew.

The memory clicked into place—something old and distant, buried so deep he had never thought to examine it before.

The way his mother used to wipe his face so gently, so carefully when he cried, her fingers brushing away the evidence. The way she had always carried tissues, but never used them on him.

And now that he was thinking about it—

He had never actually seen his own tears hit the ground.

Because she had always caught them first.

Always.

The truth hit him, vast and dark, like the ocean itself rising to swallow him.

It hadn’t just been habit. It hadn’t just been kindness.

She had been saving them.

He stared at the pile of pearls spilling across the table, their smooth surfaces gleaming in the last rays of the day. They were beautiful. Horrifically beautiful. Because he knew, with absolute certainty, that this wasn’t just sentimentality.

This wasn’t a mother tucking away lost baby teeth or hoarding childhood drawings in a shoebox.

She had nothing else.

No money. No safety net. No future beyond the next day, the next month, the next time Gabe would come home in a bad mood.

And yet—she had never spent them. Not when she was starving. Not when she was trapped. Not even when she was suffering.

This—this bag of pearls made from his own sadness—had been her only lifeline.

And she had kept them all.

A sound built in his throat, something raw and choked and too much, but he swallowed it down. His chest felt tight, something curling deep in his ribs like a fist clenched around his lungs.

He didn’t know what to do with it, this thing inside him—this grief, this guilt, this terrible, aching love. Because how could he deserve this?

She had given everything for him. Everything. And what had he ever done for her? He hated it—the imbalance of it. Hated that she had to sacrifice so much just to keep him safe. Hated that she had suffered in silence because of him. And most of all, he hated the thought that he might never be able to give any of it back.

The silence stretched.

Even the sailors—pirates hardened by salt and blood and plunder—were motionless. They didn’t look at her like men hardened by the sea. They looked at her like they understood—like they’d seen something sacred. The pearls might’ve been worth a king’s ransom, but to the sailors, the way she touched them, the way she guarded them, was priceless. Their gazes flicked between the pearls and the boy who had wept them into being, their rough hands stilling at their sides, as if in quiet recognition of something far older, far deeper than their own lives at sea.

It made Percy feel exposed.

Not in the way he usually did, not the way Gabe made him feel small, or teachers made him feel stupid. This was something more.

Like a wound sliced open. Like something secret, something delicate, dragged into the light and laid bare for everyone to see.

A tear escaped him then. At first, he thought it was from the weight of it all—the guilt, the sadness, the enormity of what his mother had done for him. But as it slipped down his cheek, he realized it wasn’t grief at all. It was love—terrible and aching, like the first breath after drowning.

And before it could even reach his cheek, before it could fall—his mother caught it.

Her fingers were there, as they had always been, plucking it from the corner of his eye the moment it touched his skin. It hardened between her fingertips—a perfect sphere, smooth as glass, gleaming like the inside of a shell.

She lifted it to her lips and kissed it—soft, reverent—before setting it gently atop the others, where it vanished into the pale shimmer of the pile.

Percy couldn’t breathe.

Because suddenly he was three years old again, sitting on the apartment floor with a skinned knee, watching her do the same thing without understanding.

Because suddenly he was five, hiding in his room, scrubbing his face so she wouldn’t see how much Gabe’s words had stung—only to have her cup his chin, brush away the evidence, and press something cool and smooth into his palm before closing his fingers around it.

Because suddenly he was here, now, staring at a heap of proof that he had never, ever cried alone.

His throat was too tight to speak.

And no one did.

Not Chrysaor. Not the sailors. Not even his mother.

The air hummed with something heavy, something wordless and ancient, something Percy didn’t think he would ever be able to name.

Another tear formed.

But she caught this one too.

Like she always had.

Like she always would.

The silence stretched, thick as the ocean before a storm.

Percy could feel the weight of their gazes—the sailors watching with something like reverence. They had seen shipwrecks and battles, men drown and gods rise, but this—this moment—had rendered them still.

Chrysaor exhaled, slow and measured, before finally breaking the quiet. His voice was unreadable.

"You kept them all."

His mother nodded. "Every single one."

Chrysaor leaned back, his gaze still on her. Percy couldn’t read his face—not through the mask, not fully—but there was something in the way he was looking at her. It wasn’t the usual sharpness, the rough-edged amusement Percy was starting to expect from him. This was quieter. Almost thoughtful.

Percy frowned, trying to pin it down. Respect, maybe? Or something sadder? Whatever it was, it made him feel like an outsider, like there was a conversation happening that he wasn’t part of.

But when Chrysaor finally spoke again, his voice had changed—low, steady, and edged with something Percy had never heard from him before. Not sharp, not mocking. It was heavier than amusement, softer than respect. Like he was speaking to someone who had managed to surprise him.

"You really are something else, aren’t you?"

The tension broke, not in a rush, but in the slow, inevitable way a tide pulled back from shore—leaving behind only what could not be washed away.

His mother exhaled, just once, before reaching out.

Her fingers trailed over the pearls, her touch lingering, as if she were memorizing them, as if she were saying goodbye. And maybe she was.

Because she had carried them for so long—through years of struggle, of sacrifice, of waiting for the right moment.

And now, at last, that moment had come.

She lifted her gaze to Chrysaor, steady and sure. "Can you get a fair price?"

Chrysaor snorted, shaking his head with something like amusement. “Lady, I could start a bidding war—and still make ‘em thank me for the privilege.”

Percy blinked, caught between awe and disbelief. "Wait—people actually buy this stuff?"

Chrysaor turned to him then, the grin audible in his voice even through the mask.

"Oh, guppy. You have no idea." He tilted his head, his tone light but with a flicker of something Percy couldn’t quite place. "Pearls like these… they won’t go unnoticed."

Percy stared at the pile of pearls, the shimmer of them almost too bright to look at. His stomach twisted, torn between a strange sense of pride and something much heavier—something sharp and uncomfortable, like he was watching a piece of himself being laid bare for the world to see.

Of course his mom had saved them like some kind of magical savings account. And of course his pirate brother was about to sell them on the mythological black market. Because why not? This was his life now.

His mother ran her fingers over the pearls, her gaze distant and thoughtful. Percy recognized that look—it was her “Mom thinking” face. The one that meant she was piecing together some wild plan that would probably work because she was Sally Freaking Jackson. He’d seen it before: when she figured out how to stretch a dollar into dinner, patch her worn shoes to last another month, or make their depressing little apartment look semi-decent with a sponge and sheer force of will.

This time, though, it wasn’t dollar-store miracles on her mind. It was him. And safety. Two things that definitely didn’t mix well.

Finally, she asked, “If we do this… if we buy the house, is there any way to make it absolutely safe? From monsters, I mean. From anything that might come for him?”

Percy’s stomach flipped like a pancake on a hot skillet. “Wait, so monsters will still come for me?”

So much for his picture-perfect fantasy of hiding out in a cozy little house by the sea, sipping hot cocoa while the world forgot he existed. Turns out, the monsters didn’t get the memo.

Chrysaor’s gaze flicked between Percy and Sally, his posture straightening as if the question demanded his full attention. His gold mask caught the light, making him look extra ominous. Perfect for delivering bad news.

“No way to avoid all of them,” he said, his voice calm but firm, like he was announcing the weather. “Not with guppy here shining like a lighthouse for every monster in a hundred miles.”

Percy bristled. “I don’t light up—”

Wait.

He stopped mid-protest, glancing down at his hands and turning them over quickly. Nope, no glow.

“—at all!” he finished, his indignation fully intact.

Chrysaor’s finger shot out, silencing him like an overdramatic stage actor. “Not literally. But your presence? It’s strong. And it’s getting stronger. You’re coming into your powers, and the sea doesn’t do subtle, kid. Even nose-blind hellhounds and harpies too dumb to find their own nests are gonna notice you. You might as well put up a sign that says ‘Free Snacks.’”

Oh, awesome. Percy slumped back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Love that for me.”

New life goal: don’t get eaten.

Probability of success: low.

Morale: even lower.

“But—” Chrysaor continued, raising a hand before either of them could interrupt, “—there might be a way to keep them from the house itself.”

Percy sat up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. “Seriously?”

His mother leaned forward like a hawk locking onto prey. “How?”

Chrysaor tapped the table, his movements slowing. Percy could practically hear him revving up for a long explanation. “Outside, Percy would still be fair game. No getting around that—he’s too… noticeable.” He gestured vaguely in Percy’s direction, like he was trying to describe a particularly confusing art installation. “But inside? That’s different. The house could be locked down. Monsters could camp out on the front yard, sniff around the door, scratch at the windows, but they’d never be able to set foot inside.”

Percy squinted. “Like… a magic barrier?”

“Something like that,” Chrysaor said, his tone flattening like he wasn’t entirely sure himself.

His mother’s face lit up like the Rockefeller tree. “And you know how to do this?”

Chrysaor snorted. “Me? No. I’m pants at that sort of thing.”

His mother’s face had fell faster than a kid realizing Santa wasn’t real.

Percy, mid-sip of water, choked. He coughed so hard his ribs ached, barely managing to gasp out, “Did you just say you’re—”

“Shut it, guppy.”

But Percy wasn’t about to let it go. “Pants? Really? What kind of pirate talk is that?”

Chrysaor’s head tilted toward him, and even though the mask hid his face, Percy could feel the glare. “You want pirate talk? Fine. I’m piss-poor at magic, and I’d sooner let a Siren sing me to sleep than try my hand at it.”

“Point taken,” Percy muttered, smothering a grin. He’d definitely be filing that one away for future use.

His mom, ever the master of focus, cut in before they could devolve into another round of snark. “How would it work exactly?”

Chrysaor tilted his head, like he was debating how much to dumb this down for them. “It’s... complicated. Magic, boundaries, something about thresholds being sacred—don’t ask me for details. I’m not the one who came up with this stuff. But it’s like drawing a line in the sand. Except the line actually works, and the sand’s enchanted or blessed or cursed—whatever it is that makes monsters back off. They don’t cross it, no matter how much they want to.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms. “It’s not the kind of thing you slap together with duct tape and a prayer. You need someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone good. And that’s not me.”

For a moment, Chrysaor hesitated, like he was debating whether or not to say more. Finally, he relented. “But I think I know someone who could do it.”

Percy’s mother’s brow furrowed. “I thought gods were forbidden to interfere.”

Chrysaor waved a hand like it was obvious. “She’s not a goddess.”

For the first time, Chrysaor’s posture shifted, like he was actually starting to enjoy himself. He leaned back, his mask catching the light, and Percy could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Us immortals have more leeway on that sort of thing. As long as we stay discreet, it stays under the radar.”

Discreet? Like Chrysaor didn’t walk around wearing a creepy golden mask that screamed look at me, I’m mysterious and probably up to something shady.

“And Dee is so discreet most people think she’s a myth,” Chrysaor added, his grin sharpening.

“Aren’t all of you myths?” Percy shot back, unable to help himself.

Might as well point out the obvious while he was here.

Chrysaor’s head tilted toward him. Even with the mask, Percy could feel the weight of the glare. “Smartass.” His voice dropped into a full pirate drawl. “Ye cheeky little barnacle, I oughta throw ye overboard fer that one.”

Percy snickered, crossing his arms. Cheeky little barnacle? That one was pure gold. He’d have to pull it out the next time someone annoyed him.

“I meant,” Chrysaor continued, glaring at him like he was seriously debating tossing him into the ocean, “I only know of her because one of my… associates worked with her once.”

Percy squinted, the gears in his brain clicking into suspicion mode. “Define associate.”

Translation: which immortal weirdo were they dealing with this time?

“That, guppy, is a story for another time,” Chrysaor said smoothly, leaning back as if that was the end of the conversation.

Percy rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall out. Of course it was. The immortal pirate playbook must include a rule about dodging questions with vague cliffhangers.

His mother, still laser-focused, brought them back on track. “This Dee… can you reach her?”

Chrysaor straightened, tapping a finger against the table like he was weighing the pros and cons. “I know someone who can. But it won’t be cheap. And it won’t be quick.”

Percy slumped back in his chair, glaring at the ceiling. Naturally. Because why would anything in his life ever be cheap, quick, or easy?

Meanwhile, his mom just nodded, already a thousand miles ahead of the conversation, piecing together a plan like she was solving a Rubik’s Cube in her head. Percy couldn’t decide whether her sheer determination was inspiring or terrifying. Probably both. He figured she could’ve stared down a god with that same look and convinced it to do her taxes.

The decision was made faster than Percy would’ve liked. Or agreed to. Or even thought was a good idea.

Somehow, in the swirl of Chrysaor’s pirate logic and his mother’s impossible knack for making awful plans sound reasonable, it was decided: Percy was going with Chrysaor to find this Dee lady. Meanwhile, his mom would stay in Montauk to “secure the house” and “figure things out.” Because apparently, leaving her alone with nothing but hope and a pack of stubbornness was the smart move.

Percy hated it. Hated all of it.

He hated the thought of being away from her—his mom, the one constant in his upside-down life—for who knew how long. He hated the thought of her staying behind without him. And, most of all, he hated the way no one seemed to think this was as terrible an idea as it obviously was.

The quiet of their shared cabin didn’t help. It only made the ache in his chest louder, sharper. His mom was tucking the last of their few things into a corner when Percy finally worked up the courage to speak.

“But why?” he asked, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

She didn’t look up right away. Her hands stilled over the bag, her shoulders falling just slightly, like she’d been expecting the question. When she finally turned to him, her face was soft but tired—the kind of tired that made Percy’s stomach twist.

“Because,” she said gently, “Chrysaor can keep you safe from the monsters in a way I can’t. Not until the house is ready.”

Percy frowned, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. “You keep saying that. Safe, safe, safe. I am safe with you.”

She stepped closer, kneeling slightly so they were eye level. “I’ve tried masking you with mortal means,” she said softly. “You know how that backfired on us.”

His stomach twisted again, sharper this time. He knew exactly what she meant. Mortal means was a polite way of saying Gabe. And backfired didn’t even come close to covering what had happened.

For a moment, his mind flashed back to Gabe’s yelling, the sickening thud of a fist meeting skin, and the sharp sting in his mouth afterward. But what stuck with him most wasn’t the pain—it was how small his mom had looked, standing there pale but determined, her hands trembling as she cleaned him up, like it was the only thing holding her together.

Yeah. Mortal means sucked.

She’d protected him then, even when it hurt her. How was he supposed to leave her now?

“But who’s gonna protect you?” Percy asked, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t shake the thought of her being alone—of her fighting off monsters or worse while he was off playing pirate with Chrysaor.

She smiled at him then, sad and small, brushing a hand lightly over his hair. “Oh, Percy,” she said softly. Her voice dropped, quieter now, as if she were admitting a secret she didn’t want him to hear. “I’m mortal. Nobody cares about me.”

Percy froze. He knew she didn’t mean it the way it sounded—like she was giving up or like she didn’t matter. But still, something inside him rebelled, flaring hot and fierce.

“They should!” he snapped, his face burning. The words came fast, raw, like a wave crashing through him. “Not to, like, eat you or anything! But—” His words tripped over themselves, useless and clumsy. “You—” He hesitated, struggling to find the right thing to say. “You matter! To me. To—” He scowled, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “They should.”

She laughed softly, a sound like waves lapping against the shore, before pulling him into a hug so tight he could barely breathe. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t want to.

“I know, baby,” she whispered, her voice trembling just slightly. “I know. I love you too.”

For a moment, Percy didn’t say anything. He just buried his face in her shoulder, squeezing her back as hard as he could without breaking her.

Because if he was going to do this—if he was going to leave her, to go chasing after some mysterious immortal with a pirate brother he barely knew—then he needed her to know. She had to know.

She was the only reason he could.

Chapter Text

The air was cold and sharp, stinging Percy’s cheeks. Mornings were a scam. An unnecessary invention, like maths or vegetables.

He burrowed deeper into his mom’s neck, her warm vanilla-caramel scent wrapping around him like a soft blanket. If mornings had to exist, they should come with fewer goodbyes.

His grip tightened—legs locked like a barnacle, arms gripping her neck like she might disappear if he let go.

Chrysaor’s ridiculously oversized wool jumper swamped him, hanging so far past his knees he looked more like a jellybean than a kid. Not that he’d ever admit it was the coziest thing he’d ever worn. If he acted annoyed enough, maybe Chrysaor wouldn’t ask for it back.

Her hand brushed through his hair, untangling a curl he was sure he’d tamed last night. He let out a loud, exaggerated sigh, just to make sure she knew how much he appreciated the effort.

This was perfect. His mom’s arms. The gentle rocking of the ship. The jumper he was absolutely not keeping forever. If it weren’t for the whole “separating for a few days” thing, life would’ve been great.

And then, betrayal.

Her hand stopped petting his hair.

He stiffened, gripping her tighter. What are you doing? His silent protest went ignored. Instead, her attention shifted—away from him—as if that were even allowed.

A moment later, he peeked out, squinting to see what could possibly be more important than him. She was shaking Chrysaor’s hand, her voice calm and low. Percy didn’t catch what she said. He was too busy perfecting his limpet impression.

She was taking way too long.

He tightened his hold, just to remind her of her priorities, but nothing changed. Traitor.

His gaze drifted past Chrysaor to the figure looming beside him. The beluga head was unmistakable—smooth, pale, and capped with that weird round forehead bump Percy always thought looked like a half-deflated soccer ball. He’d seen the guy plenty of times, usually stationed outside Chrysaor’s quarters like a silent, scowling bouncer.

But now, in daylight, the details were… a lot.

For one, the guy was huge. Twice his mom’s size in height and width. Shoulders broad enough to land seagulls on. Arms covered in tattoos that twisted like a sailor’s map, all bold lines and strange creatures. Percy caught a hydra, its heads tied together with thick ropes like some kind of terrifying bouquet. A kraken curled around an anchor, looking smug for no good reason.

And then there was the hat.

Percy blinked. The guy’s massive head was topped with the tiniest beret Percy had ever seen. Complete with a golden pompom wobbling precariously. It looked like it knew it didn’t belong but was too stubborn to admit defeat. Percy tilted his head. Was it glued? Charmed? Or just clinging to the guy’s beluga skin out of sheer terror?

From what Percy could piece together, this guy wasn’t here to intimidate. He was here for her. Chrysaor had assigned this guy to be his mom’s bodyguard.

Percy froze, the realization settling in.

His brother—his incredibly cool, ridiculously shiny pirate brother—had thought about her. Planned for her. Made sure she’d be safe. Chrysaor hadn’t just done the whole gruff-and-glare routine. He’d cared.

Warmth spread in Percy’s chest, stubborn but undeniable. He tilted his head, sneaking another glance at his brother, who was barking orders like he owned the ship.

Yeah, okay. Chrysaor wasn’t just cool. He was… amazing. Thoughtful. Basically unstoppable.

Percy let out a huff, his thoughts shifting. Chrysaor deserved something for this. A hug? Maybe a fist bump? No, a hug was better. Hugs were the ultimate move. But not now. Definitely not now. The timing had to be perfect.

For now, he’d focus on staying glued to his mom.

Percy was still basking in his brother’s amazingness, already planning the perfect ambush hug, when—

Wait a second.

She was still talking to Chrysaor, her hand definitely not where it was supposed to be.

Wasn’t this goodbye supposed to be about him? He’d been up since the crack of dawn, suffering through the cold and the cruel injustice of mornings, and now she was wasting his precious time on other people?

He tightened his grip, his little arms squeezing around her neck in what he thought was a very clear signal. Still nothing. She didn’t even flinch, still chatting away like it wasn’t an emergency that her hand wasn’t in his hair.

Fine. If she wasn’t going to fix this, he would.

His fingers darted out, grabbed her hand, and yanked it back to where it belonged, planting it firmly in his curls like a flag on conquered territory. He glared up at her with what he hoped was his fiercest, most accusing look. “Mine,” he muttered, his voice heavy with judgment.

Her fingers returned to his curls, brushing through them with that soothing, repetitive motion that made his eyelids droop and his chest ache a little less. Everything was fine now. Everything would stay fine—so long as her hand stayed exactly where it was.

But then Percy’s gaze drifted back to the towering beluga-headed sailor, standing stiffly beside Chrysaor. His mom’s escort. Her bodyguard.

Percy’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening again as he sized the guy up. The tattoos were cool, sure. And yeah, the guy was big—massive, actually, like he could carry his mom in one hand and the entire ship in the other. But Percy didn’t care. This was his mom. No one—no one—slacked off when it came to her.

He adjusted his position, lifting his chin and letting his curls fall dramatically over his forehead. If this guy knew what was good for him, he’d take this seriously. Percy imagined himself in a big chair, backlit by ominous shadows, delivering a warning that couldn’t be ignored.

“You’d better take good care of her,” he said, his voice dipping into what he thought was a perfectly low, gravelly tone.

The sailor blinked, his beluga forehead creasing slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be afraid. Then he nodded furiously, his broad shoulders bobbing up and down like a rowboat in rough seas. Percy watched as the tiny golden pompom on the sailor’s precarious beret wobbled wildly, tilting so far it seemed destined to fall.

Percy held his breath, half-hoping gravity would finally win.

It didn’t.

Sad.

It would’ve been the perfect finishing touch.

Still, Percy decided, it was a solid performance. Maybe not full Godfather level—he was missing a tux and a smoky room—but good enough. The sailor looked appropriately terrified, which was what mattered.

Then his mom’s hand brushed through his curls again, and realization hit him like a bucket of ice water.

Oh no. He was the cat. He was the cat on the boss’s lap.

He let out a small huff, resigning himself. If he was the cat, he was at least the fiercest one around. The sailor didn’t need to know that, though.

“I handled it,” Percy muttered into his mom’s neck, his tone all business.

Her soft laugh vibrated against his ear, her hold tightening just a little. “I’m sure you did, sweetheart,” she said warmly.

Chrysaor snorted. Percy stiffened, shooting him a glare over his mom’s shoulder. He’d deal with him later. Right now, the important thing was that the bodyguard knew his place—and that Percy’s curls were properly supervised.

Percy didn’t want to let go. Ever.

Naturally, the universe had other plans.

One moment, he was safely latched onto his mom, legs locked like a human seatbelt and arms gripping her neck for dear life. The next, Chrysaor’s giant pirate hands swooped in and Percy was peeled off like gum from the bottom of a shoe.

It wasn’t graceful.

Percy kicked wildly, twisting like a furious eel.

His protests were ignored. Completely.

Chrysaor simply hoisted him into the air like he weighed nothing more than a particularly fluffy throw pillow.

His mom, the traitor, stepped back. Smoothed her hair. Acted like none of this was a big deal. Percy glared at her with all the ferocity he could muster—flared nostrils, bared teeth, the whole package. She didn’t even flinch.

Instead, she gave him the look. The one that somehow said you’re being ridiculous and I love you anyway at the same time.

And then she kissed his forehead.

A kiss. Like that was supposed to fix everything.

Percy dangled uselessly in Chrysaor’s grip, his arms crossed, his lips pressed into a pout so dramatic it could win awards. “Just so you know,” he muttered, voice dripping with bitterness, “this is literally the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of the world.”

Neither of them seemed impressed.

Typical.

His mom dug into her bag, and Percy squinted suspiciously. What now?

She pulled out a small metal tin and placed it in his hands like it was some kind of consolation prize.

Percy blinked at it, confused, until his eyes caught the note taped to the top. Her handwriting was neat, all capitals: FOR WHEN YOU FEEL BLUE.

A grin forced its way across his face before he could stop it. Stupid tin. Stupid mom. He clutched it to his chest like it was the last slice of pizza on Earth.

But sadly she wasn’t done.

She reached into her bag again and pulled out… a book.

A big one. A giant, hardcover monstrosity.

Percy stared at it like it might sprout legs and attack him.

“Seriously?” he groaned, taking it like it was radioactive.

The pages were stuffed with impossibly tiny text and weird illustrations of people who seemed highly allergic to pants. Percy let out the loudest, most exaggerated groan he could manage. “Mom. This isn’t a book. It’s a weapon of mass destruction.”

“It’s important,” she said, her tone sliding into full Mom Mode. “Read it. A few entries every evening.”

He flipped it over, scowling at the faded title stamped across the cover: The A to Z Dictionary of Greek Mythology.

Ah.

Yeah. Okay. She had a point.

“Fine,” he muttered, tucking it under his arm like it had just personally insulted him. “But if it’s boring, I’m blaming you.”

Her smile softened as she reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his face. Her hand lingered on his cheek just a moment too long.

“Deal,” she said.

She left.

His mom actually left.

Percy twisted in Chrysaor’s grip, eyes locked on the dinghy as it pulled away. No. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

His chest tightened, and panic bubbled up, wild and sharp. He squirmed harder, digging his heels into Chrysaor’s side like he could somehow force himself free.

And then, a brilliant idea.

If he timed it just right, he could jump into the dinghy. He’d stick the landing, they’d have no choice but to take him along, and everything would be fine. Perfect plan. Foolproof.

With one final twist, Percy launched himself toward freedom.

He didn’t make it.

Chrysaor caught him mid-lunge, hauling him back like a particularly feisty cat. Percy flailed like his life depended on it, his legs kicking wildly as he clawed at the air. “Let me go! She forgot me! I’m supposed to be there!”

“Nice try, guppy,” Chrysaor said, entirely unimpressed.

Percy growled—actually growled—but Chrysaor didn’t even blink. He adjusted Percy like a sack of potatoes and hoisted him onto his shoulder. From his new perch, Percy could only watch helplessly as the dinghy floated farther away, his mom steady and calm at the helm like she wasn’t abandoning her only child.

This was the end. The actual, literal end.

“She’s supposed to look back,” Percy muttered, his voice cracking. “That’s what people do. In movies, they always look back.”

But she didn’t. Of course, she didn’t. She was too strong for that. She didn’t need to look back.

But Percy? He needed her to.

The ache in Percy’s chest spread. His arms hung limp at his sides. He slumped, letting his forehead drop against Chrysaor’s mask. He was officially an overgrown parrot now, stuck on the shoulder of the world’s grumpiest pirate.

Percy’s arms tightened around Chrysaor’s head. “Worst. Day. Ever,” he muttered, his voice flat but wobbling at the edges.

Then it happened.

At the very last second, just as the dinghy neared the dock, she turned.

Percy straightened instantly, his chest tightening for a completely different reason. She waved—at last. Then, to his utter delight, she blew him a kiss.

Percy’s heart flipped. He waved back furiously, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. “She waved! Did you see that?” he shouted, practically bouncing on Chrysaor’s shoulder.

Chrysaor grunted, his grip steady despite the human pogo stick now perched on him.

“She blew me a kiss!” Percy shouted again, his hand flailing to return the gesture. He waved so hard his arm felt like it might fly off. He could barely keep his balance, but he didn’t care.

From the dock, she waved again, one last time before stepping onto Montauk’s pier and disappearing from sight.

Percy slumped back against Chrysaor, breathless but grinning like an idiot.

“Worst day ever,” he muttered automatically, the words no longer carrying the weight they had just moments ago.

Chrysaor huffed, adjusting Percy slightly. “Yeah, looks like you’re really suffering up there.”

The moment Percy’s mother disappeared from view, Chrysaor snapped back into captain mode.

“Raise the sails!” His voice boomed across the deck. “Anchor up! Get the oars moving!”

The crew sprang into action.

Sails unfurled, golden and brilliant in the sunlight, snapping to life as the wind filled them.

In their center, outlined in bold black, was the unmistakable shape of Chrysaor’s mask—menacing and sharp, glaring out at the horizon like a challenge to anyone foolish enough to get in their way.

Ropes pulled taut, knotted with precise efficiency by hands that knew exactly what they were doing.

The anchor rose, dripping seawater as it disappeared into the belly of the ship.

Rowers fell into rhythm, the oars slicing cleanly through the waves, each stroke perfectly synchronized.

And at the center of it, commanding it all effortlessly, was Chrysaor. The entire ship moved like it was alive. A massive, breathing creature that answered his every command.

Percy sat there, perched on his brother’s shoulder, and stared, awe blooming in his chest.

It was different from the pirate stories he used to love as a kid. This wasn’t about treasure maps and cartoonish villains. This was real. It was power and precision and something so much cooler than he ever could’ve imagined.

And it was awesome.

“It’ll take us two days to reach Miami,” Chrysaor said later, once the ship settled into its rhythm.

Percy blinked. “Two days? That’s it?”

Being a son of Poseidon seemed to come with endless advantages—faster ships, commanding the seas, probably never losing at Marco Polo. But Percy knew better than to mention that to Chrysaor. He wasn’t exactly in the mood to trigger another angry pirate brother glare. He couldn’t see Chrysaor’s face behind the mask, but he didn’t need to. Somehow, the mask always managed to radiate don’t push your luck energy all on its own.

Determined to be good, Percy found a little nook not far from the helm, wedging himself between a well-roped crate and the railing. It wasn’t the coziest spot, but it gave him a clear view of Chrysaor and the crew. Satisfied, he pulled out his new book with a dramatic sigh.

The A to Z Dictionary of Greek Mythology loomed in his lap like a challenge. He stared at the cover for a long moment before flipping it open. No way was he starting with A. He flipped directly to the Cs instead.

And searched.

Calypso. Cerberus. Charon.

His eyes scanned the entries, skimming for a name that had to be there.

Nothing.

No Chrysaor.

Percy frowned, glancing up at his brother, who was still pacing near the helm, sharp and commanding as ever. Then he quickly angled the book away, hiding the pages.

Yeah. He could never know.

To distract himself, Percy flipped to a name he already knew: Pegasus. Chrysaor’s twin.

He skimmed the entry. Son of Poseidon and Medusa. Born from Medusa’s blood at the moment of her death. Not just him—Chrysaor too. They were twins.

Percy blinked, rereading the line. They were born out of her blood. That wasn’t just weird—it was horrifying.

He flipped to Medusa’s entry next, his fingers moving faster now. The illustration hit first—a snake-haired woman glaring furiously from the page. Percy froze. The resemblance was unmistakable. Chrysaor’s mask. The same sharp eyes, the same fierce expression, but made male.

Percy scanned the text, and then—

His stomach dropped.

There it was. Her killer. Bolded and clear as day: Perseus.

…Oh.

Oh.

He stared at the name, frozen.

Everything clicked.

Chrysaor’s reaction when they first met. The tension when Percy introduced himself. Percy hadn’t understood it then, but now he did.

His namesake killed Chrysaor’s mother.

Awkward.

No. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it. It felt like being named after the guy who kicked someone’s puppy. Except worse. Way worse. Percy’s stomach churned as the realisation sank in.

It all clicked into place now. The tension from when they first met. The stiffness in his posture. The pause when Percy introduced himself. The weight of something unspoken that Percy hadn’t understood at the time.

Percy had walked in with the name Perseus, completely clueless, like it wasn’t tied to one of the worst moments in Chrysaor’s life.

His chest tightened. Guilt crept in, sharp and uncomfortable, mixing with something else he couldn’t quite pin down. Shame? Embarrassment? He wasn’t sure, but it made him want to crawl under a blanket and never come out.

Of all the names in the world, why this one?

The next time he saw his mom, he’d ask. He needed to know why she chose it. And after that? He was done. No more Perseus. Ever. That name was officially retired.

Permanently.

He closed the book with a snap. His chest felt tight, his thoughts tangled in a mess he didn’t want to sort through. Perseus. Medusa. Chrysaor. Why his name suddenly felt like the punchline to a bad joke.

Nope. Not dealing with that right now.

Instead, he pulled out the tin his mom had given him. He flipped the lid open—

Inside, nestled like treasure, was the grail of food.

Cookies.

Not just any cookies.

His mom’s cookies.

Soft, chewy, melt-in-your-mouth masterpieces crafted by the goddess of baking herself. They weren’t just cookies. They were—

Perfection incarnate.

Cookies so good they could make grown men cry.

The pinnacle of human achievement.

Michelangelo carved marble; his mother made these.

Proof that no one—not chefs, not gods, not even magical sea creatures—could hold a candle to Sally Jackson.

Percy plopped one into his mouth and moaned. Like, actual food-induced bliss.

From the helm, Chrysaor’s masked head tilted in his direction. “Weren’t you supposed to keep those for a special occasion?”

Percy shrugged, crumbs already gathering at the corners of his mouth. “I always feel blue.” And with zero hesitation, he plopped another cookie into his mouth.

Chrysaor tilted his head a little further, the disbelief radiating through the mask.

Which—excuse him? How dare he?

This wasn’t just a cookie. It was the cookie.

The crown jewel of desserts.

A miracle in cookie form.

The very essence of home and love and all things good.

Clearly, Chrysaor needed to be educated.

Of the same mind, his brother leaned just slightly closer, like he was thinking about reaching into the tin.

Percy clutched it to his chest like a dragon protecting its hoard. “Don’t even think about it,” he said, crumbs flying as he shoved another cookie in his mouth.

Yeah, no. Sharing? Not happening.

Chrysaor could keep his doubts. Percy would keep his cookies.

Chrysaor’s masked head tilted slightly, the black eyeholes fixed on the tin. “What’s with the blue?”

Percy perked up immediately. “Oh! It’s kind of a thing with my mom and me.”

He launched into the story, explaining the blue food rebellion. How Gabe, in all his uselessness, had insisted blue food didn’t exist—so his mom made it her life’s mission to prove him wrong.

For years, their kitchen had been filled with—

Blue pancakes.
Blue cookies.
Blue soda.
Blue cupcakes.

It was glorious. And Percy had loved it. Because it wasn’t just about food—it was the principle of the thing.

It had been their thing. A fun little inside joke. A reminder that Gabe could be wrong about something so small—so maybe he was wrong about the bigger things, too.

At first, talking about it made Percy feel nostalgic. For simpler times. For when monsters weren’t waiting to jump him every time he stepped outside.

But then—

He stopped.

Because Gabe was gone now.

Out of their life.

For good.

And for the first time, Percy felt the weight of that realization fully.

No more walking on eggshells.

No more bracing for the next outburst.

No more pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t.

And yeah, sure, now monsters wanted to make him their next snack. But that?

That was so much better than living in fear in his own home.

He took another bite of his cookie, letting the flavor linger on his tongue, savoring it.

Yeah.

This was worth every monster out there.

Chapter Text

Percy tried. He really, really tried.

For all of five minutes.

The A to Z Dictionary of Greek Mythology sat at the bottom of his backpack now, forgotten, while Percy roamed the ship in search of something—anything—more interesting to do. Sitting still wasn’t his thing.

Never had been. Never would be.

He made it his mission to remember all the sailors’ names—which was harder than it sounded because some of them weren’t exactly normal names. Bubble-head Dolphin Guy, for example, didn’t introduce himself with anything Percy could pronounce, so Percy just stuck with “Bubbles,” which the sailor seemed fine with.

Percy followed Bubbles everywhere, chattering nonstop about anything that popped into his head. At first, the dolphin-headed sailor made polite, vaguely interested clicks and trills in response, but by the end of the first hour, Percy could’ve sworn the guy was actually laughing. Success.

From there, Percy made the rounds. He met a one-eyed sailor who grumbled a lot but still gave Percy tips on knot-tying. He learned a few sailor songs—ones he definitely wouldn’t be singing around his mom unless he wanted her to confiscate his dessert privileges forever. And when the rowing team caught his attention, Percy dove in headfirst.

Or rather, tried.

He wasn’t exactly built for oars.

The first time he tried rowing, the oar lifted him clean off his bench and nearly launched him overboard. His crewmates laughed so hard one of them snorted seawater. But Percy didn’t care—it was fun. Like a festival ride, except with the added fun of possibly falling into the ocean.

He kept at it, letting the rows lift him more than he lifted them, and soaked in every moment.

When he wasn’t wrestling oars or trying to memorize sailor names, he was back with Bubbles, who turned out to be an excellent listener. Percy told him about school (terrible), the aquarium trip (traumatic), and the shark tank disaster (awesome in hindsight). Then he moved on to the stuff he never talked about—Gabe, his mom’s cookies, the weird feelings he got when he stared too long at the sea.

Bubbles didn’t judge. He just clicked, nodded, and trilled like he understood, which made Percy feel better about rambling.

Through it all, Percy wasn’t avoiding Chrysaor. Not really.

He just found himself constantly on the other side of the ship by complete coincidence.

Ever since flipping to Medusa’s entry in that stupid mythology book, Percy hadn’t been able to keep the truth of his name out of his mind. Every time he saw Chrysaor, it was like this giant, flashing neon sign lit up in his brain: Your namesake killed his mom.

Which, yeah. That kind of made things awkward.

And the worst part? Percy couldn’t explain why he was acting weird around Chrysaor. How was he supposed to bring something like that up? “Hey, so, fun fact: my name is a constant reminder of your mom’s tragic murder. Cool, huh?”

Yeah, no. Not happening.

Chrysaor, though? He’d definitely noticed something was up. Fortunately for Percy, Chrysaor’s big golden brain had come to the conclusion that he was moping because he missed his mom. And obviously, the only logical solution to fix that was to smother Percy in every blue thing he could find on the ship.

It started with a blue scarf folded neatly on Percy’s bed. Then a blue glass bauble perched on the shelf above his cabin window. Little things that Percy could almost convince himself were coincidences.

But then it escalated.

A blue mug appeared next to his tin of cookies. A tangle of blue string replaced the boring brown cord he’d been fiddling with. At one point, Percy walked into his cabin to find an honest-to-gods blue scallop shell sitting dead center on his pillow, looking smug.

The entire crew was in on it. He’d catch sailors slipping into his cabin when they thought he wasn’t looking, tucking little blue trinkets into corners. Once, Percy even saw Bubbles sliding a piece of sea glass under his door with what could only be described as a conspiratorial nod. That might’ve been the moment he gave up protesting entirely.

It was… nice.

Annoying, sure.

Over-the-top? Absolutely.

But it was also weirdly thoughtful.

It wasn’t just stuff—it was effort. From all of them. It made the ship feel less like a strange, temporary hideout and more like… something closer to home.

And because of it, Percy had been forced to abandon his genius “Seagull’s Revenge” plans. He couldn’t very well make the lives of the guys secretly trying to cheer him up a nightmare. That would’ve been mean. And ungrateful.

So instead, he let them sneak in their blue offerings. He muttered a grumpy “thanks” under his breath when he thought no one could hear and pretended not to notice how much it made him feel… better.

Even if things still felt awkward around Chrysaor.

By the second afternoon, they reached Biscayne Bay.

Percy leaned over the railing, his hair whipping in the warm breeze as the Miami skyline came into view. Palm trees swayed lazily in the distance, their fronds catching the sunlight like green fireworks.

The golden trireme glided through the turquoise water, its gilded edges catching the sun and throwing sparks of light in every direction. Percy squinted at the colorful blur of boats and docks ahead. The bay was alive with movement—speedboats slicing through waves, gulls squawking overhead, and the distant hum of traffic drifting over the water.

“Record time,” Chrysaor muttered from the helm, his voice carrying that maddening, effortless smugness that seemed to ooze from everything he did. He stood there like some immortal statue, golden and commanding, the ship’s speed a direct reflection of his own perfection.

Percy rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the faint grin tugging at his lips.

A peacock. That’s what his brother was. A shiny, golden peacock who didn’t need to brag because the ship did it for him. Every gilded plank, every sunlit shimmer screamed, Look how great I am.

And yeah, it was ridiculous. Completely unnecessary.

But Chrysaor was his peacock.

And Percy wasn’t going to let anything—or anyone—take him away.

He would just have to plow through the awkwardness, give himself time to come to terms with his mom’s weird naming choices, and hope Chrysaor kept deciding to stay.

Which, honestly, sounded a lot easier in theory than in practice.

It didn’t help that the universe seemed determined to make everything harder. As if monsters and mythological chaos weren’t enough, now Florida had to throw its weight into the ring.

It was hot. Unbearably, unforgivably hot.

It didn’t matter that it was November. The second they’d started heading south, the temperature had climbed like it was personally offended by his existence. Chrysaor’s sweater had been the first casualty, now abandoned on his hammock, while Percy tried—and failed—not to dissolve into a puddle on the deck.

How did people survive this? Did Floridians just walk around constantly damp, like sentient sponges? Was that their secret?

Sue him—his poor, overwhelmed brain hadn’t exactly packed for a tropical vacation while in the middle of escaping Gabe. He’d packed for New York. You know, cold, crisp air, maybe a light drizzle. Not Miami heat.

Sweat dripped down his neck, soaking into his shirt like the ocean had decided to claim him early. His entire body felt sticky, and the only thing worse than the heat was knowing that this probably wasn’t even the worst part of the day yet.

“Florida, man,” he muttered to himself, half under his breath. “Who thought this was a good idea?”

Not him, that was for sure. But nobody consulted him before deciding to steer the giant golden ship into the world's hottest oven.

He wore his lightest shirt, which—spoiler—wasn’t light enough. He was sweating like he’d run a marathon in a sauna.

Chrysaor walked by, impossibly dry and unbothered, his golden mask glinting in the sun like he wasn’t actively radiating heat just by existing.

Because of course he wasn’t sweating. No, Captain Golden Perfect over here probably had the heat immunity of a lizard sunbathing on a rock.

“Look alive, guppy,” Chrysaor said, his tone far too smug for Percy’s liking.

Percy groaned, slumping against the railing in dramatic defeat. “Look alive? I’m literally dying. This place is a furnace. Do people even live here, or do they just slowly cook until they’re well-done?”

Chrysaor stopped, tilting his head slightly like he was considering the question. Then, without a word, he lifted his hand.

A wave hit Percy square in the chest.

It wasn’t huge—just a small, controlled crest that shot up over the railing and splashed down on him like the world’s saltiest, wettest slap in the face.

Percy spluttered, completely drenched. “You—you—!” He wiped water out of his eyes, glaring at Chrysaor, who stood there with his arms crossed, radiating the kind of smug satisfaction that only an older brother could achieve.

He looked so proud, like he’d just invented water itself.

“Better?” Chrysaor asked, his voice as casual as if he’d just handed Percy a glass of water instead of throwing one at him.

Percy scowled, his hands clenching at his sides. The heat was gone, sure, but so was his dignity.

He was so going to get him back for this. Oh, not now—Chrysaor might’ve won the first round, but Percy was already plotting. Revenge was a dish best served with a side of saltwater shoved right back under his smug, unbothered mask.

Must be nice, strutting around like a golden peacock, throwing water at people like it’s no big deal. Not everyone could just summon waves like that—not everyone could be an immortal pirate son of Poseidon after all.

Percy’s fists clenched tighter.

Chrysaor wasn’t the only one with tricks up his sleeve. Percy had...

—Teeth. Yes. Sharp ones. He was—

A son of Poseidon.

A son of their dad.

Percy blinked, his thoughts crashing to a halt.

Oh. Right. That.

How could he forget that little detail? That was, like, the whole reason he was in this mess in the first place.

He stared down at the puddle glistening at his feet, a new thought bubbling up. If Chrysaor got that from their dad, then… maybe Percy had it too.

He stretched out his hand, his brow furrowing in concentration.

Okay, water. Do your thing. Move. Or wiggle. Or something.

The puddle sat there, still and unimpressed.

Percy frowned harder, waving his hand with more determination. “Come on…”

For a moment, nothing happened, and he could feel Chrysaor’s smirk without even looking at him.

But then—just barely—the water rippled.

Percy’s heart skipped. “Wait… did you see that?!”

Chrysaor said nothing, watching with the kind of quiet intensity that only made Percy more determined. He clenched his fists, staring hard at the water.

Come on. You can do this. Move!

This time, the ripple was bigger. The water quivered, like it was waking up, and then—almost reluctantly—it began to rise.

Percy’s eyes widened. His jaw dropped.

The puddle stretched up into the air, wobbling like it wasn’t entirely sure what it was doing. Percy grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. “I did it! I’m doing it! Look!”

Chrysaor crossed his arms. “Huh,” he said. “Not bad for a first try.”

The praise sent a rush of excitement through Percy. “Oh, I’m not done yet,” he said, grinning. “Watch this!”

He moved his hand, imagining the little wave surging forward. At first, it hesitated—like the water itself was questioning his choices—but then it started to move. Slowly, unsteadily, the wave inched toward Chrysaor.

Oh my gods, it was working. It was actually working!

The wave grew closer, gaining speed. Percy could barely breathe, his excitement buzzing in his chest. He was doing it—he was controlling water. Real water!

But just as the wave was about to reach Chrysaor, it stopped.

Mid-surge, the water froze in place. Percy blinked, confused, and before he could react, the wave collapsed back into the deck with a wet splat.

“Hey!” Percy turned to Chrysaor, who hadn’t moved an inch but was clearly the culprit. “What was that?! I had it!”

Chrysaor’s golden mask glinted in the sunlight as he shrugged. “You did. But I wasn’t about to let you hit me, guppy.”

Percy’s mouth opened, then closed, his brain short-circuiting between indignation and awe.

Was that… allowed? Could he just do that? Take control of his water?

Chrysaor stepped closer, ruffling Percy’s damp hair like he’d just finished a soccer game. “Not bad for a first try,” he said, and this time, there was no teasing—just a quiet, honest approval.

Percy puffed out his chest a little, grinning despite himself. “Yeah?”

Chrysaor nodded. “Yeah. But don’t get cocky. You’ve got a long way to go before you could ever hope to be a threat.”

Percy rolled his eyes, but his grin didn’t fade. Sure, it was a long way off. But he’d done it. He had actually done it.

And for the first time, Percy felt like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand what it meant to be a son of the sea.

Chrysaor stepped back. Percy watched as he glanced toward the deckhands, giving a subtle nod.

The crew immediately got to work, their movements quick and efficient as ropes tightened and pulleys turned. Percy frowned, watching them unfold a massive ramp from the back of the ship. It creaked loudly as it lowered, its surface gleaming in the sunlight.

The ramp extended further and further, finally dipping toward the open water. Percy craned his neck, wondering what kind of cargo they could possibly need to unload onto the ocean.

Was it a boat from the boat? A boat-ception situation? Did they even need more boats?

Chrysaor, meanwhile, had started fiddling with one of the giant, gaudy rings on his fingers. Percy didn’t think much of it until Chrysaor slipped it off entirely. The gold surface was so shiny it practically shouted I own the room, catching the light in a way that made Percy squint.

Who even needed a ring that shiny? What was it for, blinding enemies? Signaling planes? Showing off that pirates can accessorize too?

Then, with a flick of his wrist, Chrysaor tossed the ring high into the air he was skipping a rock.

Percy followed its arc, blinking against the sun as it spun end over end.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then the ring began to shimmer.

Percy’s eyes widened as the shimmer turned into a blinding glow. The air around the ring seemed to ripple and twist, like heat waves rising from asphalt.

And then, before Percy could fully process what was happening, the ring changed.

Metal unfolded, stretching and reshaping itself midair with mechanical precision. Gold expanded outward, gleaming brighter with each rotation, until—

The object landed with a heavy thud on the ramp, the sound reverberating through the air.

Percy froze, his eyes glued to the gleaming shape in front of him, mouth hanging open like the words he wanted to say had been knocked loose along with his brain.

It was the golden Chrysler.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Chrysaor, already strolling toward the car like this was the most normal thing in the world, didn’t even bother to look at him.

Percy scrambled to catch up, gesturing wildly at the vehicle. “That… that was a ring! You just turned a ring into a car! How does it even work?”

What was next? His earrings turned into a flying ship? His bracelets unfolded into a chariot drawn by sea serpents? Was this just a thing in the mythical world—accessories that doubled as vehicles? Or was it just Chrysaor, showing off his golden pirate nonsense like usual?

Chrysaor, already sliding into the driver’s seat, didn’t even glance Percy’s way.“Get in, guppy,” he said instead of answering him, as if Percy hadn’t already climbed in and settled next to him.

Percy crossed his arms, shooting a glare in his direction.

“Okay, no,” Percy said, refusing to let the topic drop as Chrysaor started the engine, the ramp lowering them smoothly onto the water. “You’re not just skipping over this. What’s with the magic ring-car thing? How does it even work?”

Chrysaor sighed, as if indulging Percy’s questions was some great inconvenience.

Chrysaor sighed, dragging it out like Percy’s questions were the greatest inconvenience in the world. “Fine,” he said finally, his tone all reluctant and put-upon, but Percy didn’t miss the way his fingers flexed on the wheel, like he was already preparing to explain.

And he did. He started slow, tossing out a few vague details, but the more Percy prodded—because no way was he letting this go—the more Chrysaor began to talk.

By the time the car eased off the ramp and onto the water, Chrysaor had shifted from “annoyed big brother” to “gruff, pirate-y professor.” He explained everything with a kind of matter-of-fact precision, like he didn’t expect Percy to be impressed by any of it—but Percy was impressed.

The golden Chrysler, it turned out, had been crafted by none other than Hephaestus himself—the god of fire and forges, famous for making all the cool stuff on Olympus. Apparently, he ran a divine workshop where even immortals like Chrysaor could place custom orders.

Chrysaor explained that Hephaestus was one of the less troublesome gods, mostly because all he cared about was crafting and materials. Chrysaor always set aside a part of his celestial bronze bounty—pirate treasure, of course, because what else would it be?—and melted it down as a sacrifice to Hephaestus. It was a show of respect or something, and it meant the god might return the favor by crafting ridiculous things like ring-to-car transformations.

Honestly? Percy thought it was a pretty smart deal. If gods were that powerful, why not keep them happy? It was like maintaining a good relationship with your landlord, except your landlord could throw lightning bolts or set your ship on fire if you ticked them off.

But then Chrysaor had done the big-brother thing—ruined the moment and slapped a giant nope on the whole concept. No sacrifices for Percy. No honoring any gods. Ever.

Because Percy’s very existence was a divine crime. Breaking oaths on the fancy river was a big no-no apparently. The kind of thing that came with massive, dramatic consequences—death, curses, eternal suffering, you name it.

But, of course, no one was going to kill the god of the oceans. That left Percy as the fall guy—because why punish the almighty god when you could just ruin the life of the kid he wasn’t supposed to have?

And as if that wasn’t enough, Chrysaor had tacked on a bonus rule: don’t say any god’s name out loud. Not a single one. Why? Because saying their name apparently worked like ringing a bell. They’d hear it. They’d look. And Percy… well, Percy really didn’t need anyone looking too closely at him.

So that was that. No sacrifices, no names, no nothing. Basically, the official policy was: Don’t Poke the Gods.

It made sense, sure, but Percy couldn’t help picturing the gods all sitting around with some kind of cosmic notification system. Like, every time someone said “Poseidon,” a little divine pop-up would appear: New mention! Check it out! Did they even want that kind of attention? Or did it just get annoying after a while? Did Zeus roll his eyes every time someone prayed for good weather? Did Demeter groan whenever someone mentioned wheat?

Did they have a divine call center to handle it all? Press one for general praise, two for requests, three if you accidentally summoned a monster?

Percy sighed, leaning back in his seat. He’d just started to wrap his head around the idea of gods existing, and now he had to worry about not accidentally summoning one by saying the wrong thing? Great. Just great.

The car hit a smooth stretch of water, gliding effortlessly as Percy slouched back in his seat. Miami loomed closer in the distance, its skyline sharp and bright against the horizon.

The buildings sparkled like glass blades in the sun, towering over the shoreline in clusters of silver and white. Cranes hovered in the distance like skeletal giants, framing new high-rises that reached hungrily toward the clouds.

Closer to the water, the chaos of the city began to unfold. Speedboats zipped across the bay, leaving frothy wakes behind them, and jet skis buzzed in sharp, erratic lines like oversized dragonflies. The hum of engines and the occasional blast of a horn carried faintly over the water.

Palm trees lined the edge of the shore, their green fronds catching the wind in slow, lazy waves, and the air itself felt thick with heat and salt. Somewhere nearby, music drifted faintly over the noise, the bass thumping like a heartbeat beneath the sound of voices and seagulls.

The smell hit him next—a mix of brine and gasoline, with the occasional whiff of something fried. It wasn’t unpleasant, exactly, but it wasn’t great either. If New York smelled like street food and ambition, Miami smelled like salt, sweat, and sunscreen.

Ahead, Percy could just make out a sprawling marina with a glowing sign.

It read Epsilon Trading Co.

Chapter Text

The golden Chrysler glided closer to the marina, the smooth hum of the engine blending with the sounds of the busy waterfront. From his window, Percy leaned forward, wide-eyed as the Epsilon marina came into focus.

It was a sprawling network of piers and docks, each crammed with boats of every size and type. Gleaming white yachts sat smugly beside weathered fishing vessels, while sleek speedboats zipped around like they owned the place. Overhead, gulls wheeled and screamed, darting between the towering cranes that loomed above stacks of brightly colored shipping containers.

But it wasn’t the yachts or the cranes that caught Percy’s attention—it was the cargo ship.

The Epsilon Horizon loomed like a metal colossus, its hull towering over the marina. Streaked with rust and grime, it looked less like a boat and more like a moving fortress. Workers bustled across its deck, shouting orders and hauling cargo, while forklifts zipped around the docks below, stacking containers as if the entire operation were a game of mythological Tetris.

Percy’s gaze snagged on the glowing Epsilon Trading Co. sign above the gated entrance. The bold letters stood out against the haze of salt and diesel, like a neon badge of authority in an otherwise chaotic scene.

He was just about to comment on how shady the whole place looked when Chrysaor’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

“Stay close.”

Percy blinked, turning to find Chrysaor watching him. His golden mask didn’t leave much room for interpretation, but there was a stiffness to his posture, a subtle edge to his usual calm, that made Percy pause.

Percy turned to look at him, startled by the sudden warning. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Don’t wander off,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Got it.”

Chrysaor didn’t budge. “No, guppy. You really don’t get it.”

Percy frowned, sitting up straighter. Oh, great. Here it came. Big Brother Lecture #5: Why You’re a Walking Disaster.

Yeah. He counted them.

“This isn’t a playground,” Chrysaor continued, his tone sharp but not angry. “This place? It doesn’t like demigods. It doesn’t like mortals either, for that matter. You stay by my side. Arm’s length. No exceptions.”

Percy snorted. “What, are you gonna put me on a leash or something?”

“If I have to.” Chrysaor said simply.

That was it. No teasing, no sarcasm. Just a cold, unyielding promise.

Okay, rude.

What did Chrysaor think he was, some kind of rabid animal who’d never learned how to sit and stay? He could behave! He wasn’t about to go running off into danger like some untrained mutt chasing a stick.

Sure, he’d gotten into trouble a few times. But did that mean he needed to be leashed like a wild dog? Absolutely not.

The Chrysler rolled past the gates, the marina unfolding in front of them like a live chessboard.

Chrysaor didn’t wait for a reply. “This is important, Percy. If you wander off, if you get even a few feet away from me, you’re a target. Everyone here knows who I am, and that’s the only reason they’ll leave you alone. But the second they think you’re not under my protection, they’ll come for you. Do you understand me?”

Percy swallowed hard, his earlier bravado dimming. “Yeah. Okay. I got it.”

Percy could follow instructions. He could totally follow instructions.

Sure, it wasn’t his natural state, but he could make an exception.

Chrysaor nodded, but his tone didn’t soften. “Good. And don’t touch anything, don’t talk to anyone unless I say it’s fine, and for the gods’ sake, don’t try to be a hero.”

Percy crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat with a huff.

Arm’s length. No talking. No touching. No wandering. Seriously? What did Chrysaor think he was going to do? Start a forklift rebellion? Accidentally release a kraken?

Still, he couldn’t help glancing out the window again, his nerves prickling. The marina looked even sketchier now—shadowy figures moving between containers, men in dark jackets leaning against forklifts with the kind of casual menace that screamed don’t mess with us.

Chrysaor started easing the car toward the gated entrance, and Percy clenched his fists in his lap.

Arm’s length. No talking. No touching. No wandering.

Simple enough, right? Totally manageable. Easy-peasy.

Percy clenched his fists tighter in his lap. Except for the part where it wasn’t, because staying out of trouble wasn’t exactly his brand.

He could do it, though. He had to. No wandering off. No making waves. No… accidentally toppling a stack of suspiciously precarious crates or whatever else might happen if he breathed wrong in this place.

The golden Chrysler glided smoothly out of the water.

The warehouse they pulled up beside was massive, its steel walls streaked with rust and salt like the fingerprints of the sea itself. Faded lettering on the side read Epsilon Trading Co., the bold golden E painted above it standing out like a beacon against the industrial grime. The place reeked of oil, seawater, and something metallic Percy couldn’t quite place.

Giant doors partially rolled up revealed the cavernous interior. Rows of crates and containers stacked as high as the ceiling filled the space, their sides stamped with logos in languages Percy didn’t recognize. The dim lighting inside gave the place a shadowy, foreboding feel, while forklifts darted between stacks like oversized insects, their engines growling and wheels screeching.

Outside, the activity was just as intense. Dockhands moved in synchronized chaos, hauling ropes, crates, and barrels from trucks and smaller boats tethered nearby. A few workers leaned against the walls of the warehouse, smoking and chatting, their eyes flicking toward the car with appraising gazes.

One of them nudged his companion and muttered something while gesturng in their direction. Without a word, the second man peeled away from the crates, his shadowy figure slipping out of Percy’s line of sight.

“The man we’re meeting—Eurybatus—is an immortal,” Chrysaor said, breaking the silence.

Percy turned his head, frowning. “Like you?”

“Not exactly,” Chrysaor said, adjusting his grip on the wheel with the kind of unbothered ease that said he’d seen it all before. “He’s not a son of any god. Back in Ancient Greece, he must’ve impressed the right deity, because someone granted him immortality. He’s been building his empire ever since.”

“Empire?” Percy repeated, leaning back a little, his frown shifting into a cautious squint.

That didn’t sound great. Empires were never built with hugs and teamwork.

“Smuggling,” Chrysaor said bluntly, still as calm as ever, like he wasn’t describing something illegal on every continent. “He controls most of the East Coast’s underground trade. Drugs, weapons, stolen artifacts—you name it. Miami’s one of his biggest hubs.”

Oh, great.

Percy’s eyes darted back to the marina. The workers hauling crates and loading forklifts suddenly looked a lot less like regular dockhands and a lot more like extras in a mob movie.

“And we’re just… waltzing in there?” Percy asked, the disbelief leaking into his voice before he could stop it.

He glanced at Chrysaor, half-expecting him to say, No, we’re sneaking in like ninjas.

But Chrysaor just gave a small shrug, completely unbothered. “We’re not waltzing, guppy. We’re strolling. I’ve done business with him for centuries. He knows better than to try anything stupid.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Business?” That word felt just as sketchy as “empire.”

Chrysaor’s gloved fingers drummed once on the steering wheel, the tilt of his head carrying all the smugness Percy didn’t need to see to feel. “We have a deal. I don’t mess with his ships. He compensates me for the privilege. And sometimes I sell him… specialized goods.”

“Specialized?” Percy echoed, his brain immediately conjuring a mental image of cursed swords, crates of glowing treasure, or enchanted relics that hummed with untold power.

It was probably all of the above.

“Don’t worry about it,” Chrysaor said smoothly, cutting off the question before Percy could dig any deeper. “The point is, he’s the best person to sell the pearls to. And he has the contacts we need to find Dee.”

A sharp knock startled Percy, rattling the window next to Chrysaor. His breath hitched, and he twisted toward the sound, catching sight of two figures looming so close to the car it was impossible to see much beyond their dark, pristine uniforms.

“State your business,” one barked, his tone clipped and mechanical, like he’d been rehearsing it in front of a mirror.

Percy craned his neck, trying to get a better look at them, but Chrysaor beat him to it. Without a word, he reached for the window controls and lowered the glass with deliberate slowness.

The reaction was instant—and kind of hilarious.

Both guards straightened like someone had yanked a leash, stepping back so quickly Percy half-expected them to trip over their own feet. The scuffle of boots on pavement was almost cartoonish.

“We weren’t aware you were coming today, sir,” one of them said, the earlier bark smoothed into something deferential, almost apologetic. The other guard angled his body like he was trying to melt into the background.

For once, Percy didn’t hate the creepy golden mask. Watching it make fully armed guards backpedal like they’d just touched a live wire? Priceless.

Chrysaor tilted his head just enough to radiate casual authority. “I wasn’t aware I needed to inform you of my movements,” he said, his voice smooth and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to deal with minor inconveniences.

The guards fumbled for a response, one muttering something about protocol while the other gestured stiffly toward the warehouse. “Of course, sir. Please follow us.”

Chrysaor said nothing, stepping out of the car with the kind of ease that made it clear he wasn’t the slightest bit concerned about them—or anyone else, for that matter. Percy scrambled after him, trying to ignore the sudden weight of the guards’ stares as he climbed out.

They were already moving, though it was less like leading and more like trying to stay a safe distance ahead of Chrysaor without making it obvious. Percy trailed close to his brother’s side, his eyes darting between the guards as they rounded the corner of the warehouse.

Percy squinted, his gaze catching on the one to the left first. The guy was massive—not just tall, but the kind of broad that made Percy wonder if his diet consisted entirely of barbells. His uniform strained at the seams, and he walked with the heavy, deliberate steps of someone who either didn’t trust the ground to hold him or didn’t care if it cracked beneath his weight. At his hip hung an axe that gleamed faintly in the fading light, its blade crusted with something dark and unpleasantly sticky-looking. Percy decided not to think too hard about what that might be.

The second guard was the complete opposite—shorter, leaner, and wound so tight Percy half-expected him to snap if someone breathed wrong. He moved with a jittery, almost predatory energy, quick and restless, his steps soft and sharp all at once. His skin caught the light in strange ways, slick and almost leathery, and when he turned his head, Percy thought he saw something—fur?—creeping up his neck before disappearing beneath his collar. Draped over one shoulder was a barbed chain, the kind that looked like it belonged in an evil villain’s torture dungeon. Every time his fingers brushed it, Percy’s stomach twisted.

Ancient Greek gangsters, but make it monsters. Because of course Epsilon couldn’t just hire regular humans.

Without even thinking about it, Percy edged closer to Chrysaor.

His brother’s hand settled firmly on his shoulder, grounding him without a word.

The sight that greeted them passed the warehouse nearly stopped Percy in his tracks.

Tucked behind the industrial sprawl was a mansion straight out of a luxury travel magazine. Whitewashed stone walls gleamed against the setting sun, bordered by wide verandas shaded with dark wood roofs. Bursts of color spilled from planters overflowing with hibiscus and bougainvillea, their vibrant petals clashing with the golden E logos stamped onto every visible surface. Even the decorative tiles edging the verandas weren’t spared.

Subtle, these people were not.

The guards veered off, bypassing the front entrance entirely, and led them down a brick path that curved around the side of the mansion. The scent of salt and flowers thickened, mingling with something faintly sweet—like sunscreen and wealth.

When they rounded another corner, Percy’s jaw dropped.

The backyard sprawled into a private waterfront paradise. A lagoon-style pool glittered in the fading light, complete with curved edges, a faux-rock waterfall, and underwater lights that glowed electric blue. Beyond it, a wooden dock stretched into the bay, where a sleek speedboat bobbed lazily with the current.

But Percy’s attention quickly shifted to the open-air pavilion overlooking the pool. It was shaded by another dark wood roof, its beams carved with intricate golden epsilons. The reception area underneath was crowded with people who looked like they’d stepped out of a bad gangster movie: shady men and women lounging on plush cushions, cigars clamped between their fingers, bodyguards stationed behind them with weapons glinting under the dimming sky.

And at the center of it all was a man holding court.

Percy didn’t need an introduction to know this was Eurybatus. Everything about him screamed “top dog”—from the tailored suit that fit like a second skin to the gold watch glinting on his wrist. His smile was wide and easy, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Too big. Too polished. Too much.

Slippery. Percy didn’t trust him one bit.

Chrysaor strode forward like he owned the place, his presence cutting through the smoky air like a blade. Percy stuck close, feeling more like an awkward appendage than a companion as conversations quieted and heads turned.

Eurybatus spotted them and broke into a grin so smooth it practically slid off his face. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite pirate.” His voice dripped charm, every word slow and deliberate. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Business,” Chrysaor replied, casual as ever. His hand tightened briefly on Percy’s shoulder—a silent reminder to keep quiet.

Eurybatus rose from his seat with a flourish, arms spread wide in a gesture that was almost theatrical. “Straight to the point, as always. That’s what I like about you, Chrysaor. No small talk, no pretenses.” His gaze flicked to Percy, curiosity flashing across his face before it vanished behind another practiced grin. “And who’s this?”

Chrysaor ignored the question, reaching for the small bag at his belt. He set it on the low table between them and loosened the drawstring, spilling its contents into the fading light.

The pearls shimmered, catcing the last rays of the sun and scattering them into a kaleidoscope of shifting hues. Eurybatus leaned forward, his grin faltering as he reached out to pick one up. He turned it over slowly, his expression shifting into something closer to reverence.

“This,” he murmured, “is a first.” He held the pearl up, letting the light play across its surface. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Where did you get these?”

“Trade secret,” Chrysaor said, his voice as smooth as silk. “But there might be more where they came from—if the price is right.”

Percy bristled as Eurybatus handled another pearl, his fingers brushing the smooth surface like he had a right to it. It was strange, seeing someone touch something so clearly tied to him. He wanted to reach out, to pull the pearls back, but Chrysaor’s grip on his shoulder stayed firm, rooting him in place.

The negotiation that followed was swift but intenset, words flying back and forth in a tense rhythm that Percy couldn’t follow. Eurybatus started with drachmas—enough to make Percy’s head spin—but Chrysaor dismissed the offer with a flick of his hand, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Mortal money,” he said, cutting through Eurybatus’s charm with a calm finality.

Percy’s eyes darted between the two men like he was watching a tennis match, completely in awe of the way Chrysaor handled it all. The numbers climbed, the stakes rising with every counteroffer. Percy could only watch, wide-eyed, as the final price was settled—a figure so astronomical it made his stomach flip.

His tears were worth… that?

He thought back to Gabe, to the years of being told tears were worthless, weak, a waste. And yet, here he was, watching his brother turn them into something powerful, something valuable. Percy swallowed hard, his chest tight with a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite untangle.

Maybe… maybe he wouldn’t hold them back so much anymore.

Chapter Text

As the deal was sealed, Eurybatus’s grin widened, sharp and satisfied, like a predator savoring its kill. With a flick of his fingers, one of his attendants scurried away, disappearing into the shadows of the pavilion like a well-trained dog. It was seamless, almost theatrical. Percy got the distinct impression that this was all part of the performance.

Before Percy could dwell on it, he felt Eurybatus’s gaze flick toward him—or, more accurately, flick around him. It wasn’t direct, not the way you looked at a person. It was the way you glanced at furniture you weren’t planning to keep but wouldn’t mind flipping for a profit.

“I must say, Chrysaor,” Eurybatus began, his voice a lazy drawl that carried just enough condescension to make Percy’s skin crawl, “it’s unlike you to drag… extra baggage to a meeting.”

Percy stiffened, the word landing like a slap, but Chrysaor’s hand tightened on his shoulder before he could react. It wasn’t comforting so much as grounding, a silent not now that Percy grudgingly obeyed.

Chrysaor tilted his head slightly, the golden mask making the gesture seem even more deliberate. “Even the best tools need maintenance,” he said, his tone light, almost dismissive. “And some jobs?” He let the words hang, as if inviting Eurybatus to fill the gap himself. “Some jobs need someone smaller. Rat-sized. To weasel into places the rest of us can’t.”

Percy blinked. Rat-sized? He didn’t even have time to decide if he was offended.

Chrysaor’s tone shifted slightly, growing sharper. “This one’s too useful to leave behind. Can’t risk him getting eaten if I turn my back, now can I?”

Eurybatus hummed thoughtfully, leaning back into his seat. His grin didn’t falter as his gaze swept over Percy again, slow and deliberate. It wasn’t predatory—at least not in the way monsters usually were—but there was something worse about it.

Greedy. Calculating. Like he was wondering how much Percy might weigh in drachmas if sold wholesale.

Percy forced himself to hold Eurybatus’s gaze, even though his stomach was doing backflips. He wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t give this guy the satisfaction. But it wasn’t easy. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken tension, and every instinct Percy had screamed at him to look away.

Eurybatus finally broke the silence, his smirk stretching wider. “I see,” he said, his words slow and syrupy, like he was savoring them. “A specialty tool, then. A valuable one, I imagine.”

Chrysaor said nothing, his silence somehow louder than any response.

The attendant returned then, carrying a suitcase so large it required both hands. Percy’s breath hitched as the man placed it on the table and flipped it open with a practiced motion.

The suitcase was packed full of cash.

Percy stared, his brain short-circuiting at the sheer amount of money staring back at him. Stacks of bills, crisp and perfectly aligned, like something out of a heist movie. He’d never seen that much money in one place. Not even close.

Chrysaor nodded, satisfied.

With a snap of Eurybatus’s fingers, the attendant closed the suitcase and slid it smoothly to Chrysaor’s side. Without missing a beat, Chrysaor grabbed Percy under the arms and hoisted him up, setting him firmly on top of the case like a human paperweight.

Percy blinked, too stunned to do anything but sit there.

“This occasion calls for a celebration,” Eurybatus announced, his voice slick with the kind of charm that set Percy’s teeth on edge.

He clapped his hands once, sharp and commanding.

A waitress appeared almost instantly, stepping out from the shadows of the pavilion like she’d been waiting for the cue. Percy’s first thought was that she was beautiful, in a way that felt almost otherworldly. But the thought soured almost immediately. She looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.

Her long, white hair shimmered faintly, the ends almost dissolving into wisps of vapor that curled with each step. Her dress—or whatever it was—was short and gauzy, more suggestion than clothing, and she was anchored down with so many bracelets and anklets that they clinked softly with every movement. The sound was oddly mournful against the background hum of conversations in the pavillion.

It wasn’t just her jewelry that made her seem weighed down. It was her expression—vacant, resigned, like she’d already given up on whatever fight had been in her.

She stopped at their table and set down an amphora. Percy couldn’t take his eyes off it. Figures danced across the terracotta surface, their bodies wreathed in ivy and caught in the throes of some eternal abandon. The vines twisted and writhed, golden accents glinting faintly in the fading light.

Instead of pouring, the woman raised her hand, and the liquid inside the amphora rose on its own, swirling into the air like a shimmering red ribbon. Percy blinked as the liquid arched gracefully, pouring itself into two waiting glasses.

Percy frowned as the waitress disappeared back into the shadows, the faint clink of her jewelry fading into the background.

Eurybatus picked up his glass, swirling the dark red liquid. It shimmered faintly, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost alive. “Nectar-infused Boeotian wine,” he said, his tone reverent. “The last vintage from the Wine Lord’s production in the Ancient Lands. A rare treasure.”

Chrysaor tilted his head, his fingers brushing the stem of his glass but not lifting it. “I see you didn’t sell everything,” he said, his tone casual but probing.

Eurybatus chuckled, a deep, rolling sound that made Percy’s skin crawl.

“Some things are beyond price,” he said, swirling the wine gently. “This is my final amphora.” He raised his glass, studying the liquid as though it held the secrets of the universe. “A shame, really.”

“A shame indeed,” Chrysaor agreed, finally lifting his glass but not drinking. “I imagine it’s worth more unopened.”

Eurybatus grinned, a glint of something sharp in his eyes. “True enough. But what’s the point of wealth if you can’t enjoy it?”

He took a sip, humming in satisfaction before leaning back in his chair. “There might still be more left in Thebes,” he said, his tone light but pointed. “Just waiting for someone bold enough to retrieve it.”

Chrysaor tilted his head slightly, the motion so subtle Percy almost missed it. “Is that so?”

Eurybatus’s grin widened. “A great business opportunity, don’t you think? The demand for fine wine in America is insatiable. If someone were to bring more of the Wine Lord’s vintage across the sea...” He trailed off, his eyes glinting with the kind of ambition that made Percy’s stomach churn.

Chrysaor set his glass down, his posture still impossibly relaxed. “The crossing is dangerous these days,” he said, his tone mild but firm. “Too dangerous, even for me. Which is why I’m diversifying my income.” He nodded toward the bag of pearls still sitting on the table.

Eurybatus’s gaze flicked briefly to the pearls, his smirk never faltering. “Ah, yes. A wise move.”

Percy stayed silent, perched on the suitcase, his mind racing. He didn’t like this place. Didn’t like Eurybatus. Didn’t like the waitress’s tired eyes or the way everything here seemed to ooze corruption.

He just wanted to leave.

He did not get to leave.

Chrysaor took a slow sip of the shimmering wine, his mask tilting slightly as if he were savoring it. Then, just as casually, he set the glass down and leaned back, the movement so deliberate it felt like the room itself waited for his next words.

“There’s one other thing,” he said, his voice smooth, almost conversational. “I’m looking for a way to contact Dee.”

Eurybatus’s grin tightened ever so slightly. If you weren’t watching for it, you’d miss it—but Percy saw it. A flicker of something nervous, buried under all that slick confidence. “Dee, you say? Can’t say I know anyone by that name.”

Chrysaor just tilted his head, his mask catching the dim light of the pavilion. “That’s funny. Word is you’ve worked with her before.”

The air in the pavilion thickened, and for the first time, Eurybatus hesitated. His fingers drummed against his glass, the faint tap-tap-tap betraying the rhythm of a man scrambling for an excuse. “Well,” he said, his grin stretching unnaturally wide, “I meet a lot of people in my line of work. Faces and names tend to blur together.”

Chrysaor tilted his head slightly, the motion calm but carrying the weight of someone who wasn’t buying it. “I know you want to keep her to yourself but I am in need of her skills. I’m open to a deal”

Eurybatus chuckled, a low, uneasy sound. “Oh, I see what this is about. You’re diversifying, aren’t you? Clever, Chrysaor, very clever. Expanding into new markets—”

“Don’t dodge,” Chrysaor interrupted, his voice dropping just slightly, enough to send a chill skittering down Percy’s spine. “How can I contact her?”

Percy’s eyes darted between Eurybatus and Chrysaor, his thoughts racing. Eurybatus’s grin was slipping, his words turning slippery and vague.

Too vague.

Percy didn’t know much about the mythological world yet, but even he could tell when someone was trying to wriggle out of a corner.

Eurybatus hesitated again, swirling his wine as if it might hold the answer. “That’s the thing, Chrysaor,” he said smoothly, his tone an obvious attempt at deflection. “She’s not exactly… easy to find. Moves around a lot, you see. No fixed address, no—”

The realization hit like a thunderbolt.

He wasn’t stalling to protect Dee—he didn’t know anything about her.

“You never met her.”

The words burst out of Percy before he could stop himself.

The entire pavilion stilled.

Eurybatus’s head snapped toward Percy, his oily charm evaporating into something sharper, more dangerous. “What did you say, boy?” he hissed.

“You never met her,” Percy repeated, his voice steady despite the way his heart hammered against his ribs. “You keep dodging because you don’t know anything. All you’ve got is some secondhand story you’re trying to pass off as your own.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then a ripple of murmurs spread through the pavilion like a wave.

“All this time, you’ve been full of it?” someone barked.

“And I was gonna trust you with my money!” another jeered.

“That’s absurd,” Eurybatus spat, his voice sharper now, like he was trying to cut through the growing jeers. “I’ve worked with the best of the best. You think I need to lie?” His fingers curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white as he tried to ground himself, but the cracks in his confidence were already showing. “I don’t need to justify myself to some… brat!”

“You should justify yourself to me,” Chrysaor said softly.

The pavilion fell silent again.

Percy felt a shiver run down his spine. His brother’s calm was scarier than any shouting or threats could ever be.

Chrysaor stood slowly, the weight of his presence filling the pavilion. He didn’t rush, didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t have to.

Eurybatus flinched, the grin plastered on his face trembling at the edges. His glass slipped slightly in his hand, the faintest tremor betraying him.

And then Chrysaor moved.

Percy watched, wide-eyed, as his gloved hand closed around Eurybatus’s throat.

The reaction from the guards was immediate—hands went to weapons, bodies shifted forward—but a single glance from Chrysaor froze them in place.

Chrysaor tilted his head, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on Eurybatus’s throat. “Tell the truth,” he said, his voice so soft it felt like a blade sliding between ribs. “Now.”

Eurybatus clawed at Chrysaor’s wrist, his earlier bravado dissolving into frantic desperation. “I—I lied!” he choked out, the words tumbling over themselves. “I never met her, okay? It was—it was someone else!”

Murmurs turned to laughter, sharp and mocking.

“This guy’s all talk!” someone called out, their voice carrying over the din.

Another leaned forward in their chair, shaking their head with a sneer. “And to think I let him handle my shipments—never again.”

Chrysaor tilted his head, as calm as if he were discussing the weather. “Who?”

“I—I don’t know!” Eurybatus stammered, his voice cracking as his words spilled out in a panicked rush. His legs twitched, trying to push him back in his chair, but there was nowhere to go. “I swear! I just—it was someone at a bar! I don’t know his name—he told me about Dee, and I—I stole the story, alright? That’s it! That’s all I know!”

Chrysaor released him with a flick, and Eurybatus collapsed into his seat like a puppet with its strings cut. His breath came in ragged gasps, one hand clutching his throat while the other scrambled against the table for balance and what little dignity he had left.

“Who was it?” Chrysaor pressed, taking a step forward.

Eurybatus yelped, scrambling backward and falling out of his chair in the process. He hit the ground hard, then crawled a few feet before holding up his hands in surrender. “I don’t know his name!” he cried, his voice high and frantic. “I swear! I just know he’s a regular at the Wretched Oracle!”

Chrysaor regarded him for a long moment, then turned on his heel, his coat sweeping behind him as he strode toward the exit. He didn’t say another word. Just grabbed the suitcase, wheeled it out with Percy still perched on top, and left.

Percy twisted around, unable to resist. “Thank you for your business!” he called out, his voice bright and chipper, like he was parting ways with a friendly shopkeeper.

The pavilion erupted. Some laughed outright, their voices sharp with mockery. Others sneered, shaking their heads at the man sprawled on the floor.

“And this is the guy we were supposed to trust?” someone muttered, loud enough to carry.

Eurybatus didn’t even try to defend himself. He stayed where he was, his head ducked low, his face hidden behind one trembling hand.

As they passed through the gates, Chrysaor reached up, ruffling Percy’s hair with one gloved hand. “Not bad, guppy,” he said, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. “Though next time, try not to steal my thunder.”

As they rolled through the gates, Percy glanced back one last time. Eurybatus was still on the floor, his hanger-ons either laughing at his expense or studiously avoiding his gaze. The shiny veneer of power he’d wrapped himself in was gone, crumbled under Chrysaor’s calm, unshakable presence. Percy couldn’t help but smirk. For a place so steeped in corruption, it was oddly satisfying to see someone lose at their own game.

Percy sat back on the suitcase, letting the night air wash over him. He didn’t like this world—didn’t like the lies, the power plays, the constant tension. But watching Chrysaor unravel Eurybatus so effortlessly? That was something he would pay for.

Chapter Text

Apparently, Percy’s mom had given Chrysaor a full lecture on Percy-feeding-times, because instead of heading straight to the bar, they made a pit stop for food like it was a contractual obligation. Percy didn’t complain—food was food.

Soon after, they pulled up to a squat, grimy building that looked like it had been designed with crime scenes in mind. Percy was still side-eyeing the place when Chrysaor parked and stepped out, casually brushing off his coat like the whole vibe wasn’t screaming ‟turn back while you still can”.

Percy trailed after him, but not before eyeing the the trunk and its unattended suitcase full of cash. “You’re just leaving it? In this place?”

Chrysaor didn’t answer. He just snapped his fingers, and the car shimmered, folded in on itself like a collapsing tent, and vanished into his ring.

Well, that was one way not to get robbed.

The Wretched Oracle squatted in the heart of Coconut Grove, its facade a masterclass in looking like a place you’d rather not go into unless you were absolutely sure you’d win the fight that might break out inside. The peeling paint, buzzing neon sign, and door that looked like it had been kicked more times than opened weren’t exactly reassuring. Percy half-expected to find crime scene tape tangled somewhere in the bushes.

Inside, the front room was textbook dive bar: sticky floors, a jukebox wheezing out a tune that couldn’t decide if it was alive or dead, and a bartender who looked like he was one spilled drink away from quitting humanity altogether. Regulars hunched over their drinks, ignoring everything except their cups and maybe their regrets.

But the atmosphere had something… off about it.

He spotted figures slipping in and out of the shadows, their movements too smooth, their outlines just a little off. A man whose hoodie cast a shadow that stretched against the light. A woman who leaned too far back, like gravity wasn’t her problem. Percy blinked. Was that guy breathing, or was the wall breathing around him?

He shivered.

“Stick close, guppy,” Chrysaor muttered, his gloved hand brushing Percy’s shoulder as they approached a supply closet. He yanked the door open, and the air shimmered, rippling like a pond after a stone had been thrown. Percy hesitated, then stepped through, following Chrysaor into what had to be the real reason anyone came here.

The VIP section—or whatever this was—hit differently.

Smoke hung in the air, curling in lazy spirals that didn’t smell like anything, adding to the hazy, otherworldly vibe. The room had no visible lights, but a golden glow seemed to come from everywhere at once, pooling in patches and leaving deep shadows that made Percy feel like something could crawl out of them at any moment.

The walls were a mess.

Layers upon layers of paper plastered every surface—posters, notes, maps, and scraps of parchment slapped together in a chaotic pile-up of eras.Bold, blocky fonts advertising modern job openings were stuck over faded WANTED posters scrawled in looping calligraphy. Beneath them, ancient-looking runes peeked out, almost buried but not quite. Percy’s eyes caught on a treasure map pinned halfway under a printout that read, “Immediate Openings: No Questions Asked.”

“Nice place,” Percy muttered, eyeing the walls. “Very... eclectic.”

Chrysaor grunted, unimpressed. He strode straight to the bar, picked Percy up by the armpits like a stray cat, and set him down on a stool. “Stay here.”

Percy blinked. “Uh, what?”

Chrysaor was already fishing a coin purse out of his coat, which he slapped onto the counter with a loud clink. The bartender—a hulking man who looked like he could lift the bar itself if the mood struck him—wandered over, peeked inside, and nodded.

“Keep an eye on the kid,” Chrysaor said flatly. “He’s your problem now.”

The bartender grunted, pocketed the purse, and ambled off without another word.

“Be good,” Chrysaor added, glancing at Percy briefly before heading to a shadowy corner of the room where a boisterous group clustered together, their drinks bubbling and glowing like something out of a mad scientist’s lab as they traded stories and laughter.

Percy sighed. Left behind like yesterday’s leftovers while Chrysaor was over there living his best life with the regulars.

For a while, the bartender occasionally glanced his way, but as the bar got busier, the guy had his hands full. Orders piled up, glasses clinked, and Percy found himself ignored in favor of the growing chaos.

So he did what any unsupervised kid in a shady, magical bar would do.

He wandered.

Sliding off his stool, Percy drifted toward the far end of the counter, where a goat-legged bartender with curly horns was mixing drinks like he was auditioning for a circus. Bottles spun through the air in dizzying arcs, liquids poured themselves in shimmering streams, and at one point, an actual puff of blue smoke poofed out of a glass.

Percy stopped in his tracks, transfixed. "That’s... cool."

The bartender turned, glassy eyes unfocused for just a second before a slow grin stretched across his face. “Thanks, kid.” His voice was syrupy slow, dragging out the words like he was pulling them from molasses. "Wanna try somethin’?"

Percy blinked. "Uh… isn’t that illegal?"

The bartender snorted, his horns dipping slightly as he shook a shaker with one hand and snatched a spinning bottle mid-air with the other. “Relax, kid,” he drawled, pouring the drink into a glass with perfect precision. “It’s a mocktail.” He paused, the word hanging in the air before he added, with a dreamy sort of laziness, “...Mostly.”

Without breaking his rhythm, the bartender slid the glass across the counter with a practiced flick. The liquid separated into perfect layers—brilliant blues and greens, sharp yellows, with faint shimmering edges that made it look more like art than something you’d drink.

“Go on,” he murmured, leaning heavily on the counter like his horns might tip him over. “Live a little.”

Percy hesitated, eyeing the drink like it might explode. “What’s in it?”

The bartender tilted his head, his horns scraping faintly against the hanging bottles overhead. “Stuff,” he said slowly, the word dragging out like it had to be carefully considered. After a long pause, he added, “...Things.”

“Super helpful,” Percy said, picking up the glass and sniffing it.

He took a sip.

The taste hit immediately—sharp, sweet, bubbly. It was like candy, but better, like someone had bottled happiness and put it on ice.

He blinked, surprised. “Huh. That’s… really good.”

The bartender gave him a slow thumbs up, already tossing another bottle into the air.

Percy took another sip, a little bigger this time, the bubbles tickling his tongue. This was basically liquid dessert. “Okay, I gotta ask—what’s the weirdest drink you’ve ever made?”

The bartender paused mid-motion, his eyes half-lidded but vaguely amused. “Had this harpy come in once,” he said, his voice dragging like it might stop and take a nap halfway through. “Asked for... rotten egg yolks, fermented blood, and a stick of butter.”

Percy froze mid-sip, his stomach doing a little flip. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

The bartender shook his head, his horns dipping slowly. “Dead serious,” he said, tapping one horn for emphasis. “Said it was for her diet. Whatever that means.”

Percy stared at him, horrified. “And you... made it?”

“Made it,” the bartender said, his slow smile almost proud. He tossed another bottle into the air without looking, caught it easily, and resumed mixing like he hadn’t just described the most revolting thing Percy had ever heard. “Served it. Watched her chug it like it was ambrosia.”

“Made it,” the bartender said, his grin lazy and faintly lopsided. He tossed another bottle into the air without looking, caught it, and resumed mixing. “Served it. Watched her chug it like it was ambrosia.”

Percy gagged, setting his glass down like it might suddenly sprout a stick of butter. “That’s disgusting.”

The bartender nodded solemnly. “Some people, man.”

Percy laughed despite himself, the kind of laugh that bubbled up when something was so gross it looped back around to being cool. Like those kids at school who dared each other to eat weird bugs. “You know, you’re way cooler than the other guy.”

The bartender paused mid-pour, his horns swaying slightly with the motion. “Other guy?”

“Yeah.” Percy waved a hand vaguely toward the far end of the bar. “Grumpy dude. No flair. No style. You’ve got pizzazz.” He grinned, a little too proud of himself for using a fancy word like pizzazz.

The bartender blinked at him, his slow grin stretching wide and lopsided. “Pizzazz,” he repeated, like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all night. “I like you, kid.”

Percy’s chest puffed up just a little. “Yeah, well, I’m very likable.”

Another drink slid across the counter toward him, this one a swirl of purples and oranges, bubbling faintly. Percy didn’t hesitate, grabbing it and taking a sip. It tasted like grape soda mixed with tangerine, the bubbles popping on his tongue in a way that made him giggle.

It wasn’t long before Percy was officially promoted to taste-tester in chief. Each new cocktail came with its own flair—smoke, sparkles, colors that didn’t look like they should exist—and Percy took his job very seriously. If “seriously” meant sipping, nodding like a connoisseur, and occasionally going, “Whoa, that’s so shiny.”

Percy would sip, make a face—sometimes delighted, sometimes skeptical—and the bartender would chuckle lazily before sliding the glass to its rightful owner. Percy didn’t know if this was what bartenders usually did, but it felt like he’d unlocked a secret perk of hanging around the Wretched Oracle: free samples and endless weird trivia.

Eventually, the rhythm of it all—sip, nod, sip again—was almost hypnotic. Percy barely noticed the steady stream of glasses sliding his way, or how his questions were getting a little more frequent, a little less filtered. Somewhere between the fizzy purple thing with the edible glitter and the neon green drink that tasted like lime and trouble, he caught onto a throwaway comment the bartender made, and his ears practically twitched.

“Private parties?”

“Yeah,” the bartender murmured, his hooves clicking softly as he shifted his weight. “Regular here books me sometimes. Fancy stuff. Real... high-end.”

Percy’s curiosity perked up, fueled by a mix of genuine interest and the fizzy energy coursing through his veins. “Fancy, huh? Like famous people?”

The bartender shrugged, one slow, deliberate motion. “Dunno. Don’t know ‘em all.” He paused, setting a glass down with careful precision. “But one time… yeah. One guest. Real special.”

Percy leaned in, the drink in his hand sloshing slightly as he gestured for the bartender to keep going. “Special how?”

The bartender’s glassy eyes flickered with something that might’ve been amusement. Or maybe he just blinked too slow again. “Had to order Phoenician wine just for her. Domaine Neferis. Rare stuff. Real old. Real pricey.”

“Phoe-what?” Percy blinked, stumbling over the word. “Domi…what’sit?”

The bartender chuckled, a slow, rolling sound. “Phoenician wine. Domaine Neferis. Shipping cost more than the bottle. And the bottle was already...” He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Ridiculous.”

Percy leaned in closer, the words tumbling out in a loud stage whisper. “Was she, like, a queen or something?” His thoughts were spinning so fast he could barely catch them. “Wait—an empress? Like Cleopatra but with wine?”

The bartender just shrugged again, too slow to keep up. “Maybe. She was called D-something. Ding. Dong. Something like that.”

Percy froze, his grip tightening on the glass.

D-something.

Ding. Dong.

D—

Oh.

His eyes widened.

Dee.

He blinked, triumph surging through his brain like a firework on a delay.

Sherlock Holmes, who?

Percy was brilliant. A genius. The best detective to ever walk the earth.

“I’m so smart,” Percy muttered, nodding emphatically to himself. His grin stretched wider, sloppy with self-satisfaction, like he’d just cracked the code to the universe.

The bartender blinked at him, slow as molasses, his glassy eyes barely shifting. He raised one eyebrow—or maybe he didn’t; it was hard to tell when his face moved at about two frames per second. “Cool,” he said, his voice dragging like he’d borrowed it from a sloth mid-nap.

Then, with all the urgency of a glacier, he turned back to the drinks, pouring something purple and sparkly into a glass as if Percy’s groundbreaking revelation was just another kid saying weird stuff.

Percy blinked at the bar, the molasses-paced bartender, and his now-empty glass. For a second, he was sure the stool under him wobbled—or maybe it was his legs.

Dee. He had to tell Chrysaor about Dee.

He slid off the stool, or at least tried to. The floor tilted the second his feet touched it, and his knees wobbled like they’d forgotten how to kneecap.

“Whoa,” Percy mumbled, grabbing the edge of the bar for balance. The bar felt… slippery? Was it supposed to do that?

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and pointed himself in Chrysaor’s direction.

Left foot. Right foot.

But the message must have gotten scrambled because he veered sharply to the left, then overcorrected, staggering into a table with a loud clang.

“Sorry,” he slurred, waving at the vaguely blurry figures staring at him. “I’m just—uh—walking.”

Walking was hard.

Chrysaor’s head snapped up from across the room. The second Percy locked eyes with the golden mask, he knew he was in trouble.

Percy waved anyway, wobbling his way toward his brother like a sailor on a particularly bad ship. “Hey! Chrysssaaor!” His voice came out way louder than intended, but Percy didn’t notice—or care.

Chrysaor was on his feet in an instant, cutting through the crowd with the kind of speed that made everyone instinctively step aside. “Are you drunk?” he hissed the moment he reached Percy, grabbing him by the shoulders to steady him. “How are you drunk?”

Percy blinked up at him, wide-eyed. “I’m not drunk,” he said, swaying slightly. “I’m… investigatin’.”

Chrysaor stared, then sniffed the air like he didn’t trust a word coming out of Percy’s mouth. His grip on Percy’s shoulders tightened, his voice dropping into something low and dangerous. “Stay here.”

Percy didn’t have much choice. His legs weren’t exactly cooperating. He plopped down onto a nearby chair, blinking dazedly as Chrysaor spun on his heel and marched back toward the bar.

The goat-legged bartender didn’t even look up as Chrysaor approached, busy flipping a shaker in one hand while sliding a drink across the counter with the other.

“How many drinks did you give him?” Chrysaor’s voice was ice, sharp enough to cut through the haze of the bar.

The bartender’s slow, syrupy movements paused for just a second. His glassy eyes tilted up, blinking as if processing the question. “Him?” he said lazily, pointing one finger in Percy’s general direction. “Uh… a few.”

Chrysaor’s jaw tightened. “How. Many.”

The bartender tilted his head, his horns scraping faintly against a rack of bottles. “I dunno… five? Six? Maybe more? He was real enthusiastic—”

The rest of the sentence was swallowed by the sound of glass shattering. Chrysaor’s hand slammed onto the counter, his golden mask inches from the bartender’s face. “They were alcoholic, weren’t they?”

The bartender blinked, slow and unbothered. “Maybe a little?” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Kid didn’t mind.”

Chrysaor swore, spinning back toward Percy. Percy was still slumped in the chair, his eyelids drooping like gravity had just cranked up its settings. He gave a weak little wave when Chrysaor stormed back.

“Up,” Chrysaor ordered, hauling Percy to his feet. Percy tried to stand, but his legs folded immediately, forcing Chrysaor to catch him.

“Wha—what’s wrong?” Percy slurred, his head lolling against Chrysaor’s chest. “’M fine. Totally fine.”

Chrysaor’s grip on Percy’s shoulders tightened, hard enough that Percy would’ve winced if he were more aware. For a moment, Chrysaor’s mask tilted downward, his head dipping as if to listen to Percy’s uneven breathing. His shoulders rose and fell too quickly, his breaths sharp and ragged. One gloved hand twitched against Percy’s arm like he couldn’t decide whether to hold on tighter or let go.

“Stay with me, guppy,” Chrysaor muttered, but his voice wavered, just barely.

That was new.

That was scary.

Chrysaor growled and practically dragged him toward a quieter corner of the room. Percy’s skin was pale, clammy. His breaths were uneven, shallow. Chrysaor knelt down, leaning Percy against the wall.

“Wha—whass wrong?” Percy slurred, his head flopping against Chrysaor’s chest. “’M okay. Jus’...investigatin’... somethin’... ‘bout wine.”

“You’re gonna throw up,” Chrysaor said firmly, gripping Percy’s shoulders. Percy blinked at him, uncomprehending.

“Wha—no,” Percy mumbled, trying to push Chrysaor’s hands away. “Don’t wanna…”

“Not a choice,” Chrysaor snapped. “It’s happening.”

With that, he shoved two fingers into Percy’s mouth, hitting the back of his throat before Percy could protest. Percy gagged violently, the sharp, acrid sting burning his throat as his whole body convulsed.

It was gross.

Horrifying.

Chrysaor’s voice reached him, low and urgent, but the words swam past him like they were being spoken underwater.

He wanted to say something—anything—but his tongue felt like it belonged to someone else.

The ground tilted harder, spinning faster, and the shadows pooling in his vision surged forward.

He didn’t even feel himself fall.

Chapter Text

Percy cracked his eyes open, greeted immediately by a ceiling too white, light too bright, and air that smelled way too clean. The distant beep of a monitor and the low murmur of voices outside his room didn’t register at first. The cool morning air filtered through an open window, rustling the edges of a too-thin hospital curtain.

…Wait. Hospital?

Percy sluggishly turned his head. The motion alone made his body protest like he’d been yanked out of the best sleep of his life—warm, weightless, and completely detached from existence. Everything felt heavy, like he was still sinking into the mattress, his limbs refusing to acknowledge that wakefulness was even necessary. The air was too crisp, the light too sharp, and his brain lagged behind reality like a stubborn computer update.

Someone was sitting beside him.

The shape registered first: broad shoulders, a gold mask, and a posture that somehow managed to be both stiff and slumped at the same time. A few stray strands of dark hair had escaped from their usual neatness, and his arms were crossed, but not in his usual tough guy way—more like he was holding himself together.

Chrysaor.

The details clicked into place, but his brain was still buffering.

Before Percy could summon the energy to make a noise, a voice spoke from somewhere to his right.

"Awake already, young man?"

The voice was bright but tired, like someone who ran on caffeine and stubborn willpower alone. Chrysaor snapped upright at the sound, instantly alert.

Percy turned his head—slowly, because his body still hated him—and finally saw her.

A middle-aged woman stood by the foot of his bed, flipping through a chart. She had golden-brown skin, tight blonde curls that framed her face, and the kind of demeanor that belonged to someone who’d already saved three lives this morning and still had time to sass someone before breakfast.

Percy opened his mouth, but his throat felt like it had been used as a sandpaper testing facility.

“Where am I?” he rasped.

“Florida Mercy Hospital,” she replied breezily. “You almost died of alcohol poisoning.”

Huh.

That… tracked, actually. He vaguely remembered something about drinks, a bar, and then—nothing.

Chrysaor, still sitting beside him, made a noise of pure suffering and dragged a hand down his face.

"Never taking you to a bar ever again."

The doctor barely looked up from the chart. Instead, she fixed Chrysaor with the kind of pointed, unimpressed stare that could humble even the most ancient of pirate warriors.

Chrysaor, to his credit, visibly withered.

His shoulders twitched, his posture shifted, and the air around him screamed chastised child caught red-handed.

"Shouldn’t have taken you in the first place," he corrected gruffly.

The doctor clicked her tongue and muttered, just loud enough to be heard, “You’re lucky he’s resilient, or I’d be legally required to stab you with an IV drip.”

Chrysaor went rigid. The tiniest, most imperceptible flinch twitched at the corner of his eye, like some deep primal part of him recognized a genuine threat in those words.

Percy would’ve laughed if he wasn’t too busy committing this moment to memory for future blackmail purposes. The visual of a grumpy, battle-hardened pirate getting silently scolded by a doctor and threatened with stabbing was possibly the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

He let his head fall back against the pillow, swallowing a grin.

The doctor tilted her head, giving him a once-over. “How do you feel?”

Percy took a second to check in with his body.

Limbs? All accounted for.

No rogue aches, no weird bruises. His head didn’t even throb.

He felt… good.

Like intense PE class followed by passing out for twelve hours kind of good.

The refreshed but still a little too boneless to function kind of good.

“…Uh.” He blinked at the ceiling. “Fine?”

The doctor hummed, flipping through his chart again. It was a melodic hum, like a violin tuning up—pleasant, but odd coming from a human mouth.

Skeptical, she glanced at him over the rim of her glasses. “No headache? No nausea? No dizziness?”

Percy shrugged. “Nope. Feel good.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Interesting.”

She stepped closer, tilting her head as she studied him. That’s when Percy noticed it—the soft glow clinging to her edges, like a beam of sunlight had decided to follow her around exclusively.

And because his brain lacked all sense of self-preservation, the thought skipped the usual internal filter check and launched straight out of his mouth: “You’re very bright.”

The doctor blinked at him, then chuckled. “Perks from my father. Sadly, it comes with being completely incapable of sleeping in.”

Chrysaor snorted, arms still crossed, but didn’t say a word.

The doctor, unfazed, tapped his chart with a thoughtful expression. “You metabolized the alcohol strangely fast. You’re not just okay—you’re perfectly fine.”

That sounded like good news.

Chrysaor, standing beside him, visibly perked up at the words.

Huh. That was sweet.

And then—

“…Which is a good thing, because with the quantity you ingested, it should’ve killed you.”

Chrysaor deflated so hard Percy swore he heard an actual pop.

Well. That was less sweet.

The doctor watched him closely now, like she had a few more questions brewing but was debating whether or not she wanted to open that can of worms.

Percy, meanwhile, was completely bypassing the almost died thing because—well. He felt great. And if he felt great, that meant he could leave, right?

“So, uh… can I go?”

The doctor hummed again, considering. Then, with a small nod, she closed his chart. “I don’t see any problem with that.”

Nice.

She gave him a pointed look. “But I strongly recommend staying away from alcohol from now on.”

Percy nodded sagely. “Yeah, obviously.”

Chrysaor scoffed.

The doctor arched a skeptical brow.

Percy, blissfully unaware of why that reaction was warranted, just stretched his arms with a satisfied sigh. He felt great. Best sleep of his life. Honestly, if this was the aftermath of nearly dying, he didn’t see what the big deal was.

The door had barely clicked shut before Chrysaor turned to him, arms crossed, radiating the unholy fusion of exasperation and relief.

"Do you have some kind of death wish?"

Percy blinked. "Uh—"

"Because you clearly don’t understand the concept of staying put!" Chrysaor raked a hand through his hair, his golden mask tilting just slightly as if he needed a second to process the sheer magnitude of his frustration. "You were supposed to stay out of trouble, not land yourself in a hospital because you can’t follow basic orders!"

Percy stayed quiet, nodding along with the appropriate I’ve learned my lesson, I promise expression. Realistically, he did not think he had any lesson to learn. But he was very good at looking like he had.

Chrysaor, however, did not seem particularly convinced.

"And do you have any idea how your mother would react if she found out about this?"

Ah. There it was.

That right there? That was concern for his own well-being in the face of Sally Jackson’s inevitable rage-fueled justice.

Percy bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling in vindication.

More people should be afraid of his mother.

The scolding continued, escalating into a full what were you thinking lecture. It was impressive, really. Percy tuned out most of it—he’d heard variations of it before—but, feeling like maybe he should at least attempt damage control, he deployed his most reliable tool.

The baby seal eyes.

Wide, remorseful, entirely calculated.

Chrysaor immediately cut himself off mid-rant, visibly faltering. Then, with a sharp huff, he reached out and planted a hand right over Percy’s face.

"Hide those. I can’t think."

Percy, voice muffled under Chrysaor’s palm, grinned. "Yeah, that’s the point."

Chrysaor groaned, fingers twitching like he wanted to physically shake some sense into him. "Do you even understand how serious this is?"

Percy hummed thoughtfully. "Mmm… I’m getting the sense it’s pretty serious, yeah."

Chrysaor sighed—long, weary, like a man realizing he was stuck with this nonsense forever. "How would your mother have felt if I had to tell her you died because you drank too much alcohol?"

Percy stilled.

He hadn’t—

Oh.

He hadn’t really thought about it like that.

He’d been treating this whole thing like some dumb misadventure. But the way Chrysaor said it—like he had actually considered that outcome, like he had pictured what it would be like to find Percy dead—

Chrysaor wasn’t just afraid of his mother. He wasn’t just mad about Percy’s recklessness.

He had been really, truly worried.

For Percy.

And that hit differently.

Percy swallowed, something uncomfortable curling in his chest. He hated hurting the people he loved, even by accident.

And wow.

It wasn’t just him and his mom against the world anymore.

Chrysaor was—

He was one of his people.

And the worst part? Percy suddenly felt guilty about the drinking. He hadn’t realized the cocktails were alcoholic. They had been sweet, not burning and awful like he’d imagined alcohol should be. And that just made him feel stupid.

His stomach twisted.

Alcohol.

Gabe.

Oh.

He suddenly felt sick just thinking about it.

Was he on his way to become a drunk?. He didn’t want to be anything like Gabe.

Ever.

"Never drinking again," Percy muttered under his breath, the vow settling deep into his bones.

Chrysaor, still palming Percy’s face like it was some kind of emergency containment procedure, let out an exhausted sigh. "You’d better."

Percy, for once, had no arguments.

Percy, sensing the conversation was heading toward actual consequences, shifted gears fast.

With a slow, impish grin, he turned to Chrysaor.

“So,” he drawled, “what’s the plan? How do we make sure Mom doesn’t find out?”

Chrysaor didn’t even blink. “Oh, she’s definitely finding out.”

Percy shot up so fast he nearly sent his IV stand flying. “WHAT.”

No. No, no, no.

He’d never seriously considered faking his own death before, but suddenly, the idea of staging an elaborate disappearance and living in a treehouse under a fake name sounded pretty viable.

He had room for negotiation, right? Chrysaor wasn’t exactly a stickler for rules. He bent them all the time! Twisted them into pretzels! That was his whole thing!

Chrysaor just shrugged, completely unmoved. “You think I’m taking that risk? No thanks. She finds out on my terms.”

Percy gaped at him, deeply betrayed. “Traitor.”

Chrysaor leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, voice flat. “I’m a pirate, not suicidal.”

The worst part? Percy couldn’t even blame him.

Most of the time, he loved how terrifying his mom could be. It was one of the few universal truths that brought him joy—watching her shut people down with a single look, reducing fully grown men to stammering wrecks.

But right now?

Yeah, no. Not exactly working in his favor.

For once, he really, really wished she was just a little less scary.

Percy groaned and flopped dramatically onto the pillow, officially declaring this the worst outcome possible.

…Alright. He had one last resort.

Carefully—strategically—he turned his head just enough to give Chrysaor a look. Wide, tragic eyes. Abyssal misery.

"What if I swear never to drink again?"

And he meant it.

The thought alone made his stomach churn. He wasn’t touching alcohol ever again. Not even a sip. Not even a little.

It was an ironclad vow.

Chrysaor just chuckled. The bastard.

Then, before Percy could protest, Chrysaor reached out and ruffled his hair.

Percy spluttered indignantly.

Oh, absolutely not.

He launched himself at Chrysaor in an act of righteous revenge, but—predictably—Chrysaor had insanely unfair reflexes and caught him easily, wrapping his arms around him like a trap snapping shut.

Percy squirmed for all of five seconds.

Then… he settled.

Chrysaor didn’t let go. He didn’t shove him off, or make some gruff joke to wave it away.

He just… held him.

And Percy, warm and comfortable in the circle of steady arms, let himself sink into it.

…Cuddles were nice.

Maybe this wasn’t the worst after all.

Sneaking out of a hospital was surprisingly easy when one of you had a very strong disregard for rules and the other had absurdly good timing.

Percy wasn’t sure how he felt about skipping out on a hospital bill—he wasn’t thrilled about it—but as they reached the exit, he caught sight of the blonde doctor standing just inside, watching them leave.

She met his eyes, gave him a quick wink, and pressed a finger to her lips.

Ah.

Well. If the actual doctor was fine with it, then Percy wasn’t about to argue.

The moment they stepped outside, warm air smacked him in the face like a wet towel someone forgot in a sauna.

Goodbye air conditioning. You will be missed.

Chrysaor pulled out his golden ring, flicked it between his fingers, and—wham.

The golden Chrysler was back.

Percy was never gonna tire of that.

Chrysaor shoved him into the passenger seat and slammed the gas.

What followed was a fever dream of high-speed and metal-twisting chaos.

Miami traffic was already a lawless void, but apparently, Chrysaor had decided to treat it like an obstacle course designed specifically for his amusement. They zipped through impossibly small gaps, cutting across lanes like a goddamn mirage, roof down, the wind turning Percy’s face into a makeshift parachute.

Somewhere behind them, a police siren whooped to life.

“Uh,” Percy started, glancing back—

Yep. Flashing lights. Incoming problem.

Chrysaor sighed like someone deeply inconvenienced by the existence of consequences.

Then, at the next intersection, he did something so phenomenally illegal Percy was pretty sure physics called in sick—

A god-tier, tire-screeching, inertia-defying, soul-leaving-body U-turn so sharp that one moment they existed and the next they absolutely did not.

The cop car slammed its brakes, skidding to a confused, chaotic halt. The officers inside just stared—stunned, baffled, mouths open—like they had just witnessed a high-speed haunting.

By the time the Chrysler casually rolled into a beachside parking lot, Percy sat there, shell-shocked—but in the best way.

His entire existence had just been slingshotted through Miami traffic at godspeed, nearly launched into an actual police chase, and then bailed out by a move so slick it left grown men questioning their grip on reality.

Percy had never felt so alive.

“…That. Was. Awesome.” He turned to Chrysaor, practically vibrating. “Can we do that again?”

Chrysaor glanced over, voice casual. “What, you’re not scared?”

Percy’s grin stretched wide. “Of that? Are you kidding? That was the coolest thing ever! I didn’t even know cars could do that!”

Chrysaor considered it for half a beat, then shrugged. “Fine. But next time, we make it a real chase.”

Percy’s eyes widened in pure, unfiltered delight. “Oh, absolutely. Bro, you’re like—a legend.”

Chrysaor didn’t react—not visibly. But the way he settled a little deeper into his seat, chin tilting up ever so slightly, like a man who had just been handed his rightful due, was all Percy needed to see.

And honestly? Fair.

Percy ripped his seatbelt off and hopped out, still absolutely buzzing from the experience.

The air was thick with salt and sunlight, warm and rich, the kind of scent that settled deep in his lungs like it belonged there. The sand stretched out before them—soft and golden, dappled with shells that gleamed where the tide had kissed them. Every step sank slightly, heat curling around his ankles, grounding him.

And the water—Gods, the water.

It was too blue to be real, shifting between crystal-clear turquoise and deep, endless sapphire, the sun setting it alight in a dance of rippling gold. The waves rolled in slow and inviting, foam fizzing at the edges like the ocean itself was laughing, beckoning, waiting.

Beyond the curve of the shore, a lighthouse stood watch, its white stone stark against the sky, as if it had been placed there just to admire the view. Further inland, palms swayed lazily, their rustling leaves blending into the hush of the tide, the whole world moving in time with the rhythm of the sea.

It felt like a place where nothing bad could touch him.

A place that wanted him here.

Percy let out a breath, something easing in his chest.

Then he turned to Chrysaor.

“So, what exactly are we—”

He didn’t get to finish.

Because his traitorous brother grabbed him.

Chrysaor hauled him clean off the ground, arms braced with zero hesitation, zero warning, and—

Threw him straight into the ocean.

Chapter Text

SPLASH.

Percy hit the ocean like a skipping stone with a personal vendetta, plunging deep before kicking up toward the surface. He broke through the waves with a gasp, shaking the salt from his face, clothes fully drenched and clinging like an insult.

From the shore, Chrysaor looked completely unbothered.

He had taken off his coat, showing off his clear commitment to being a cliché.

Pirate shirt. Loose and billowy. Open at the chest just enough to make a statement. The man did not half-ass his aesthetic.

He stood at the water’s edge, rolling his shoulders, then reaching for the hem of his shirt. The fabric slid over his head in one smooth motion, revealing an entirely unfair amount of sun-bronzed muscle.

Chrysaor tossed the shirt aside with a careless flick of the wrist, then—hands on his hips—surveyed Percy with an air of absolute satisfaction.

“There.” He nodded, tone smug. “Now go play, little fish.”

Percy dragged a hand down his face, spitting out a mouthful of seawater. “But don’t we have a mission?”

Chrysaor yawned. Stretched his arms overhead. Every motion telegraphed pure, lazy indulgence.

“The satyr we’re searching for,” he said, voice slow and unconcerned, “is giving a private party tonight.” He turned on his heel, sauntering back toward the sand like a man who had all the time in the world.

“But until then…”

He flopped down onto the shore like it was the softest bed in existence, one arm over his face, already getting comfortable.

Percy stared.

Then stared some more.

Flatly, he asked, “You’re just gonna tan all day?”

Chrysaor, already halfway to napping, let out a contented sigh.

“Yep.”

Percy didn’t actually mind the plan.

A whole day to just swim? Yeah, he could work with that.

Still, there were rules to messing with people, and Chrysaor had started it.

So Percy grabbed the hem of his own shirt, peeled the soaking fabric off his skin, and flung it straight at Chrysaor.

It landed wetly on his chest with a splat.

Chrysaor made a noise of pure disgust, peeling it off with two fingers like it was offensively beneath him.

Percy giggled and dove back into the waves before retribution could strike.

And Gods, being in the water was a delight.

A return to something deeper than muscle memory.

Every part of him woke up, sharpened, expanded—like he had five more senses, and each one was thrumming with clarity.

He could feel everything.

The shimmering schools of fish darting past, the slow undulation of a lazy stingray settling into the sand, the distant pulse of a shark shifting in the deep.

The water spoke to him—not in words, but in ripples and currents, pulses and echoes. He could taste the whoops of joy in the rolling waves, hear the whispers of seafoam dissolving against the shore.

Floating on his back, Percy stared up at the unbroken blue of the sky, letting the ocean carry him, hold him, keep him.

The sun pressed warm against his skin, the water cool beneath him, the tide rocking him in slow, steady pulls.

It was nice. Weird, but nice.

To think that only a few days ago, he hadn’t even known how to swim.

And now? Now he couldn’t think of a better place to be than the sea—apart from his mother’s arms obviously.

He let his hands drift out at his sides, fingers trailing just beneath the surface.

A school of fish zipped by beneath him—tiny, flickering things, shifting color as they moved, turning from silver to gold to electric blue in the refracted sun rays. The waves swayed against his shoulders, rising and falling like they were breathing with him.

Percy sighed in contentment.

His fingers brushed the conch shell in his pocket.

Might as well.

He let himself think and brought it up to his lips. He stayed suspended there for a second, waiting for the right words to come.

Then, because thinking things through had never been his strong suit, he just started talking.

“So… fun update. I almost died today.”

He paused, watching the bubbles spiral upward, half-expecting them to pop with some kind of grand realization. Nothing. Just water and silence. Like even the ocean was waiting to see where he was going with this.

“Because of cocktails.”

His mouth had jumped ahead, and now his brain was scrambling to catch up, skidding in late like a kid who forgot there was a pop quiz.

He frowned, kicking lightly. “Is that a cool way to go? Or is it, like, super lame? Because I genuinely can’t decide.”

He drummed his fingers against the shell, thoughts spiraling as fast as the bubbles above.

“…Would you have been disappointed?”

The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Something about saying it out loud made his chest feel weirdly tight, so he inhaled sharply and kicked hard—like that would somehow push the moment away.

“Anyway! Moving on!” he announced, a little too loudly, like he hadn’t just tripped over his own feelings and was now pretending it never happened.

Percy sank deeper, letting the ocean hum around him as he gave his father the short version of their latest misadventure—how they’d come to Miami to find Dee, the immortal sorceress who could ward their new house against monsters so he could actually sleep without something crashing through the window to eat him. How Chrysaor’s oh-so-trustworthy contact had turned out to be completely useless, leaving them chasing shadows in dive bars for anyone who actually knew where to find her.

“Let’s talk about Chrysaor now—who, by the way, is a bully.”

A beat.

“…Also the best big brother ever, but that’s not the point.”

Percy flipped onto his stomach, letting himself drift as he watched a sea star inch along the ocean floor.

“He threw me into the ocean today.” He huffed. “It’s a thing now. He just grabs me whenever he feels like it, tosses me around, hauls me over his shoulder—like, excuse me? Am I luggage?”

He floated there for a second, then let the next question spill out before he could overthink it.

“…Do I have others?”

The thought had been hovering in the back of his mind for days. Might as well let it out now.

“I mean, I know about the flying horse…euh…Pegasus, sorry,” he muttered. “But do I have normal ones? Not, like, normal as in better, obviously. But ones that aren’t, y’know—myths?”

He hesitated, turning the thought over, then decided to clarify.

“I mean, I exist, so…”

He trailed off, watching bubbles drift to the surface.

“Mom and Chrysaor told that it would be dangerous if I was discovered.”

His voice wavered, but he pushed through it.

His voice went quieter, more uncertain. It would be nice to know he wasn’t alone in being a forbidden child.

“What am I supposed to feel about that? I dunno. I just—”

He exhaled sharply. “Being a secret feels weird. Keeping one is already hard enough, but when the secret is a living person? And that person is me?”

He let out a humorless laugh.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna last.”

With my luck, he was going to be discovered in the most disastrous way possible.

Because let’s be honest—if anyone was going to get accidentally discovered in the worst possible way, it was him.

“…There’s gotta be something I can do, right?”

He rolled onto his back again, blinking up at the sky—blurred and broken by the shifting surface, rippling like a dream half-remembered.

“I dunno. Maybe a crash course in not getting tossed around like a chew toy every time someone bigger thinks it’s funny? I can't just run away every time I see a monster. Sooner or later, one of them's gonna catch me—and then, splat. Percy pancake.”

The next words stuck in his throat for a second. He forced them out anyway.

“…You know. If you were around, that seems like something a dad might teach his kid.”

Silence.

Not that he expected an answer.

But he waited anyway.

After a long moment, he exhaled and let himself drift, fingers loosening around the shell.

“…Anyway—thanks for listening,” he muttered. “Sort of.”

His update finished, Percy stretched out, letting the ocean cradle him.

He barely had a moment to relax before a sharp, insistent voice cut through the water.

"Oi! You with the hands!"

Percy glanced down to see a hermit crab scuttling aggressively toward him, its spindly legs barely fitting into its cramped shell like someone who had outgrown their jeans but refused to admit it.

"I need a bigger house," the crab declared, waving a claw for emphasis. "This one's a death trap."

Percy blinked at him, about to respond, when the crab suddenly froze, its beady little eyes locking onto Percy’s fingers.

"Whoa. Nice claws," it said, tilting its head for a better look. "Polished. Strong. You get those custom?"

Percy flexed his fingers, the pearly sheen of his nails catching the filtered sunlight. “Uh. They kinda just—came by themselves.”

"Lucky," the crab muttered, sounding mildly jealous. "Bet you never have trouble cracking shells."

Percy shrugged. “I guess not?”

The crab clicked its own claws together, thoughtful.

"Alright. I don’t have any other option anyway. Let's find me a mansion."

What a glowing recommendation.

Percy hid a laugh and scooped him up in his palm. “Let’s find you one.”

They drifted toward the shallows, scanning the rippling sand for empty shells.

The hermit crab grumbled the entire time.

"You know, it used to be easier," it huffed. "Back in the day, a crab could find a new shell whenever he needed. Good selection, plenty of options. But now?"

It made an exaggerated pinching motion.

"Tourists keep swiping all the good ones. Just pick 'em up and walk off like they’re souvenirs! No consideration for the locals."

Percy frowned. He knew beachgoers often collected shells—he just hadn’t really thought about what that meant for the creatures that actually needed them.

“That sucks,” he muttered, scanning the sandy seafloor for any decent options. “There’s gotta be a limit, right? Like, take one, leave the rest?”

"Right?" the crab scoffed. "Do you know how many of us are stuck with subpar real estate? I saw a guy last week living in a bottle cap. A bottle cap!"

Percy winced. “That’s rough.”

"Rough? It’s embarrassing. No self-respecting crab should have to downgrade to trash."

Percy hummed sympathetically, running his fingers through the sand, checking between rocks.

That’s when he felt it.

A prickle of awareness, just at the edge of his senses.

Like someone watching him.

Percy glanced back.

A school of anchovies darted past. A sea cucumber lay motionless on the seafloor, not offering much of an opinion. The water swayed lazily, disturbed by nothing but the tide.

And yet—

He turned his head slightly.

There, just beyond the rocks, a small, yellow-striped fish hovered in place.

Watching him.

Percy narrowed his eyes.

The fish narrowed its eyes back.

It had thick, downturned lips, a face permanently frozen in mild disappointment, and the unmistakable aura of someone judging him for something.

Percy tilted his head.

The fish tilted its head.

Yeah.

That fish?

Was absolutely following him.

Percy tried to lose him.

He darted through a school of fish, looped around a coral archway, even rode a passing current to put some distance between them.

None of it worked.

Every time he looked over his shoulder, the yellow-striped menace was still there. Hovering.

Percy frowned, slowing to a drift.

The hermit crab tapped his claw against Percy’s palm. “What’s with you? You’re swimming like you’re trying to shake a shark.”

Percy sighed and tilted his head toward his stalker.

The crab squinted. Then let out a dry, unimpressed click. “Oh. That’s Pompano.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “You know this guy?”

"Unfortunately." The crab rubbed at his eyestalk, like this was a migraine waiting to happen. "Thinks he’s high and mighty because his school performs in Atlantis regularly—"

Before he could finish, the fish in question abandoned all pretense of subtlety and glided forward with the air of someone deeply offended.

"That’s Señor Pompano," the fish corrected, voice dripping with aristocratic scorn.

The hermit crab waved a claw dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. You and your fancy little ballet squad—"

"We are not a ballet squad!" Pompano’s fins flared. "We are a prestigious school of synchronized performers requested by the queen herself for every solstice celebration—"

"—Because she likes yellow," the crab deadpanned.

Pompano gasped, scandalized. "Because she appreciates refined artistic performance!"

The crab clicked his claws impatiently. "Buddy, you’re background scenery."

"How dare you!" Pompano recoiled as if personally insulted. "We are an integral part of the royal ambiance!"

"Yeah? And so are the curtains."

Pompano spluttered, which was impressive for a fish. "I will have you know—"

"You know what I would like to have?" The hermit crab cut in. "A new shell. I need real estate, kid!" He tapped Percy’s palm again. "Priorities."

Percy fought back a snort. “Right, well, you two can argue while I find him a shell.”

"Yes, yes, ignore him," the crab agreed, waving Pompano off like an annoying seagull. "His kind spends all day floating in circles and calling it culture."

"We are ocean-class artists," Pompano snapped. "We are admired—"

The crab sighed dramatically, turning back to Percy. "This guy’s like one of those puffed-up clownfish who played a talking coral once and now thinks he’s Poseidon’s gift to the arts."

Pompano spluttered, which was impressive for a fish. "I will have you know—I was a featured soloist in The Hellespont Tragedy during the last Isthmian Games!"

The hermit crab stared at him blankly. “Never heard of it.”

Pompano looked personally wounded. "Hero’s Light! Surely you know Hero’s Light!”

The crab gave a slow, unimpressed blink. “Nope.”

"The Drowning of Leandros!"

The crab scratched his shell, deeply unimpressed. “Mmm… nah.”

Pompano turned to Percy, desperate for a shred of cultured company. "Surely you are familiar with the most revered symphonic masterpiece ever composed beneath the waves?"

Percy blinked at him. “Dude, I didn’t know how to swim, like, last week.”

Pompano glubbed in pure outrage, swirling in a dramatic circle. "Uncultured mollusks! The both of you!"

The hermit crab let out an incredulous laugh. "Is that supposed to be an insult?" He tapped his claw against his shell for emphasis. "Mollusks actually do things. They build reefs, filter water, keep the ecosystem running—what do you do, Señor Floaty?"

Pompano’s fins flared. "I am a harbinger of elegance! A cultivator of refinement. The personification of beauty in the untamed depths!”

"Yeah? So do coral polyps, and at least they contribute."

Percy had to bite his lip to keep from choking on a laugh.

Before Pompano could explode into another tirade, Percy’s fingers closed around an acceptable-looking shell half-buried in the sand. He pulled it free and flipped it toward the crab. “There. Good enough?”

The crab inspected it like a highly critical landlord, turning it over, checking the interior, giving it a few thoughtful knocks.

"Yeah." He clicked his claws, satisfied. "Solid structure. No weird smells. I’ll take it."

In one smooth motion, he vacated his old shell and scooted into the new one, giving it a few testing turns before rolling his shoulders in satisfaction.

"Alright, kid. You’re decent. Thanks for the upgrade."

With that, he scuttled off into the shallows, leaving behind his old shell—
Which was immediately claimed by another, much smaller crab who had apparently been waiting for this exact moment.

Percy watched the swap happen, vaguely wondering if the entire hermit crab real estate market operated on this kind of cutthroat efficiency.

Finally, some peace.

Or so he thought.

"A true prince does not squander his time on beggars and barnacle-pickers."

Percy closed his eyes, inhaled slowly.

Sir Pompous was still here.

And now with added commentary.

Percy groaned. "Oh, great."

Ignoring him, Percy let himself sink deeper, weightless, fully surrounded by life.

A school of minnows twisted around him, flashing silver as they darted through the current. Below, a cluster of garden eels peeked out from the sand, swaying like blades of seagrass in an unseen breeze. Even the coral was alive—anemones pulsing, barnacles opening and closing like tiny mouths.

Everything here had a rhythm, a purpose, a place.

Then, cutting through it all—

"Help!"

Percy twisted toward the distressed sound.

A baby seahorse, barely the size of his pinky, was fighting against the current, its tiny tail flailing uselessly.

"I lost my dad!" the seahorse wailed.

Percy scanned the water, searching for any sign of a seahorse cluster—but all he saw was the endless shift of the current, the flash of passing fish, the gentle sway of seagrass below.

No sign of the parents.

He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

The ocean stilled around him—not in silence, but in a way that let him listen differently.

Not with his ears. Not with his eyes.

A pulse—steady, rhythmic, anchored. A cluster of creatures holding firm against the shifting tide, their presence woven into the water itself.

There.

His eyes snapped open.

“Gotcha, little guy.”

He cupped his hands, letting the baby seahorse cling to his fingers, and gently carried it back. The moment he got close, one of the larger seahorses perked up, fins twitching.

"Oh, thank the tide! I turn around for one second—"

The baby let out a squeaky trill and latched onto its father’s tail, winding around it like an anchor.

"Stay attached," the father scolded.

Percy grinned. “All good now?”

"All good?" a familiar, pompous voice scoffed from behind. "Is this truly the best use of a prince’s time? Or shall we next witness you establishing a nursery for wayward plankton?"

Percy’s grin flattened instantly. He turned to find Señor Pompano floating nearby, radiating aristocratic disappointment.

“Can you not,” Percy said.

"A proper royal should not mingle with the dredges of the reef."

Percy’s eyes flashed. “Yeah? And a true fish wouldn’t be shadowing me like a bootlicking remora waiting for scraps. But here you are.”

"I am simply fulfilling my duty."

Percy’s eyes flashed. “Yeah? And that duty involves hovering like a scandalized governess with nothing better to do?”

Señor Pompano flicked his fins, unimpressed. "Ensuring a young royal does not squander himself on trivial company is hardly an unreasonable obligation."

Percy scoffed. “Oh, I’m so sorry for offending your high fishy standards.”

Pompano’s fins twitched, almost appeased.

Percy bared his teeth—not a smile. “Yeah, no. Not sorry.”

Pompano glubbed in outrage, his fins flaring back up instantly, rippling with scandalized indignation.

The father seahorse cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh, thanks again, kid.” He gave him a look that was part gratitude, part exhaustion. ‟Best of luck with… whatever this is."

Percy sighed as the seahorse family drifted away, shooting a glare at the yellow-bellied aristocod for good measure. “Yeah. I’m gonna need it.”

Word got around fast under the surface.

Soon, a flurry of darting fish swarmed him, each one chirping requests.

"Hey, can you move that rock? My burrow’s stuck!"

"Some idiot octopus stole my shell, can you get it back?"

"Can you scratch my back? I swear there’s algae growing on me—"

Percy sighed. He really had no one to blame but himself.

At this rate, if school didn’t work out, he had a solid backup career in underwater customer service. He was one favor away from opening a help desk.

Still, he helped where he could—freeing burrows, retrieving stolen shells, scratching one very insistent grouper—

"The Young Prince has truly taken to manual labor," Señor Pompano lamented, his voice dripping with aristocratic despair, as if Percy had just declared his intention to open a food stall at a fish market.

Percy didn’t even turn around. “Would you rather I start collecting taxes?”

"That would be far more befitting of your station," Pompano sighed theatrically, like the very suggestion of royal dignity being discarded was enough to send him into mourning. "But alas, I see we are embracing populism."

Percy grunted, heaving a rock aside so a tiny goby fish could reclaim its burrow. “Yeah? Well, you’re still here watching, so what does that say about you?”

Señor Pompano glubbed like he’d been personally slapped, his fins twitching with horror. "I endure this humiliation because it is my duty to witness it. Do you think I desire to see a prince—A son of His Most August and Eminent Majesty, the Divine Lord Poseidon—debase himself among sand-dwellers and bottom-feeders?"

Percy’s grip tightened on the next rock. He was one snide comment away from reconsidering his whole stance on seafood.

“I dunno," he muttered, half to himself. "Bet you’d shut up real quick in a butter sauce.”

Señor Pompano reeled back in scandalized outrage, his entire body puffing up. "You uncultured brute! I will have you know my lineage is of the finest—"

Percy hurled the rock aside harder than necessary. “Oh my gods. Just go be fancy somewhere else.”

Percy exhaled sharply, forcing down his irritation, and returned to more important matters—like making sure at least one fish in his vicinity wasn’t driving him insane.

The grouper, blissed out as Percy scratched the itchy patch along its back, let out a long, gurgling sigh of satisfaction.

"Ohhh, yeah, that's the spot."

Señor Pompano visibly recoiled, fins twitching like he’d just witnessed a crime against dignity itself.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, his voice heavy with the weight of witnessing yet another tragedy. "Reduced to a mere masseur."

Percy bit back a smirk and gave the grouper one last, deliberately indulgent pat.

Finally, the requests began to slow. The last of the fish drifted away, satisfied, and Percy stretched his arms out, letting himself float freely for the first time in what felt like hours.

For two whole seconds, it was peaceful.

"Your posture is atrocious."

Percy groaned. “Oh my gods. Do you have anything to do besides judging me?”

Señor Pompano did not dignify that with a response. Instead, he began circling him with a critical, calculating eye, fins flicking in a way that could only be described as deep, existential disappointment.

"Your form lacks discipline," he declared. "Your movements are passable—barely—but without refinement, you will always swim like an untrained guppy."

Percy squinted at him. “Are you… offering to teach me?”

Pompano made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a scoff, though with the added effect of tiny bubbles escaping, which really took the edge off his gravitas.

"I am merely pointing out the obvious."

"Right," Percy muttered. "Helpful."

Still, the fish didn’t leave.

He just hovered, expectant, like a particularly judgmental coach waiting for his student to get their act together.

Percy rolled his eyes and kicked off into a slow, experimental glide, just to shut him up.

Immediately, Pompano clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"No finesse! You swim with the grace of a wounded walrus."

Percy lost his rhythm mid-stroke, floundering for a second before righting himself. “Okay, rude?”

Pompano sniffed. "A truth spoken plainly is still a truth."

Percy huffed, already regretting everything about this interaction.

But, unfortunately, something about the fish’s obnoxious tone, his smug little circling, his clear assumption that Percy was a lost cause—activated the worst part of Percy’s brain.

The part that was now very determined to prove him wrong.

He straightened his kicks, adjusted his posture, and tried again.

Pompano observed in silence, then—after a long, painful pause—gave the smallest, most reluctant nod.

"Marginally better."

Percy grinned. “That’s practically a compliment.”

Pompano’s eye twitched.

Yeah.

This was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

At one point in the day, Percy had snacked on algae one of his requesters had very politely brought him as thanks.

Chewy, salty, not the worst.

Not remotely filling, either.

It obviously wasn’t enough for a growing boy.

Yes, growing. Someone should tell Chrysaor, since he liked to bring up Percy’s height like it was a tragic personal loss. The man had at least a thousand years on him, but somehow, Percy was the one who was supposed to feel bad about not being done cooking yet.

Like, sorry for not achieving his final form yet. His bad, he will try sprouting overnight.

Also, after an entire day of free labor, enduring Sir Pompous’ endless commentary, he was done.

The moment he started thinking of drifting back toward his starting point—the currents shifted, picking him up like a polite cab service and carrying him along.

Percy made sure to shower them with appropriate thanks and praise. Then grinned, stretched his arms out lazily and enjoyed the ride. Five stars. Would ride again.

Back at the beach, Percy peeked out of the water, only his eyes breaking the surface.

Chrysaor was still napping, sprawled across the sand like some kind of ridiculously aesthetic shipwreck survivor, his golden mask catching the last light of the setting sun. Completely at peace.

Well. That wouldn’t do.

Percy sank back down, fingers flexing.

The last time he’d tried water manipulation, it had been clumsy, uncertain, barely controlled. But now? Now he was in the ocean. Now he knew it would listen.

He reached out, let the water curl around his fingertips—not forced, just guided. The waves responded eagerly, humming at the edges of his mind, waiting for his cue.

Percy grinned.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sent a wave rushing toward shore.

It wasn’t massive—just perfectly timed, perfectly aimed. A compact burst of vengeance.

It crashed over Chrysaor in a glorious slap of seawater.

Chrysaor shot up with a roar, sputtering. Dripping. Furious.

"GUPPY!!!!!"

Percy lost it.

Laughter tore through him, wild and uncontrollable, his whole body shaking with delight as he sank backward into the water, limbs useless with glee.

He barely had time to process his victory before—

The ocean lurched.

A pulse of water wrapped around him, tight and unyielding, like the sea itself had decided he’d had his fun.

"Oh—oh no—"

It dragged him forward, too fast, too strong, and before he could react—

WHAM.

The ocean spat him out onto the sand like a rejected offering.

"ACK—"

A shadow loomed over him.

Chrysaor.

Absolutely seething.

"You think you’re funny," he growled.

Percy spat out sand. “I know I’m funny.”

"We’ll see how funny you are in five minutes."

Percy had just enough time to register the threat before Chrysaor pounced.
He let out a yelp, scrambling to escape, but Chrysaor was faster, heavier, and significantly more motivated by vengeance.

Percy hit the sand with a thud.

And then—

Chrysaor started burying him alive.

“WAIT—I TAKE IT BACK—”

"Too late, Guppy."

Sand piled over his torso, his arms, his entire existence—Chrysaor worked fast, efficient, like he had experience in this exact brand of retaliation.

Percy struggled, laughed, failed to escape.

"This is a war crime!"

"This is justice."

Sand reached his shoulders.

"You’re abusing your power!"

"I am maximizing my resources."

"I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE—"

"Yeah, yeah. Say that when you’re not buried."

They stayed like that for far too long—Chrysaor perched victoriously on Percy’s sand-entombed body, arms crossed like a conqueror surveying his war prize, while Percy lay there helpless, wheeze-laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

His hysterics gradually collapsed into mad giggles, then hiccups.

Chrysaor didn’t move, completely content with his victory.

Then—

Grrrrrrr.

Percy’s stomach protested violently.

Chrysaor froze, his head snapping toward Percy like he’d just remembered a crucial fact of demigod biology.

Right. Human kids need food.

"...You should’ve said something," he muttered, standing up.

Percy tried to throw him a look, but it was difficult when he was covered in sand up to his neck.

With zero effort or warning, Chrysaor grabbed him by the arm and yanked him free.

Percy came popping out of the sand like a freshly dug-up potato, completely covered in fine grains from head to toe.

He barely had time to register his gritty fate before—

SPLASH.

Percy hit the ocean mid-hiccup.

Again.

"BLRGL—!"

Through the muffled rush of saltwater, Percy could just make out the sound of Chrysaor dusting off his hands.

Then—before Percy could even get his bearings—

The water shifted.

It grabbed him, dragged him up, and spat him back onto the shore, soaked but now entirely sand-free.

Before Percy could protest, another pulse of energy swept over him, and suddenly—

He was dry.

Percy blinked.

He ran a hand through his completely dry hair. Touched his completely dry clothes.

Chrysaor, looking deeply unbothered, dusted off his hands again.

“…Okay,” Percy admitted. “That’s actually super useful. You have to teach me that.”

Chrysaor grunted. “Try after your next shower.”

Percy filed that away as a top priority.

They started making their way back to the parking lot, the sand still warm under Percy’s feet as he skipped ahead, feeling lighter than he had in days.

“Anyway,” he said, grinning as he glanced at Chrysaor, “I think I have a stalker.”

Chrysaor raised an eyebrow.

“A yellow one.”

Chrysaor grunted, a vague sound of interest that said, I am listening, but also, I am not about to entertain whatever nonsense you’re about to say.

Which, of course, did not deter Percy in the slightest.

He launched into a full rant about Sir Pompous, detailing every single infuriating, insufferable, and utterly unnecessary comment that had been thrown his way that afternoon.

"He called me undignified. Undignified. Meanwhile, I watched him almost get eaten by a barracuda because he was too busy monologuing about decorum to move out of the way."

Chrysaor’s grunted again, this time with a little more amusement.

Percy kept going.

They reached the parking lot, the sand giving way to solid pavement, and Percy, still mid-rant, registered the looming figure beside the unmistakable golden Chrysler.

And his entire face lit up.

“Bubbles!”

Percy took off like a missile, sprinting full-speed and launched himself at the sailor with all the force of an overexcited seven year old.

Bubbles caught him effortlessly, barely even acknowledging the impact, and in one smooth motion, settled Percy on his hip like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Percy’s stomach grumbled violently again, but it didn’t even slow him down.

"When did you arrive? How did you get here? Why are you here? Did you swim? Did you sail? Did you teleport? Oh my gods, if you tell me you rode in on a dolphin that would be the coolest thing ever—"

Bubbles did not acknowledge the questions.

He did not even blink.

He simply reached into somewhere—some unknowable, sailor-dimension of snacks—and procured a perfectly wrapped rice ball.

And then, with zero hesitation, he shoved it straight into Percy’s mouth.

Percy froze mid-word, eyes wide.

Coconut rice. Juicy mango chunks.

The best snack on the ship.

He made a muffled, delighted sound, chewing immediately.

Bubbles nodded once, satisfied.

Percy was wholly absorbed by his snack, completely oblivious to the world around him.

The octopus cook? A culinary genius. A true artist. A master of flavors and textures.

The coconut rice was perfectly sticky, the mango chunks juicy and sweet, and the balance? Immaculate.

He chewed happily, half in a trance, mentally composing a glowing five-star review while Bubbles held him effortlessly on one hip like an oversized toddler.

Which, to be fair, was exactly what Percy was at the moment.

Meanwhile, Chrysaor pulled the suitcase full of cash out of the trunk and handed it to Bubbles.

"Put everything in my cabin," Chrysaor ordered.

Bubbles gave a sharp click-whistle—the dolphin-language equivalent of “Aye, Captain.” Then he turned to leave.

Which was when Percy—still chewing, still thinking about mangoes— realized something.

He was part of the "everything."

Oh.

Oh, absolutely not.

Urgency overpowered food appreciation in an instant.

Percy hastily swallowed the last bite, miraculously avoided choking to death, and immediately started squirming.

"Mmf—hey—no—Bubbles—"

Bubbles tightened his grip slightly, adjusting his hold like Percy was just another piece of cargo.

Percy fought harder.

“I am NOT bagage!”

A particularly determined wiggle finally did the trick—Bubbles’ hold loosened just enough for Percy to wriggle free and drop to the ground.

The second his feet hit the sand, he bolted.

Straight for Chrysaor.

Without hesitation, he threw his arms around him—or rather, latched onto his leg, because, unfairly, Percy’s head still didn’t even reach his brother’s waist.

He dug in with all his strength, fingers clamping like a barnacle.

"You are NOT going anywhere without me!"

Chrysaor looked down at Percy like he was gum stuck to his boot.

But, you know. Affectionately.

With a sigh, he reached down, trying to pry him off.

Percy held on tighter.

Chrysaor’s hand got closer to his face.

Percy bared his teeth.

Chrysaor paused.

Because Percy’s teeth? Very, very sharp.

Slowly, the hand retreated.

Chrysaor sighed, rubbing his temples. "Guppy, be reasonable. You’re staying on the ship. I’ll check out the party, and I’ll be back before you even have time to be a nuisance—"

Yeah. Like Percy was letting him have all the fun without him.

Absolutely not.

Percy brought out the big artillery.

The baby seal eyes.

He tilted his head, staring up at Chrysaor with pure betrayal.

And, for maximum impact—a well-timed reference to his mother.

"Mom entrusted you with my safety, and now you’re pawning me off on your underlings—no offense, Bubbles."

Bubbles clicked a grunt that vaguely translated to “none taken.”

Percy pressed on.

"What are you gonna say to her when we go back to Montauk?"

Chrysaor’s mask twitched. He was wavering.

That hit.

Chrysaor’s posture shifted, his confidence wobbling.

Percy could see the exact moment he considered his options.
Then—Chrysaor looked away, shoulders rolling back like he was regaining his footing.

Right. Time for the real trump card.

Percy tilted his head, all innocence.

"You do realize that the instant I end up on the ship, I’m jumping straight back into the ocean to follow you, right?"

Silence.

Chrysaor’s head snapped back to him.

Because they both knew.

They both knew.

The ocean was not going to stop him. The ocean was not going to snitch. The ocean, in fact, would actively help him.

"And then," Percy continued smoothly, "I will be all alone in Miami without anyone to protect me."

Chrysaor’s jaw tightened.

His fingers twitched.

And then, with a long, suffering sigh, he reached down and peeled Percy off his leg like a particularly stubborn barnacle.

"Fine."

Percy beamed.

Chrysaor grumbled something under his breath.

Percy didn’t care.

A win was a win.

Bubbles left alone, suitcase rolling behind him, looking ridiculously tiny compared to the sailor’s massive frame.

Then—

Chrysaor grabbed Percy, lifted him like a particularly chatty sack of cargo, and plopped him onto the trunk of the Chrysler.

Percy didn’t protest.

He knew how to quit while he was ahead.

Chrysaor started rummaging in his pocket.

Percy’s pocket.

He squinted. “That’s my pocket.”

Chrysaor ignored him.

With a flick of his fingers, he pulled out the drachma he’d used to track Percy back in New York—and promptly pocketed it back.

In his own pocket.

From which he then pulled another drachma and held it out to Percy.

His tone was serious when he spoke.

"I am not giving this to you," he said. "This is my drachma. I will get it back later. Not another drachma—this one in particular."

Percy stared at him, slightly offended.

“I’m not a thief,” he muttered, taking the coin.

Chrysaor sighed deeply, rubbing his forehead like this was exhausting for him personally.

"I can only track my gold, guppy."

Oh.

Oh.

This was a safety measure.

Percy flipped the drachma between his fingers, weighing it, before slipping it into his pocket.

Then, with his most conspiratorial look, he nudged Chrysaor with his elbow.

"This is your special drachma that I will give back to you."

Nudge. Nudge.

So made to be a spy.

Chrysaor stared at him.

Then shook his head.

And muttered something about why did he even bother.

They drove back into town, weaving through the city streets until they pulled up in front of a sleek, glass-covered skyscraper. At the entrance, guards in crisp suits stood watch, their earpieces blinking red as they sized up the car.

Chrysaor rolled down the window. "We’re here for Popposilenus."

One of the guards gave a curt nod. "Party’s on the rooftop penthouse. Underground parking is that way." He gestured toward the entrance below.

Chrysaor pulled forward, guiding the golden Chrysler smoothly down the ramp. He parked in a private corner space, then cut the engine.

Before Percy could even unbuckle his seatbelt, Chrysaor turned to him. "Wait in the car."

Percy’s head snapped up. "What? No! We agreed—"

"There’s no way I can show up with a child."

Percy scowled. “That didn’t stop you yesterday.”

"Yeah. Because yesterday was a filthy dump filled with people without morals."

Chrysaor gestured toward the escalators, where a group of well-dressed partygoers stepped out of a luxury sedan. Elegant suits. Gowns that shimmered in the low lighting. Wealth and influence rolled off them in waves.

"Do you think you’ll blend in?"

Percy followed his gaze.

…Yeah. Okay.

This was a whole different league from last night’s shady backroom bar.

He hated to admit it, but Chrysaor was right.

His shoulders slumped. “Fine.”

Chrysaor nodded. "And you’re not to come out of the car for any reason."

Percy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I got it."

"I’m serious." Chrysaor’s tone sharpened, and when Percy looked up, the golden mask tilted toward him in full intensity. "This car is safe. Everyone who’s anyone knows it’s mine. No one will dare touch it. But you do not get out. Understood?"

Percy hesitated, then sighed. "Understood."

"Promise."

Percy grumbled. “I promise.”

Chrysaor watched him for a moment longer, then seemed satisfied.

"It’s going to take a while."

Percy frowned. “How long?”

"Long."

Percy made a dramatic groaning noise, but before he could complain further, Chrysaor opened the back door and nudged him into the seat.

Then—before Percy could even protest—he dropped his coat over him.

The fabric was warm from body heat, heavy with the scent of salt and leather and something metallic.

"Here. You can nap."

Percy huffed but didn’t argue.

Chrysaor shut the door.

Percy watched him walk off, disappearing up the escalator.

With a long sigh, he leaned back against the seat.

Well. This sucked.

For a while, Percy entertained himself by watching the partygoers arrive, judging and rating their outfits like a one-man fashion panel.

Some looked like they’d walked straight off a magazine cover.

Others looked like they’d lost a fight with a designer and surrendered halfway through.

A dramatic fur coat? Bold choice in Miami.

Neon green suit? Absolutely unforgivable.

Gold-plated sandals? Respect.

But eventually, the trickle of arrivals stopped, and the parking garage went quiet.

Percy sighed.

He was bored.

But he’d solemnly sworn to stay put, and he was a man—well, boy—of his word.

So, he flopped back onto the back seat, burrowed deeper into Chrysaor’s coat, and got comfortable.

Might as well sleep—let time pass quicker.

Except he didn’t get to sleep.

Because one minute later, someone entered the car.

And it wasn’t Chrysaor.

Percy froze, barely breathing as the driver’s seat shifted under enormous weight.

So much for “no one will dare steal from Chrysaor.”

Because this guy? Clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.

Even worse—

The foolish, overconfident pirate had left the keys in the ignition.

Percy watched in horror as the thief started the car.

And just like that—

The Chrysler rolled smoothly out of the parking garage.

With Percy still hidden in the backseat.

Chapter Text

The car rumbled beneath him. Percy stayed perfectly still, curled under Chrysaor’s coat, forcing himself to breathe slow and quiet, even though his heart was trying to beat its way out of his ribs.

The thief hadn’t noticed him.

Not yet.

Percy tried to follow the route. Tried to track the turns, the stops, the shifting rhythm of the road beneath them. But he didn’t know Miami. Every street was just another unfamiliar stretch of asphalt, every turn another twist in a maze he had no map for.

And the more he peeked out, trying to catch glimpses of their surroundings, the riskier it felt.

All it would take was one wrong moment. One unlucky angle.

The thief looking up at the mirror at just the right time.

Percy swallowed hard and retreated back under the coat, pressing himself into the seat, curling smaller, quieter.

Tracking their destination was a lost cause.

For now, all he could do was wait.

And hope he’d still have options by the time they arrived.

Maybe an hour passed before the car slowed.

The road changed beneath them—a dip, a shift, smoother pavement, less noise.

His stomach twisted.

A metallic clank. A low whirr. Some kind of gate opening.

The car rolled forward again, just for a moment, before pulling to a full stop.

The driver’s door swung open.

Heavy footsteps hit the ground.

Percy didn’t breathe.

Through the muffling layer of the coat, he heard a deep, gravelly voice—so low it seemed to rattle the air itself.

"Job’s finished."

A pause.

Then another voice—oily, satisfied, unbearably smug.

"That will teach that fish-stench son of a Gorgon to humiliate me."

Percy’s breath caught.

Eurybatus.

Of course.

His fingers tightened in the fabric of the coat, his mind racing.

What did he remember?

The main yard—wide open, stacked with cargo containers, some big enough to hide in. But that was risky. He’d be trapped if they found him.

The water. His best bet. If he could make it to the docks, he could slip beneath the surface, disappear. He had no doubt the ocean would help him hide.

But how close were they to the shore?

He pictured what he’d seen last time—warehouses, cranes, cargo lifts—and tried to piece together the layout. Which way would be fastest? Which way would have the least guards?

"Check the car," Eurybatus continued, his voice thick with amusement. "Make sure he didn’t leave anything valuable behind."

Footsteps. A metallic click—the trunk.

Percy’s pulse pounded in his ears.

He had to get out.

Had to move.

But not yet.

"Then charge it onto the Epsilon Horizon."

Percy’s stomach dropped.

They weren’t just stealing the car. They were shipping it off.

Before he could fully process that horrifying fact—

The back door opened.

Light poured in.

Percy moved on instinct, heart hammering as he lunged for the other side of the seat—

Almost out—

But something caught him mid-motion.

Huge. Heavy. Paws almost as big as his head clamped around his arms, yanking him up like he weighed nothing.

Percy kicked, squirmed, twisted—but it was like fighting a mountain.

The thief hoisted him higher, and for the first time, Percy got a good look at the creature’s face.

Big.

Not just regular big. Absurdly, impossibly, nightmare-level big.

An enormous humanoid bear, covered in shag-carpet-thick brown fur, with claws instead of fingernails and a snout where a nose should be.

The bear-man grinned.

All its teeth? Pointed.

"Look what I found," he rumbled, turning toward Eurybatus.
Percy’s stomach twisted.

The warehouse lights glared down, but Percy barely noticed—his focus was locked on Eurybatus.

He stood a few yards away, resplendent in his own arrogance, lounging like this was some casual business transaction instead of a crime unfolding in real time.

When he finally turned, his gaze landed on Percy, and his smirk sharpened into growing delight.

"Oh, now this is rich!"

He threw his head back and cackled, loud and self-indulgent, like a villain in a cheap stage play.

"The fates truly smile on me, don’t they?" he mused, pacing a slow circle around them. "First, I take his car. Now, I take his little pet? Oh, this is even better than I imagined."

Percy bristled. Pet?

His skin crawled, but he bit his tongue, waiting for an opening.

"Tell me, Oreius," Eurybatus continued, voice dripping with mock curiosity. "Do you think he’s worth more whole, or should I sell him in pieces?"

Oreius sniffed once, thoughtful.

"Smells fresh," the bear rumbled. "Can I eat it?"

Percy stiffened.

Eurybatus let out a mocking gasp, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest.

"Eat him? Oreius, please. What a waste." He turned toward the bear with a smug tilt of his head. "Besides, nothing is free in this life. If you want to eat him, you’ll have to make an offer—just like everyone else."

Oreius let out a deep, guttural sigh, like a kid denied dessert.

"Shame," he muttered. "Bet he tastes good."

Percy had heard enough.

Without thinking, he lunged forward and sank his teeth into the nearest part of Oreius he could reach.

Fur.

Skin.

A deep, satisfying chomp.

Oreius roared, more in rage than pain, and flung Percy away like a ragdoll.

Percy hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath out of him, but he wasn’t about to stick around.

He scrambled up, lungs burning, feet already moving—

Shouts rang out behind him. Heavy footsteps thundered.

He didn’t look back.

His only goal was ahead—the docks. The water. Safety.

The warehouse was a maze of metal and cargo, the ground slick with oil and seawater. Shadows stretched long under the overhead lights, and Percy zigzagged through the narrow aisles between towering stacks of shipping containers.

A guard lunged—Percy ducked.

Another reached for him—Percy wasn’t there anymore.

He wasn’t fast. He wasn’t strong. But every time someone reached for him, he had already moved. Every time an opening appeared, he took it.

He wasn’t even thinking.

Just reacting.

There—a stack of wooden crates ahead.

Without hesitation, Percy jumped, scrambling up the side, using the rough edges as handholds.

Shouts rose below him.

"Get him!"

"He’s climbing—"

One of the guards lunged for his ankle.

Percy kicked free, hoisting himself onto the top of the crates. Five feet up. Ten. Fifteen.

He could see the warehouse layout from here—the towering stacks, the loading bay, the open docks beyond.

He was so close.

Below, the guards were circling, waiting for him to come down.

So he did.

Just not the way they expected.

Percy jumped.

His stomach dropped as he soared through the air, twisting his body mid-fall.

He hit the ground rolling, absorbing the impact, then—running again.

Behind him—

A loud CRACK.

Percy barely registered the falling movement, the shift in the air—

A crate, knocked loose from the upper scaffolding, came crashing down.

Right where a guard had been standing.

A yell, cut off mid-curse.

Percy didn’t look back.

He didn’t know how he had dodged in time, how he had chosen the exact right moment to move.

He just had.

And now—

The docks.

The air smelled of salt. The waves called to him.

Almost there.

Just a little farther.

His legs burned, his breath came in gasps, but he kept running.

Twenty feet.

Fifteen.

Ten.

Five—

Something slammed into him from behind.

Percy crashed onto the wooden planks, his chin hitting the dock hard. His arms were yanked back, ropes tightening around his wrists.

He lifted his head, dazed, panting.

The water was right there.

So close.

He reached for it.

Too far.

The guards dragged him back.

"Tch," Eurybatus sighed. "You demigods. Always so feisty. But you’ll learn, little rat. You’ll learn."

Percy thrashed, twisting against the bindings, but it was pointless.

A guard patted him down.

Fingers dug into his pockets, searching, then—

A pause.

A moment later, metal clinked against metal.

"Well, well," the guard muttered, pulling out something small and gold. "What’s this?"

Percy’s stomach dropped.

The drachma.

His tracking drachma.

No. No, no, no.

He lunged, but the guard pocketed it easily, grinning. "Not yours anymore, kid."

The conch shell tumbled out next.

The guard barely glanced at it before shoving it back into Percy’s pocket.

"Useless junk."

Percy’s mind raced, but before he could fully process how screwed he was, he was dragged forward and thrown at Eurybatus’s feet.

He crouched down, gripping Percy’s chin, forcing his head up.

"You’re mine now."

His hand whipped across Percy’s face in a sharp, stinging slap.

Percy’s head snapped to the side, but he refused to react.

Instead, he slowly turned back to Eurybatus and spat—right into his face.

For a moment, the entire dockyard went silent.

Then—Eurybatus’s face twisted in rage.

The second slap hit harder.

Percy bit back a hiss.

He spat again, this time grinning through bloodstained teeth.

"That the best you can do? No wonder Chrysaor wrecked you so easily."

Eurybatus’s expression darkened.

A guard shoved him down, and before Percy could react, a boot slammed into his ribs.

Pain exploded through him.

"You will learn to respect your master," the guard growled.

Another kick—sharp, deep, knocking the breath out of him.

Percy curled instinctively, trying to shield himself, but the next blow caught his temple.

His head snapped back.

The world tilted.

His body slumped.

Everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Five women. Watching him.

They sat huddled in the farthest corner of the cage, backs pressed against bronze bars, their shapes half-swallowed by shadow. Silk and gauze hung off them in ragged strips, whispering against their skin like the ghosts of something finer.

They were beautiful—but wrong, somehow. Like someone had pulled pieces from oceans, forests, and mountains, then tried stitching people together.

Percy stared.

They stared back.

Beautiful. But unsettling.

They weren’t looking at him like he was a person. More like a curiosity—something strange that had washed up on their shore.

Percy’s brain made a sad, wheezing sound and powered down.

“You’re—” He swallowed, throat raw. “Are you goddesses?”

The silence stretched, thin as a held breath.

Then—

“No,” the first woman answered, voice calm and deep as hidden currents. “No gods here.”

A sharper voice scoffed. “You think gods end up in cages?”

“Well,” another voice drawled lightly, “technically—yes?”

“Shut up, Glikis.”

“I’m just saying.”

“No,” the woman closest to Percy cut in gently, silencing them both. Her voice was quiet, cautious, like approaching footsteps. “We’re nymphs.”

Percy blinked.

“Oh.”

He knew what nymphs were—sort of. Nature spirits. Trees, rivers, waterfalls…all that stuff. But none of that explained why they were here, why he was here, or why any of them were in a cage.

His throat felt like sandpaper. He swallowed again, wincing at the scrape of it.

He struggled upright, shifting awkwardly to face them as best he could. He couldn’t exactly shake hands or wave—not with the ropes burning into his wrists—but his mom had taught him manners, and manners were important, especially when trapped in a cage with strange women who looked half-made of shadows and dreams.

“I’m Percy,” he said quietly. “Percy Jackson.”

The women glanced at each other in silence, something unspoken passing between them. Then, slowly, one of them leaned forward, her movements careful, deliberate, as if conserving strength.

Her skin was deep and dark, holding a faint shimmer in the moonlight that shifted as she moved. Her dark hair hung heavily around her face, wet and tangled, clinging to her skin like she'd just crawled from the sea.

Percy noticed her eyes first: deep and blue, steady despite their exhaustion.

“Kyma,” she said, voice gentle, with a faint rolling accent that felt oddly comforting. She hesitated a moment, then offered softly, “We mean you no harm, Percy.”

Another leaned out from behind her, a flicker of wry humor surviving even in the shadowed weariness of her face. Her skin looked rough, pale like old bark, and her hair fell down her back in a curtain of pale violet blossoms. She tilted her head, cracked lips curving faintly.

“Glikis,”she said with a brittle sort of brightness. Her voice had the ghost of mischief, but tiredness softened the edges. She gave a weak attempt at a teasing smile, lavender petals drifting loose from her tangled hair as she moved. “Welcome to the worst cruise of your life.”

The words hung, thin and wobbly, before they drowned in the endless hush of the night.

No one laughed.

Her smile twitched. Faltered. The silence stretched too long. Then she forced a laugh—too bright, too thin, like it had been pried from somewhere deep and unwilling.

“Tough crowd.” She nudged Percy—well, shifted toward him, since they were all crammed together in this tiny cage.

Percy tried to smile back. His face didn't quite cooperate, but he gave her the closest thing he could manage.

“Hortensia,” said another quietly, from where she sat pressed close against the bars. Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper, as if it took effort even to speak. She didn’t quite meet Percy’s eyes, green curls obscuring her face. Her skin was a layer of petals, blue fading into periwinkle, bruised here and there, delicate beauty faded beneath exhaustion. “I wish we could have met somewhere kinder.”

Next to her, a woman shifted suddenly, leaning forward with restless intensity, wild hair threaded with brittle leaves and dead blossoms. Even exhausted, she burned brighter than the rest, eyes feverish, flickering strangely between garnet and gold. Her cracked, wine-dark lips twitched upward as if sharing a secret with herself.

“Bakkhe,” she breathed, rolling the name over her tongue like she was savoring the taste of it. She stared too intently, gaze sharp and unsettling. "The waves remember what the shore buries. But when the water turns to wine, will it be sacrifice or feast?"

Percy stared.

Something about her made his skin crawl—but not in a run away way. More like don’t blink, don’t breathe, don’t draw her attention twice.

Fantastic.

He was tied up in a cage, on a ship going gods-knew-where, surrounded by nymphs who looked like they’d stepped out of a cursed painting—

And now one of them was throwing riddles at him with the casual air of someone offering snacks.

Glikis groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. “Bakkhe, please. One normal sentence. Just once.”

Bakkhe didn’t answer.

Or maybe that was her answer.

She just blinked, slow and distant, pupils swallowing the light.

Finally, from the deepest shadows, the last woman stirred. Heavy, slow, deliberate, her body seemed carved from polished stone, cracks tracing faint lines over her skin before sealing again in moments. Dark hair hung heavily down her shoulders, threaded with veins of iron and gold. When her eyes met Percy’s, they gleamed like gemstones hidden deep within the earth.

“Oreithyia,” she said simply, voice low and measured, each word the slow shift of stone. She regarded Percy quietly for a moment longer, then inclined her head slightly.

Percy blinked slowly, overwhelmed by them all—beautiful yet unsettling, worn down yet somehow still powerful. He didn’t know what he’d expected of nymphs, but not this—not this quiet strength tangled with eerie magic, caged like animals alongside him.

“Oh,” he said softly, struggling for words that wouldn’t come. “Nice... nice to meet you.”

The wind stirred across the deck, rattling the bars like a warning. Outside the cage, the lantern swayed, its flickering glow throwing jagged, broken shadows over their faces. Percy cleared his throat.

“So, um…” he began carefully, voice still scratchy, still small. “Were you all captured by Eurybatus too?”

Kyma’s eyes sharpened, cautious but thoughtful. “Eurybatus?” she repeated slowly. “We know no name. Only faces. We only saw the one who gave the order briefly.”

“What did he look like?” Percy pressed.

Kyma hesitated, but it was Hortensia who spoke first, softly, as if remembering hurt. “He has sharp eyes. Cold. A smile that doesn’t reach them. Rings on his fingers—”

“—too many,” Glikis muttered bitterly. “Like someone dipped his hands in a treasure chest.”

Percy’s stomach twisted. He recognized that description, alright. “Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s him.”

A heavy silence settled over them, broken only by the distant rumble of the engines and the creak of the cage.

Percy forced himself to breathe slowly. “Do you…do you know where he’s taking us? Or what he wants?”

The nymphs exchanged uneasy glances, none eager to speak. Kyma finally sighed, eyes gentle with reluctant pity.

“We don’t know exactly,” she said carefully. “Only that we are being moved. Taken elsewhere, to be…” She hesitated, searching for words.

“Traded,” Oreithyia finished for her, voice slow and heavy as stone. “To someone else.”

Percy blinked, confused. “Traded? What does that mean?”

Silence again, thicker this time, the nymphs unwilling to answer. Percy’s heartbeat quickened, nerves twisting tighter, fear creeping slowly back at the edges of his mind.

Finally, Glikis spoke, voice brittle with forced bluntness. “It means he’s going to sell us, Percy. Like livestock. To whoever pays him enough.”

Percy’s breath stilled completely, chest frozen in sudden dread. Sold? Like animals?

He’d had a bad feeling about the guy the first time he saw him. Turned out, he’d been right. And then some.

Chapter Text

Percy couldn’t stop crying. The harder he tried, the faster they spilled—beautiful, hateful pearls that made him feel pathetic and small.

A gentle hand brushed his cheek, interrupting their fall.

Hortensia gathered a single pearl on her fingertip, studying it with quiet awe. Then, carefully, almost reverently, she tucked it away, curling it protectively in her palm like something precious.
Percy stared up at her, vision blurry, startled into stillness.

“Oh, Percy,” she whispered, voice soft as velvet petals. “Come here.”

She gathered him into her arms with aching gentleness, pulling him close enough that he felt her shiver beneath the softness of her skin. Her heart thudded unevenly against his ear, and something in the way she held him felt like a silent apology—for what, he wasn’t sure.

“It’ll be alright,” she whispered unsteadily.

Percy closed his eyes, leaning into her, desperately believing—just for a second—that maybe she was right.

Then arms encircled him from all sides, warmer, tighter. Bakkhe pressed close, wild curls trembling, murmuring something unintelligible that felt more frantic prayer than reassurance. Kyma rested her chin gently atop his head, her breathing unsteady, rhythmic as waves after a storm. Oreithyia didn’t speak at all; she just pressed closer, her heavy, stone-solid form quivering faintly against his shoulder.

Glikis was the last to join. She squeezed herself into the dwindling space beside Hortensia, sniffling audibly before letting out a soft, quaking sigh.

Percy felt himself settling. His breathing slowed, panic fading beneath the warmth of the embrace. Just as his heartbeat finally steadied—

Glikis let out a sharp intake, trembling and ragged. Like someone trying to hold a crumbling dam together with nothing but their bare hands.

Percy jerked in surprise, blinking away the last of his tears.

“Um—” he began, trying to twist toward her, but the arms around him tightened suddenly, pressing closer, squeezing until he could barely breathe. Like vines wrapping themselves around a tree during a storm, desperate for stability.

He hesitated, body going tense.

That...didn't feel comforting.

A whisper, horrified, broke the silence.

“Oh, gods.”

Percy’s stomach twisted violently.

Oh gods?

Oh gods was never good.

It was already a bad sign when he said it. Hearing it again, stuck in a metal box on a floating warehouse? Yeah, that was the universe doubling down.

Then, before he could fully process—

A strangled whimper escaped Glikis’ throat, sharp as shattering porcelain, followed by a full-bodied sob so violent it shook the cage floor. Her hair spilled forward like a waterfall of blossoms, tangling across Oreithyia's shoulder as she collapsed, howling dramatically.

Percy's eyes widened in disbelief.

What the heck—

Kyma followed immediately, as if Glikis's tears had shattered whatever thin resistance she'd been desperately clinging to. Her skin rippled softly, like a pool struck by rain, as tears poured silently down her cheeks—silently at first, then gathering momentum until she was shuddering uncontrollably.

Oh no.

Percy stiffened, unease blooming in his chest, his earlier panic completely forgotten—and replaced by a new, equally awful kind: secondhand embarrassment so strong he almost wished the panic would come back.

Hortensia let out a soft, despairing sound next to his ear, a quiet wounded moan like a flower plucked mercilessly from its roots. Her shoulders shook, trembling violently, her gentle hold turning suddenly desperate and tight.

Percy squirmed, feeling uncomfortably like a teddy bear being clutched by an upset toddler.

This was very much not good.

They were going down like dominoes.

One sob.

Two sobs.

More sobs.

A tsunami of devastation.

A full-scale emotional apocalypse.

And he was ground zero.

"Uh," he tried helplessly, voice muffled against Hortensia’s hair. "Hey—are you okay?"

That was a stupid question. Obviously they weren't okay.

None of them answered. Instead, they just sobbed harder.

Oreithyia—stone-skinned, immovable Oreithyia—succumbed too, breaking apart with a slow-building groan that rumbled through Percy’s bones. Tears slid down her stone cheeks, leaving wet trails shimmering over cracks in her skin.

The group hug had turned into a collective breakdown, and Percy was stuck at the center like a ship caught in a storm—no control, no escape, just waiting to be swallowed whole.

Percy stared blankly ahead, mind desperately scrambling for an explanation.

What was happening?

Why was this happening?

He was pretty sure he was supposed to be the one crying here. They’d been comforting him. Hadn’t they?

The sound of rustling fabric drew his attention sharply upward.

Bakkhe, who had been sitting back with quiet, unsettling amusement, suddenly rose to her knees, flinging an arm dramatically skyward as if appealing to invisible, uncaring gods.

"It begins," she declared mournfully, voice thick with exaggerated grief.

Percy's stomach twisted further.

Oh no, oh no—

She threw back her head theatrically, golden eyes glittering with tears, hair spilling wildly around her face as she proclaimed with terrible enthusiasm, "A plague of sorrow is upon us!"

And just like that, she collapsed forward, throwing herself onto Percy like a drowning sailor clutching at driftwood. Her nails dug desperately into his shoulder, and she buried her face into his shirt with loud, open-mouthed wails that rang off the bronze cage bars.

Percy sat frozen, staring blankly ahead, too stunned to move or breathe or think clearly.

He had been crying.

He had needed comfort.

But now the comforting had somehow become an emotional seism, and Percy—poor, trapped Percy—was stuck at the epicenter.

He blinked rapidly, tears forgotten entirely, his own emotions evaporating so fast it felt like whiplash. Now he was just empty, awkwardly sitting in the middle of an overdramatic, collective meltdown that seemed to be spiraling further by the second.

This wasn’t comfort.

They were clinging to him—terrified, overwhelmed, every bit as lost and panicked as he’d felt moments earlier.

Bakkhe’s voice, dramatic and tragic, rose clearly from Percy’s damp shirt.

“Oh, to be adrift in sorrow’s ocean!”

Percy, unable to turn his head fully, glanced down at the mess of wild hair plastered to his shoulder.

Bakkhe’s eyes lifted, shining and earnest, meeting his with unsettling solemnity. She patted his cheek gently, leaving a wet smear across his skin.

“We are all lost children, tossed by tides of grief and despair.”

Her nails, stained deep purple, curled into his sleeve as she howled into his shoulder, wailing like a wronged spirit in a legend.

Percy’s entire body locked up like a rabbit under a hawk’s shadow.

Maybe if he held still enough, she’d let go.

Preferably before his shoulder became permanently soggy.

Somehow, through the utter wreckage of the moment, Glikis still managed to sound annoyed. She choked out, “You are so unnecessarily cryptic.”

Bakkhe gasped—deep, wounded, offended on a spiritual level. She tore her tear-streaked face from Percy’s shoulder, eyes wide, shining with righteous betrayal.

"I contain multitudes!"

Percy contained the overwhelming urge to scream.

Then Bakkhe tilted her head thoughtfully, eyes distant, and murmured softly to herself, “Perhaps we should compose a requiem.”

“No,” Oreithyia said sharply, through her sobs, her voice firm and full of exhausted authority. “No requiems.”

Percy had never appreciated anyone more than Oreithyia at that exact moment.

Bakkhe sighed dramatically, sagging theatrically against Percy again. “Then we shall mourn in silence.”

Percy took that as his cue.

Slowly, he tried to shift away from the overemotional huddle of despair. He tested his bonds again, subtly at first, hoping he might quietly wiggle free without drawing any more attention—

“Oh!” Bakkhe exclaimed suddenly, startling him into stillness. Her eyes were wide, intense, shining again with overblown sincerity. “Percy, have you words to share in our hour of sorrow? Will you not unburden your heart?”

Percy froze completely, eyes wide.

Absolutely not.

Desperately, he jerked back—only to smack painfully against the cage bars behind him, ropes digging mercilessly into his wrists.

He exhaled sharply in defeat, closing his eyes.

Great.

Just great.

He slumped miserably against the bars, resignation washing over him as he stared blankly ahead.

He was never crying in public again.

Ever.

His body felt wrung out from everything—crying, panicking, existing.

The others weren’t much better. The cage was now just… damp.

The air itself felt thick with salt, exhaustion, and the lingering humiliation of experiencing emotions in front of other people.

The silence stretched—deep, uncomfortable, like the world itself had taken a breath and was waiting to exhale.

Bakkhe, still draped over him like a tragic poet awaiting death, sighed. "Ah. There is a clarity after grief. A peace."

Percy, barely lifting his head, voice utterly flat, muttered, “The only thing I feel is regret.”

Before anyone could wallow another second, Oreithyia’s whole body went rigid—stone stilling into statue. Then, in a low murmur that somehow managed to shake the air around them, she said:

“…Someone’s coming.”

The effect was instant.

All sobs vanished like they’d been vacuumed out of the cage. Bakkhe’s breath caught mid-theatrical sigh. Kyma pulled back. Glikis straightened so fast her hair flung water droplets across the bars. Panic rippled through the huddle like a current—wide eyes darting between each other, silent, straining to listen.

Percy tensed too, heart kicking up again. Footsteps? Voices? He held his breath, listening—but beneath the deafening hum of the motors, all he could focus on was the water, crashing and churning against the hull in smug, relentless surges. Close enough to hear. Too far to help.

Hortensia’s gaze dropped to her hand—the single pearl she’d saved. Her fingers curled tighter around it before her eyes flicked to the floor.

The rest of them followed her gaze.

Half a dozen or more still glittered across the metal cage floor, scattered like spilled treasure.

Hortensia looked at Percy, then at the pearls, then back again—expression torn between fear and urgency.

Across from her, Kyma caught the glance. Something passed between them without a word.

They moved at the same time.

Kyma’s fingers swept up three pearls in a single pass. Hortensia knelt, clutching hers and snatching up another. The others joined in—Glikis scooping them into her long sleeves, Oreithyia using the flat of her palm like a trowel to sweep the last few together.

Even Bakkhe, still draped over him like a tragic poet awaiting death, stirred.

Bakkhe wrung one free from where it had stuck to Percy’s shirt and blinked at it with a dreamy sort of detachment. She held it delicately between her fingers, turning it slowly, as if inspecting a gem pulled from the wreckage of some ancient, drowned temple.

Then—with the absolute serenity of someone who had never once made a good decision in her life—

She popped it into her mouth.

Percy choked. “What—”

Glikis yelped, horrified. “Bakkhe, NO—”

Oreithyia moved like lightning. One moment still, the next—a blur of stone and purpose. Her hand shot out and clamped around Bakkhe’s jaw with terrifying precision.

Bakkhe let out a muffled squeak, eyes going wide as Oreithyia squeezed, unmoved by the dramatics. Her voice dropped like a landslide.

“Spit. It. Out.”

There was a tense pause. A glistening moment of protest.

Then, with the weary resignation of a cat giving up a mouse, Bakkhe tilted her head back—and spat the pearl into Oreithyia’s outstretched palm.

It landed with a slick plop.

Oreithyia stared down at it. Closed her eyes like she was summoning every ounce of patience left in her soul.

Then, in one fluid, exasperated motion, she wiped the wet, saliva-coated pearl on Bakkhe’s sleeve.

Bakkhe huffed. “You don’t know what it tastes like.”

Oreithyia’s face was stone. “Do you?”

Bakkhe lifted her chin with dramatic defiance. “Regret.”

Glikis groaned and dropped her face into her hands. Hortensia let out a breath that hitched halfway between a sob and a helpless laugh.

The sounds of boots reached Percy. Getting closer.

Every trace of emotion vanished like someone had slammed a door shut. The nymphs regrouped around him fast.

“Here,” Kyma whispered, grabbing his collar and pulling it open just enough to drop two pearls inside. “Hide them.”

Hortensia added hers next, then Glikis. Bakkhe, with a surprisingly serious expression, tucked hers into his pant pocket and patted it twice. Oreithyia folded one of his hands around the final pearl like it was a sacred charge.

“Don’t drop them,” Glikis whispered sharply. “Don’t show them.”
“Don’t let anyone see,” Kyma added, voice low and firm.

Percy blinked, still trying to catch up. “Why? What’s—?”

“Shh,” Hortensia hushed him, already sitting back, brushing his hair from his face like nothing had happened.

Kyma pressed a hand gently to his shoulder, anchoring him with one steady look. Her voice dropped to a murmur, just for him. “No one can know what you are.”

And just like that, the moment shattered.

They shifted again—bodies rearranging themselves, expressions flattened into something passive, resigned, broken. A cage full of defeated prisoners. Nothing more.

CLANG.

The cage shuddered, metal ringing like a struck bell.

Percy flinched.

The nymphs recoiled—shoulders curling, eyes down, breath held.

The flickering light caught on something grotesque.

A figure stood just beyond the bars, broad-shouldered and heavy with muscle, his stance a lazy sprawl of danger. He didn’t need to posture. He knew exactly where he stood on the food chain—and it wasn’t anywhere near the bottom.

His face—if that’s what it was—looked like it had been sketched too many times and never erased. Features overlapped, slipped slightly out of place when Percy tried to focus, like the flesh itself hadn’t quite decided what to settle on.

He exhaled.

The air shifted—hot, thick, suffocating. It stank of scorched metal and something worse. Something wet and rotten beneath the burn.

Percy’s skin crawled. His throat closed.

But under the fear, something else sparked—hotter, tighter, snapping like a stretched wire.

It wasn’t panic.

It was rage.

A breath hitched in his chest, and he felt his lip curl, teeth bared before he even knew he was doing it.

No.

No way.

He wasn’t cowering. Not for this.

His jaw locked. His shoulders tensed. His whole body wound tight, a snarl rising up—

Kyma’s hand clamped over his mouth.

Percy jerked in surprise, a muffled noise escaping against her palm.

She didn’t look at him. Her hand was gentle. But firm.

A warning. A plea. A command.

Don’t.

"You lot are loud," the thing rumbled.

His voice was a furnace dragged over gravel—dry and rasping and far too close.

"Shut it. Or I’ll call the captain."

Glikis flinched like she’d been slapped. Her shoulders curled, spine folding, limbs drawing inward until she looked like a breathless wisp of herself.

Hortensia’s petals quivered at the edges. The pale blue curled in, drained and wilting like they were trying to disappear.

Percy sucked in a breath through his nose, ropes biting into his wrists as his body shouted fight and move and run—and he couldn’t do any of it.

He hated this.

Hated being tied.

Hated being small.

He pulled anyway—useless, silent, stupid. He would’ve launched himself at the bars if he had even an inch of freedom. Would’ve ripped that thing’s face off—if it had one.

Kyma’s hand pressed harder.

Still gentle.

Still unyielding.

Still: Please.

Percy went still.

The thing on the other side of the bars tilted its head.

Watching.

Grinning.

Its lips peeled back—too wide, too slow—revealing rows of jagged, uneven teeth, like broken glass stuffed into gums. They shimmered like cracked obsidian, too sharp, too many, too wrong.

“Good,” it rasped.

It raised something in its hand—sword, club, jagged slab of metal, whatever it was—and tapped it once against the bars.

A lazy clink that echoed like a warning.

“Try not to forget it.”

Then it turned and walked away—slow and dragging, like it wanted them to watch him go.

The heat stayed behind.

So did the stench.

And the silence that followed was suffocating.

Kyma didn’t let go.

Her hand stayed where it was, covering Percy’s mouth.

One breath.

Two.

Then she pulled back.

Her fingers trembled.

Percy exhaled shakily, the air scraping through his throat like it didn’t want to leave. His jaw throbbed from clenching. His wrists burned where the ropes had dug in. His whole body was buzzing, raw and strung out and aching to move.

The nymphs shifted—but it wasn’t peaceful.

It was a brittle exhale, cold and thin and necessary.

Hortensia slumped against the bars, as if her bones had given out. Glikis curled her knees up tight, arms looped around them, breathing soft and ragged. Even Bakkhe, usually the eye of her own storm, was still now—hair hiding her face, body folded in on itself.

Kyma leaned close again, her hair brushing his shoulder, still dripping seawater onto his shirt.

“Sleep,” she murmured, voice nearly lost in the engine’s hum.

Percy’s hands flexed behind his back, wrists screaming from earlier. The ropes were too tight. His whole body throbbed. His lungs were sore from holding in everything. His head ached from too much.

He swallowed. Licked dry lips.

“Can you—” His voice cracked. He tried again. “Can you untie me? Please?”

Kyma’s dark eyes flickered toward him, gentle and sad. For a breathless second, she hesitated, fingers twitching uncertainly near the ropes binding him. But instead of answering, she glanced silently toward Hortensia.

Hortensia’s pale petals drooped slightly, expression flickering between unease and apology. She edged closer, whispering, “They’ll notice.”

Percy stiffened, dread tightening in his chest.

“Maybe not,” Glikis murmured hopefully, her violet eyes large and pleading. “If we're careful—”

“Untie him,” Bakkhe said suddenly, “and we may as well giftwrap our throats.”

The others glanced at her. She hadn’t moved much, still draped in theatrical despair, but her voice was flat and certain—like she was stating the weather.

“I vote we chew through the ropes and perish as legends,” she added, like a martyr in a stage play who just remembered her final line.

Percy perked up.

“Wait, could that actually work?” he asked, genuine curiosity creeping in.

“No one is chewing anything,” Kyma said firmly, not even looking at him.

“I mean, I have sharp teeth—”

“Percy.”

He slumped again with a muttered, “Okay, okay.”

The moment fizzled out, leaving behind nothing but the buzz of the ship’s engines and the quiet scrape of their breaths.

No one laughed. Not really. The absurdity had passed, and the silence that followed felt even heavier in its wake.

Percy stared down at his knees, ropes digging into his skin. The joke had bought him nothing—no help, no relief, not even the dignity of being taken seriously. Just another reminder he was small and tied up and powerless.

He blinked hard, chest tight. His fingers flexed behind him, useless.

Oreithyia’s voice cut through the quiet like a slow rumble underground. “If they see him loose, it won’t matter who did it. We’ll all pay.”

“I’ll hide you did it,” he whispered sharply, hating the tremor in his voice. “I promise, just—”

Percy’s throat went dry, the humiliation of begging burning his cheeks. His heart thudded faster, anger simmering alongside helplessness.

“Percy...” Kyma began, voice strained, caught between apology and caution.

Her voice cracked slightly, betraying genuine fear beneath the calm. Percy’s anger flickered, momentarily dimmed by guilt.

He swallowed, feeling smaller and more humiliated with every passing second. His voice trembled again despite his effort to hold it steady. “I won’t let them see. I—I can hide it, please, please, just untie me.”

Hortensia turned away slightly, eyes shimmering. Her whispered words trembled with regret. “It’s too dangerous, Percy.”

Percy blinked hard, teeth digging into his lip to keep from crying. He hated how childish he felt—seven years old, tied up, powerless, and desperately wanting to scream at them. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

But the pearls hidden in his shirt pocket weighed heavier now, a silent reminder of how much worse things could become if anyone discovered them. Anger battled fear until tears prickled sharply behind his eyes.

Kyma saw it—the way his breath hitched, the trembling of his shoulders. Without another word, she shifted closer, folding Percy gently into her embrace. Her arms wrapped around him, warm and soft, her fingertips brushing soothing circles on his back. Her voice was barely audible, a soft murmur that vibrated gently against his cheek.

“It’ll be alright,” she whispered. Her words were an impossible promise, gentle and aching, threaded with a lie Percy desperately needed. He clung to it, burying his face against her shoulder, letting himself believe—just for now—that she was right.

His breathing slowed gradually, exhaustion pulling him deeper as Kyma’s gentle rhythm calmed his shaking body. His frustration and anger faded into a dull ache, replaced by heavy weariness. Held securely, gently deceived into safety, Percy’s eyes finally drifted closed, not because he believed it would truly be okay, but because, in that fragile moment, he was too tired not to.

Chapter Text

Percy woke with the sun in his eyes and the deeply unpleasant sensation of being alive but not rested. His entire body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry in a damp towel heap—sore, stiff, and starving.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Just lay there with his face turned toward the bars, blinking blearily as the early light speared straight through his skull like it had a personal grudge.

Everything was too bright.

Everything hurt.

He groaned, squinting, and managed to shift just enough to roll onto his back—which was how he found out that literally all five nymphs were staring directly at him.

Five pairs of eyes. Five expressions ranging from curiosity to abject horror.

He blinked.

They didn’t move.

Kyma knelt closest, expression unreadable but tense, her abyssal eyes fixed on him like she was watching the tide decide whether to take or spare a drowning swimmer.

Hortensia was halfway between breathless and horrified, clutching her knees and holding very, very still.

Glikis looked one dropped jaw away from bursting into tears.

Bakkhe was hovering ominously with wide, unblinking eyes like she was either about to cry or recite an omen.

Oreithyia hadn’t moved at all—but the way her stone shoulders were set made Percy feel like a museum exhibit that had just come alarmingly to life.

“…Hi?” he rasped.

They exhaled all at once—five soft releases of breath like the breaking of a spell.

“Thank the gods,” Hortensia whispered, voice cracking.

"You’re awake," Glikis blurted.

“Yeah...” Percy said, blinking blearily at her. “Did something happen?”

Glikis exhaled like a woman spared from tragedy, clutching her chest. “We thought you might’ve perished.”

Percy frowned. “Perished? I just—”

“You didn’t stir,” Kyma said simply. “Not for hours. We watched the sun rise over your still little body.”

“That’s generally what sleeping looks like,” Percy muttered. “You know, lying still. Breathing. Occasionally drooling.”

Bakkhe leaned in with the slightly-too-wide look she got when she was trying to be gentle and accidentally terrified everyone instead. “You hadn’t eaten.”

Percy blinked again. “I mean… yeah? Not since yesterday.”

A ripple of horror passed through them. Actual horror. As if he’d casually mentioned removing a limb or swallowing poison.

“Don’t you need food?” Oreithyia repeated slowly, as if trying to make the concept make sense.

Percy blinked harder. “I’ll be fine,” he muttered. “I can go without.”

The nymphs exchanged uneasy glances.

Glikis bit her lip, looking genuinely troubled. Like he’d just told them he could survive without lungs.

“But you’re mortal.”

“Yeah, and?”

Hortensia’s frown deepened. Her fingers twitching slightly like she wanted to reach out and check for signs of decay.

"Don’t humans die if they don’t eat for a day?" she asked, slow and cautious, like she was repeating something she’d overheard once and wasn’t entirely convinced of. “You could wither.”

“Wither? I’m not a flower,” Percy said, confused. “I don’t instantly perish if I miss beakfast.”

Kyma leaned in, serious, intent. “How long can you survive without food?”

Percy squinted at her. “Uh. A while?”

Kyma clearly did not find that reassuring. “A while is not forever.”

“Children,” Glikis whispered, eyes wide. “They’re so fragile.”

“I’m not that fragile.”

“You’re so small,” Hortensia said softly, like it was a tragedy. “How are you still breathing?”

Percy opened his mouth. Closed it. He was too tired to argue properly.

“…I mean, yeah. I could eat,” he admitted. “But like—it can wait. Not like there’s a buffet in here.”

That clearly didn’t help.

They looked even more concerned.

Bakkhe made a soft, horrified noise—like she’d just watched him offer himself to starvation and was preparing to mourn accordingly.

Percy groaned. “No. Nope. Don’t—don’t start crying again. I literally just woke up.”

The nymphs didn’t cry.

But they did huddle closer like he’d just confessed he was dying and was too noble to admit it.

“I’m fine,” Percy repeated, with the firm confidence of someone who had just considered chewing through his ropes twelve hours ago. “I’ve gone longer without food. Once I didn’t eat for a whole—uh—long time. You’d be shocked.”

Hortensia looked skeptical. “But you’re swaying.”

“I’m sitting.”

“You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

“You look like you’ve been drained of life.”

“That’s just my face!”

“Are you sure you’re not dying?” Bakkhe asked, eyes wide with twisted wonder. “Just a little? Not enough to be serious—just… slightly decaying?”

“I am not even slightly decaying!”

Bakkhe made a soft, thoughtful noise. “Shame.”

Before Percy could start screaming into the floor, a sound cut through the air—soft, scraping stone.

Oreithyia moved.

Her head turned slowly toward the bridge. The muscles beneath her stone skin shifted like tectonic plates bracing for an earthquake. Her voice, when it came, was lower than before—rough and hollow, like wind through caverns.

“…He’s coming.”

The words were simple.

But they dropped like lead.

Every nymph froze. Breath caught. Faces paled.

Not fear.

Terror.

Glikis pressed her back flat to the bars, eyes wide and glassy. Kyma’s body tensed, shoulders snapping tight, like her own ribs were trying to shield Percy by reflex. Hortensia curled tighter around her knees. Bakkhe stopped smiling.

Even Percy felt it—like the air had changed. The warmth from the sun seemed to vanish, replaced by something colder, heavier.

“Who?” he whispered, heart suddenly pounding.

No one answered.

They just looked toward the bridge.

Percy couldn’t see much from his position on the floor. He strained his ears, heart pounding, waiting for something—footsteps, voices, anything.

Silence.

Then—

A voice.

Smooth. Even. Deceptively calm.

“Well,” it drawled, “look at my little treasures.”

It oozed into the space like oil across water—thick, slow, impossible to clean.

Percy shuddered. He felt the dread ripple through the cage. In the way Glikis flinched beside him. In how Kyma’s foot subtly moved against him, anchoring him without a word.

The man stepped into view like he owned the light.

His uniform—if it was ever one—hung wrong. The fabric was stiff with salt and sweat, the buttons mismatched, like he’d stolen it off someone and never quite figured out how to wear it right. A patchwork of authority that only worked if you didn’t look too closely.

“Such a sorry sight,” the man sighed, tone syrupy. “But I suppose that’s what happens when you put delicate things in cages.”

He trailed his fingers along the bars as he passed, dragging them with obscene gentleness. The metal chimed with each tap—soft, precise, like a dinner bell being rung one note at a time. His gaze skimmed lazily over the group. Lingered too long on each nymph.

Sallow skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, sunken eyes holding that awful kind of patience—the kind that waits for something to break, just so it can enjoy the sound. When he smiled, it was too wide—some teeth yellowed, one missing, all wrong.

He paused in front of Glikis.

She curled in without meaning to, like something delicate recoiling from heat.

“Still a shy little thing, aren’t you?”

He smiled wider.

“You’re always so quiet,” he murmured, almost sweetly. “But I know how nice you sound when you scream.”

The words landed like rot in the air.

Percy’s stomach turned.

He didn’t understand the full shape of the threat—but some things didn’t need to be explained to be understood. You could hear it in the tone. Feel it in your bones.

The silence swelled, pressing against the bars like it was waiting to burst. A space bloated with something unspoken. Something rotting just beneath the surface.

He’d heard that tone before. In bad places. In bad men.

Horror settled in Percy’s gut—not sharp panic, but the slow, sickening kind. Like stepping forward and realizing too late the floor was gone beneath your feet.

The man let the silence stretch, basking in it, then moved on.

To Hortensia.

His mouth twitched. Tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. A hum followed—soft, contemplative. Like someone weighing livestock, trying to decide if it was worth riding or breaking.

There was no surrender in Hortensia. Just that quiet, defiant stillness that came from surviving worse.

“You’ve still got some fight in you, don’t you?” he murmured. The words were almost admiring. Smooth. Wrong. “That always makes things more fun.”

Hortensia gave him nothing.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t shrink.

The petals along her arms curled tighter, but she stayed upright, untouched by his gaze. Or at least, unwilling to let him see it.

“Smart girl,” he said eventually, grinning like she’d handed him a compliment.

Percy squinted, narrowing his focus—not with his eyes, but with that strange sense he'd begun to trust. The one that could peel back the Mist and see the truth beneath.

He braced himself for the unraveling—for flesh to twist, for something ancient and hungry to bleed through the seams of a human shell.

He expected bone jutting wrong, mouths where mouths shouldn’t be, eyes that didn’t blink right.

But nothing changed.

No claws. No split jaws. No glowing sigils burning through skin.

Just a man.

A greasy, sunken-eyed man with rotted teeth and hands that spoke of contained violence.

Percy’s stomach turned.

For the first time, he realized—

A monster would’ve been better.

The captain kept walking. Past Oreithyia, pausing only long enough to let his gaze weigh her—slow, deliberate, dehumanizing. The way someone might appraise cuts of meat.

He stopped again when he reached Kyma.

“Pretty mouth,” he said softly, like he was tasting the words. “Boss said don’t touch, but I can still look. That’s not a crime.”

His eyes flicked down. Saw her foot brushing Percy’s ankle. Saw the way she leaned, the way the others unconsciously shifted closer to shield him.

“Oh, now isn’t that sweet,” he drawled, delighted. “They’ve gone maternal.”

He turned to Percy fully for the first time.

"Didn’t take long for them to take a liking to you, huh?"

The captain crouched to be level with the bars, resting his forearms on the metal with an easy, predatory slouch.

"You’re lucky, kid," he mused, tilting his head in mock thoughtfulness. "Not everyone gets personally selected for company like this."

His gaze flicked lazily across the women, eyes glinting with something that made Percy’s skin crawl.

"I figured you might be useful." A slow smirk. "Didn’t want to risk my girls getting the wrong idea—that just because I can’t damage ‘em, don’t mean I can’t hurt something else."

Percy glared at him, jaw clenched.

The captain’s grin widened.

Then he leaned forward, voice dropping to a murmur, like it had just occurred to him—

"Think they’d be more cooperative if I put a bruise on you?"

His hand snapped out—fingers tangling in Percy’s hair and twisting hard at the roots. A sharp, tearing bolt of pain lanced through his scalp as his head was yanked back, neck straining under the sudden force.

The man gave an idle tug, humming softly. Like he was testing tension. Seeing how far the thread could stretch before it snapped.

Percy sucked in air through clenched teeth, breath shaky and thin. Two instincts warred in his chest, clawing for control.

One—small, familiar—told him to shrink. Go still. Be quiet. Survive.

The other—new, sharper—wanted to bite. To tear. To fight.

Neither won.

The ropes held both back, tight and unforgiving, pressing him into stillness. All he could do was feel—

The yank in his scalp.

The ache in his neck.

The slow, creeping burn of helplessness sinking like sludge into his ribs.

“Yeah,” the man said, voice thick with satisfaction. “Bet they’d fall right in line if I gave ’em something to cry about.”

He shifted, and the keys on his belt clinked—sharp and mocking. A full ring of them, brushing against his hip like a dare. Freedom, dangling just out of reach.

Percy forced the tears back, swallowed them down like something venomous—thick and hot in his throat, scalding on the way down. His ribs ached with the effort.

But he didn’t blink. Didn’t whimper.

Something inside him simmered instead.

Hot.

Dark.

Waiting.

The ropes bit into his skin, coarse and unyielding.

The only thing keeping his teeth from doing the same—

From sinking deep into the flesh of the hand that dared to touch him.

The man gave another idle tug, like he was winding up a thought. Then he chuckled—low, casual, like they were sharing a joke only he understood.

"Bet you'd be a quick learner," he mused, voice almost thoughtful. "Some kids just need a firm hand."

Then he leaned in, close enough that Percy could feel the heat of his breath against his temple.

“I had a boy once,” he murmured. “Little older than you. Thought he was special. Thought he mattered. Cried a lot.”

He tilted his head, mouth curling in a slow, sour smile.

“Didn’t help him none. Just made noise.”

Then closer still. Breath damp against Percy’s skin.

“Bet you make a nice noise.”

His grip tightened—painful, intimate in the worst way.

Just enough to bruise. Just enough to claim.

The words slithered beneath Percy’s skin like oil—thick, foul, impossible to scrape off.

His pulse spiked so hard it hurt.

His stomach turned over.

Bile rose, hot and acrid, clawing its way up his throat, desperate to escape.

And then—

Oreithyia moved.

Fast. Fluid.

Like stone breaking loose, an avalanche already in motion.

Her arm shot out and cracked against the captain’s wrist—stone meeting flesh. His hand flew back on instinct, a snarl escaping him before he could stop it.

Percy slumped, dizzy, back into Hortensia’s arms.

The captain straightened slowly. His face twisted, his fingers drifted to his belt—but before he could reach for anything, Kyma rushed forward.

Right at the bars, between him and Oreithyia.

“Careful,” she said, voice trembling at first, then hardening like ice. “You might be captain of this ship—but we all know who the real boss is. You remember what happened last time, don’t you?”

The captain shifted back his weight. His fingers flexed at his side, curling—hesitating.

For the first time, he looked like he has felt fear before.

And then Percy saw why.

His fingers—scarred, ridged, raw.

And the nails—gone.

Stripped away, leaving behind uneven beds of thickened, discolored flesh. Some patches were shiny with healed-over scar tissue, others too pink, too exposed, like the skin had been peeled away one layer at a time.

Percy could almost picture it—a thin blade sliding beneath the nail, wedging in deep. The nail lifting, the nerves screaming.

Percy swallowed hard. Restraining a smile.

It couldn’t have happened to a better person.

But the moment didn’t last. The captain recovered fast.

His mouth twisted, and just like that, his smirk was back—flat, ugly, a mask of disinterest stretched over something meaner.

Would he snap? Would he reach for the knife at his belt? The coiled whip, crusted dark with something Percy didn’t want to identify?

Percy held still.

But the man just… exhaled.

Long. Controlled.

His hand uncurled the rest of the way, falling back to his side in something meant to look casual. Like he had never faltered at all.

He turned to leave.

Paused.

“Lucky, aren’t you?” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Boss likes his goods in mint condition.”

A beat.

Then he added:

“But there’s always ways around that. You just gotta be careful. Smart.”

He looked at Kyma.

Right at her.

“Breaking ain’t always about pain.”

His voice dipped low.

“No bruise. No blood. No problem.”

Kyma’s throat bobbed.

Glikis stared at the floor.

Even Hortensia looked like something inside her had cracked, silent and invisible.

Bakkhe let out a small sound behind them.

The man heard it.

He smiled.

Then he walked away.

And started whistling.

Something soft. Sweet.

A lullaby, maybe.

Something you’d sing to a child.

If you hated them.

Chapter Text

Percy was still slumped on the floor where he’d been shoved down. His wrists ached behind him, the ropes cutting deep, and his scalp still throbbed from where the captain had yanked his hair.

But none of that mattered.

He was angry.

It smouldered low in his chest, slow and venomous. A creeping fire licked at his ribs, coiling tight around his spine like salt in a wound.

Bakkhe’s breath caught, like a laugh trying to escape but getting lost on the way. She tipped her head back, eyes fluttering shut, swaying—like she was listening to something just beneath the surface of the world.

“Ohhh…” she breathed in a voice just shy of ecstatic. “The storm’s waking up.”

Her fingers twitched—drifted up to her throat—nails dragging lightly over her skin like she could feel it under there. Crawling. Blooming.

“I can taste it.”

Kyma’s head snapped toward her, sharp. Her gaze flicked to Percy, eyes narrowing.

He didn’t move. Just gave a tiny shrug from where he sat, ropes biting into his skin. Was he supposed to explain Bakkhe’s...everything ?

He twisted, rolling his shoulders, ignoring the sting of raw skin. Then he spoke the only thing in his mind.

“We need to get out of here.”

Not a question.

Not a plea.

Just a fact.

The response was instant.

"Impossible."

"We can’t."

"We’d never make it."

The nymphs’ voices overlapped, cascading into a chorus of dismissal before Percy had even finished speaking.

"We’re in the middle of the ocean," Glikis groaned, rubbing her temples. "You do realize that, right?"

"And there are guards," Hortensia added, like she was explaining something to a particularly slow child.

Oreithyia said nothing, but her silence was agreement enough.

Bakkhe lurched forward. Percy barely had time to flinch before her face was right there, their noses nearly brushing.

The scent of wine swelled between them—thick, ripe, so cloying it made his head spin.

“Oh, oh, and let’s not forget the best part—” she gasped, voice bright and breathless, tipping into singsong, “the wasp steals honey and drowns with a mouth full of gold—!”

Percy stared at her, eyes watering.

She didn’t blink.

She inhaled slowly, reverently. Her smile curled at the edges, her breath warm against his cheek.

Then, softer—like a secret:

“…and also the cage.”

The others groaned in unison.

"She’s right," Kyma admitted, like the words physically hurt to say. "How would we even unlock it?"

"…Okay, I’ll give you that one," Percy muttered. "That part is a problem."

A big one even.

But the conversation didn’t stop.

The nymphs kept talking, their voices layering, stacking on top of each other—risk after risk, fear after fear. Dismissals. Rejections. Panic disguised as logic.

Too dangerous.

Too many guards.

Nowhere to go.

We can’t.

We can’t.

We can’t.

Percy sat still in the middle of it.

The last of his patience hanging by a thread.

His fists clenched behind his back. His nails dug into raw skin. His jaw ached from how tightly he was grinding it.

They weren’t wrong.

But it didn’t matter.

Percy could handle danger.

He could handle bad odds.

He could even handle being scared.

What he couldn’t handle—what made him feel like he was going to explode—was this.

This passive acceptance.

Then Kyma spoke, and Percy understood.

"We are nymphs, child."

Her voice was quiet. Flat. Almost conversational.

Like she was passing down a truth as obvious as gravity.

"We suffer. We endure. And, ultimately, if we pray hard enough…"

Her eyes held his—deep and ancient and far too knowing.

"We are avenged."

The others nodded.

Like it was the natural order of things.

Like this was what all they were meant for.

Percy looked at them.

Really looked.

Hortensia’s petals curled in tight. Glikis’ arms wrapped around herself. Oreithyia was still as stone. Even Bakkhe—wild, unpredictable, ravenous for chaos—wasn’t fighting it.

They weren’t just resigned.

They’d made peace with it.

They truly believed this was how the story went.

That pain was inevitable.

That suffering was the price.

That they were meant to survive it, not stop it.

Percy sucked in a slow breath, staring at the cage bars. The ropes. Everything that had been done to him.

To them.

And something in him cracked.

The anger—

The helplessness—

The bone-deep, marrow-heavy exhaustion of seeing people accept the unacceptable—

It rose like the tide.

Because if this was their way…

To wait.

To ache.

To endure—

Then they could keep it.

No.

No.

Not him.

If they wouldn’t fight—

He would.

Even if he had to do it alone.

This was it. He was taking matters into his own hands.

Or… teeth, as it happened.

Percy twisted, flailed, and contorted like a possessed eel until—finally—his hands were in front of him. He slumped, breathing hard, feeling like he’d just won a wrestling match against himself.

Step one: achieved.

He took a breath. He considered his options.

Bakkhe’s words from yesterday echoed in his skull—wild, dramatic and, somehow… making an alarming amount of sense.

Captivity was clearly doing things to his sanity.

“…Screw it.”

With the grace of a feral raccoon caught in a trash can, he latched onto the rope with his teeth.

A sharp inhale from somewhere behind him. A rustle of movement. Then nothing.

Just stunned silence.

Percy, still chewing, grinned around the rope.

Bakkhe clapped, sharp and sudden, like a child watching a particularly violent puppet show. Her grin stretched too wide, eyes fever-bright, almost vibrating with delight.

"Yes! Yes! Chew through your chains! Gnash your little mortal teeth! Devour captivity itself!"

Glikis made a strangled noise. It was unclear if she was choking, laughing, or both.

Percy kept at it, working his jaw like the world’s most determined beaver until—

Snap!

The first rope broke.

“Ha!” Percy spat out the frayed fibers and immediately wiggled to reposition, contorting his body into what could only be described as a crime against normal human anatomy.

He bent his knees as far as they would go, then rocked back and forth like a stuck turtle, trying to build momentum. With a final determined heave, he threw his legs up toward his chest—

—and ended up with his own ankles in his face.

A pause.

Percy blinked at the unfortunate reality of his situation.

The nymphs stared.

He looked like an overgrown baby discovering his toes for the first time.

Glikis lost it. She clapped both hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent, helpless laughter.

But whatever. Percy had teeth, and teeth had gotten him this far.

So, with the sheer, feral determination of a teething toddler, he latched onto the second rope and gnawed.

The others looked somewhere between horrified and vaguely resigned.

Percy ignored all of them, chewing like his life depended on it. The rope fought back at first, thick and stubborn—but it was no match for his jaw strength.

Another snap!

Sweet sweet freedom.

His legs flopped unceremoniously to the floor as the final binding gave way. He wasted no time—rolled onto his stomach, pushed himself up with shaky arms, then arched his back until his spine popped like bubble wrap.

“Ohhh, that’s so much better.” He groaned, stretching his arms like a cartoon character waking from a hundred-year nap. “Ugh. Never been so happy to move.”

The nymphs just… stared. Like he’d sprouted wings. Or possibly lost his mind.

Except Bakkhe.

She gasped—genuinely, dramatically—pressing both hands to her cheeks like he’d just recited poetry. “I could kiss your tiny, feral face and crown you with a garland of fangs.”

Her madness wasn’t the scary kind anymore—it was liberating, in a weird, deranged way. There was a rhythm to it, if you leaned into the spiral. The key, Percy was beginning to suspect, was to stop resisting the chaos and just dance through it.

He shot her a grin. “Sharp teeth. Best thing ever.”

Bakkhe clapped again, eyes gleaming like he’d just spoken the most profound truth in the universe.

Oreithyia blinked once, slow and unimpressed. ‟Please don’t encourage her.”

Glikis groaned into her hands, muffling a helpless, “Pleeeaaase.”

“Or we will all regret it”, Hortensia muttered.

“It’s already too late,” Kyma said flatly, rubbing her temples.

Percy looked up at them with exaggerated innocence—chin tucked, eyes wide, the very picture of unconvincing virtue.

“He’s evolving,” Glikis recoiled with a gasp, clutching her chest like Percy had tracked muddy chaos straight across her favorite rug. “Weaponizing the cuteness. We’re doomed.”

Bakkhe beamed, eyes shining. "Monsters are always the first to taste freedom. It's why they drool!"

Percy’s attention had already drifted.

Somewhere between chewing through ropes and Bakkhe trying to instigate a reign of chaos, a thought had crashed back into his skull with all the subtlety of a brick through a stained-glass window.

The conch shell.

Percy sat bolt upright. His hand shot to his pocket.

It was still there.

His breath caught.

Okay. Okay. This could actually work.

If the conch shell actually worked like his mom said, he could call for help. The serious kind.

Not that it had ever answered before—but that was probably because he’d mostly used it to send passive-aggressive ocean mail to his absentee dad, not actual SOS calls.

There was just one problem. It had to be submerged in salt water to activate.

And salt water? Literally everywhere around them—just not in here.

He glanced around the hold. No buckets. No bowls. No puddles. Not even a leaky pipe.

The guards weren’t exactly going to fetch him a glass.

So that left one option.

He had to summon it.

Percy shifted his stance, planting his feet, grounding himself. He knew what to do. He’d done it before. Badly. But it had still worked—a flicker of something, a tug in his gut, the ocean answering like it was humoring a toddler.

He just had to do the same.

He inhaled.

Focused.

Reached.

...Nothing.

He tried again—deeper this time, really reaching, trying to feel the tide, the current, anything.

Still nothing.

His jaw clenched.

The ship swayed beneath them, the smell of salt thick in the air, but there was no shift, no pull, no sense that the ocean even knew he was here.

It was like knocking on a door that had been bricked over. Like shouting into a storm and hearing nothing but the wind.

Frustration coiled hot in his chest.

Alright, fine. One more try.

He gritted his teeth and pulled harder, imagined the roar of the tide, the weight of the sea bending to his will—

He reached toward the ocean.

And then—

There it was.

A flicker.

The water stirred. Far below, but listening.

Percy’s chest swelled.

He reached again, pulled harder—

A slow, creeping weight pressed against his chest, his bones thrumming with something deep and ancient, something vast—

The water was coming.

It was rising.

And then—

It slipped.

Like a rope yanked out of his fingers.

The connection snapped.

The weight vanished.

He staggered and hit the bars with a hollow clang, breath heaving, sweat sticking to his back.

It had worked.

Almost.

But almost wasn’t good enough.

His legs buckled. His hands trembled. His whole body felt like it had just run uphill through molasses. And gotten slapped by a wave at the top for trying.

He slumped against the bars, panting. Then, slowly, dramatically, like the world’s most overworked tragic actor, he slid down until he was sitting in a heap.

And then—because he was Percy Jackson and nothing was ever fair—he pouted.

Full lower-lip, slouched-back, arms-limp-at-his-sides pout. The universal body language of a seven-year-old who had just lost a wrestling match to the universe and was still recovering from the suplex.

There was a beat of silence.

Glikis cleared her throat, hesitant. “Do you—”

“Don’t talk to me,” Percy muttered.

She wisely did not finish the sentence.

Bakkhe, off to the side, made a sound that was probably laughter and possibly a prayer. “A storm tried to crawl through him,” she whispered, eyes wide, voice trembling with something halfway between awe and glee. “It’s still knocking. The door just hasn’t cracked yet.”

Percy didn’t respond. He was too busy sulking at the floor, his pulse still thrumming with the ghost of something bigger than him.

Then—something shifted.

Not the ocean.

Not the bars.

His perspective.

He let his head tip back against the cage—

Except it didn’t stop.

No clang of metal. No resistance.

His head just… kept going.

Percy froze.

Very slowly, he leaned farther back—until his chin poked clean through the bars.

He blinked. Pulled forward again. His head slid back inside just as easily.

Okay.

He stared at the space between the bars. Then at his shoulders. Then back at the bars.

He raised his hands, lining up his fingers with the gap, measuring—then brought them to his sides. Eyed the comparison.

Yeah.

He was—ugh—small.

Small enough that maybe, just maybe, he could squeeze all the way through.

No time to think. No time to second-guess.

He turned sideways, sucked in a breath, and jammed one shoulder forward. It caught. He wriggled. The metal scraped against his ribs, uncomfortably tight—

But then—

A twist. A shove.

And suddenly—

He was out.

He hit the deck with a soft oof, blinked up at the sky, then grinned.

Big cages. Big locks. Big assumptions.

Adults never built for small, slippery problems.

Their mistake.

“You little pearl, you actually did it!” Glikis whispered, stunned. Her fingers curled around the bars, knuckles white like she was resisting the urge to rattle them in excitement.

“A pretty little pearl, popped right off the strand. And now someone’s going to choke on it.” Bakkhe whispered, dark amusement lacing her voice.

Percy scanned the deck, already mapping his route. The bridge wasn’t far. Get inside. Grab the keys. Run back. Free the nymphs.

Simple.

“—and then straight overboard,” he muttered, already picturing the jump.

The shift was instant.

Kyma’s fingers twitched. Her whole body went taut.

“Wait—what?”

“You’re not—you don’t mean—” Hortensia’s voice cracked as she looked between him and the distant guards. “Child, no. This is too risky.”

“Listen to me,” Kyma hissed. Not pleading. Commanding. “You must go. Now. No hesitation. No turning back. The sea will take you. It will keep you safe.”

Percy set his jaw. No. That wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t good enough.

“I’m not leaving you.” The words came out sharper than he meant. “If I get the keys, I can free you—”

“And if you fail?” Kyma cut in, her voice low, slicing through the quiet. “If they see you?” Her abyssal-blue eyes locked on his. “I will not watch you fall for us.”

“Then I won’t get caught.” He straightened, voice barely above a whisper. “I can do this.”

Glikis swallowed hard. “Child—”

“We’re already lost,” Hortensia said softly. No panic, no pleading—just the exhausted certainty of someone who’d long since accepted it. “But you—”

“You don’t get it,” Percy snapped. His pulse thundered in his ears. “I’m not leaving anyone behind.”

He wasn’t going to leave them. He wasn’t. If he just moved fast enough, if he was careful, he could—

Bakkhe started to shake.

A tremor ran through her like a guitar string about to snap, breath stuttering, catching on a laugh that never fully formed. Then—crack—she threw herself against the bars, hard enough to make the whole cage rattle.

The other nymphs flinched. Percy jerked back on instinct.

"Oh, child," she crooned, breathless, grinning, her fingers twitching where they gripped the bars. “You are trying to save us.” A slow inhale, a shuddering exhale. “How sweet.”

Then her smile snapped, her voice turning sharp, high, too fast. "But if you stay, I will tear your pretty little plan apart with my teeth—do you hear me? I will ruin it, I will ruin you, I will scream and thrash and bite until they come running and drag you down with us!"

She laughed, but it was wrong, broken, unraveling at the edges. Then—softer, eerie, pleading—

"So go, little pearl. RUN. Before I make sure you can’t."

And Percy ran.

Chapter Text

Bakkhe’s words slithered through him like oil on fire—bypassed his ears and branded themselves straight into his marrow.

Something vast and wordless buckled in his chest, snapped tight around his spine, and shoved.

His brain slammed into the backseat. Foreign instincts took the wheel instead.

Flee. Run. Survive.

His legs were already running. His mind scrambled after them, shouting no no no no no—

The cage was behind him. The deck tilted under his feet. His heart slammed against his ribs like it wanted out too.

He hit the railing.

Jumped.

Dove.

The world stopped screaming.

Salt closed over him like a door slamming shut. Cold arms. Sudden quiet. The shock hit like a slap—sharp enough to split him from whatever had taken hold.

Percy exhaled hard, chest heaving like it had been waiting to breathe.

The fear was still there—curled up like a wet cat in his ribs. But at least it was his now.

Every breath came easier. The saltwater worked fast, cooling the sting, soothing the scrapes, sinking into him like fuel.

Percy blinked up at the hull of the ship.

He’d left them.

He left.

And that—that—

No. No, he didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to.

He clenched his teeth. His whole body shook like it couldn’t decide whether to cry in shame or scream in rage.

“Stupid Bakkhe,” he hissed.

He would’ve stayed. He would've fought. He was trying to help—

He trusted her. She made him abandon them.

Well, too bad for her.

He hadn’t said his last words.

He hadn’t even started.

He was going to call for help.

Then he was going to save them.

Or go down swinging.

Because Percy Jackson wasn’t a coward.

And he didn’t quit.

Back to the plan.

Step one.

Call for help.

He yanked the conch from his pocket, fumbling with it in the water. It almost slipped from his hands.

Then he just… stared at it.

What was he even supposed to say?

He’d talked to it before. Nothing ever answered. No voice. No flash of godly magic. Just silence.

Was it even real?

Or just something his dad told his mom to make her feel better? A pretty lie, wrapped in a seashell?

Was he really supposed to trust some guy—some god—he didn’t even know?

Chrysaor didn’t seem to think much of him after all.

Percy’s chest squeezed tight. He could feel his fingers shaking. But he didn’t let go.

Because what else could he do?

He had no army. No plan. No one else coming.

Just this shell, this ocean, and whatever voice he could scrape out of his throat.

So he strengthened his grip, jammed it to his mouth—

And tried anyway.

“Dad—Poseidon—uh, hi, it’s me again—and it’s actually an emergency this time.”

His breath hitched. Salt burned his throat.

“I got—uh—taken. Kidnapped. It’s bad. There’s a ship—Epsilon Something—they’re selling people. Nymphs. Me. I mean—not me anymore, I got out—but—”

His lungs burned. Words stumbled. He forced them out anyway.

“I can’t leave them. I won’t. But I—Dad, if you’re out there—”

His voice cracked hard, broke straight down the middle.

“I really need help. I’m gonna save them—I have to—but I don’t think I can do it alone.”

A pause. The ocean held its breath with him.

“Please.”

Silence.

He stared at the shell a second longer—just in case.

Nothing.

“Figures,” he muttered, and shoved it back into his pocket.

Fine. Whatever.

He’d do it himself.

He broke the surface with a gasp, slick hair plastered to his face, the cargo ship looming in the distance. He spat out seawater and started swimming—arms punching forward, legs kicking like pistons. Water easing the strain as fast as it came.

The ocean surged beneath him, rough but helpful, matching every kick and hurling him forward like it wanted him to reach that ship as much as he did.

He fixed his eyes on the stern—towering steel, crates stacked high, a dark smear against the bright sky.

He was keeping up.

But not gaining.

“Come on,” he growled, digging in harder. “Come on—”

Then all at once, the water around him shattered into chaos.

Dark shapes swirled in the water like a living storm, tails lashing, bodies colliding, roars and whistles splitting the current. One second, Percy was gliding through the waves, focused on the silhouette of the cargo ship in the distance. The next, he was smack in the middle of what looked like an underwater turf war.

On one side, a squadron of massive manta rays whipped and spun through the water in perfect formation—wide wings slicing with unnerving grace. On the other, a pod of orcas answered back with sheer bulk and brute force, ramming through the water like living torpedoes.

Percy blinked as the nearest ray did a full corkscrew over an orca’s head, narrowly dodging a mouth full of teeth. The orca countered with a flip that sent a geyser skyward, spraying salt in every direction. Another orca came from below, launching like a missile—only to get clotheslined mid-leap by a ray spinning sideways like a frisbee from the abyss.

The shockwave body-checked Percy. He reeled, coughing, flailed to keep upright—

And immediately had to duck to avoid the slap of seawing that would’ve rearranged his face. A burst of bubbles shot past him. Someone shrieked in sonar.

Currents churned. Tails sliced. Bodies collided in bursts of bubbles and noise.

Percy tried to push forward, but the chaos dragged at his legs—currents torn by thrashing tails and crashing bodies. He was yanked sideways, flipped into a rising wave, and tumbled through it like a sock in a washing machine—battered, breathless, no idea which way was up—until he broke the surface again, coughing salt and rage.

Just in time to see two rays collide overhead in a tangle of wings and muscle. A third came crashing down beside him, sending a wall of water into his face.

He surfaced again, gasping, blinking salt out of his eyes—

—and the cargo ship was even farther now.

"Hey! Watch it!" Percy finally shouted as a massive tail nearly clipped his head, spinning him upside down. Another collision sent him tumbling sideways, limbs flailing.

"Seriously! What the—"

Nobody listened. Surprise, surprise.

Frustration surged in Percy's chest, and before he could think better of it, he stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out an ear-splitting whistle.

Everything stopped.

An orca froze mid-lunge, jaws still around a manta ray’s fin. Both blinked at Percy in stunned silence.

Awkward didn't begin to cover it.

“Who,” one of the orcas finally asked, voice low and baffled, “is the tiny two-legged thing?”

“I’m not a thing,” Percy snapped, crossing his arms indignantly.

Then he bobbed under and had to resurface, sputtering. He re-crossed his arms above the water, chin high, with as much dignity as he could salvage.

Recognition spread through the circle of creatures like a ripple.

“Oh, Poseidon’s beard,” a ray muttered. “It’s a princeling!"

A wave of murmurs swept through both groups. The orcas loosened their holds. The rays slowly uncurled from their defensive spirals, forming a loose, cautious ring around Percy.

"Look," said a large, scarred manta ray, voice low and gravelly. "They struck first. We were just defending our territory."

“Lies!” an orca barked, tail slapping the water indignantly. “They’re the ones who trespassed. We had no choice but to defend our honor.”

Percy, thoroughly unimpressed by their melodrama, threw his hands up. “Does it matter who started it?” he said. “Because while you’re arguing, people are getting hurt.”

A hush fell over the water.

The rays’ wings relaxed, no longer tight and lifted for attack. A few orcas looked away, fins flicking with what might’ve been shame.

The scarred manta ray spoke again, voice low and rough as the seafloor.

“Our quarrel should not have touched you, little prince. We offer our apologies for the disturbance.”

The ray dipped his wings in an awkward sweep.

“We’ll be on our way,” the ray finished.

“Typical rays,” an orca snorted. ‟Find a pretext to hide the second it gets tough.”

One of the larger manta rays flared her wings wide. “Say that again, blubber-brain.”

“Gladly,” the orca growled, circling closer. “You want another round?”

“Do it,” said the ray, wings rising. “I dare you.”

Percy’s eye twitched.

He’d tried being reasonable. He’d tried being polite. He’d even pulled out the mom tone.

And yet—here they were again. Puffing up like overgrown toddlers with fins. He was this close to assigning time-outs.

His hands clenched, the water tugging higher up his arms like it was waiting for permission.

“Enough,” he snapped.

A whip of water lashed out from his sides—fast and clean. It smacked the nearest orca square on the nose, slapped two rays across the top of the head, and sent a cold shiver through the rest of the circle.

Percy blinked.

Now it worked?

Cool. Real helpful. He glared at the water slipping from his fingers. Where were you when I was caged up on that ship?

The rays and orcas stared, stunned mid-sprawl like someone had just yanked the needle off the soundtrack.

He pointed toward the cargo ship in the distance.

“See that thing? My friends are trapped on it with a bunch of nasty violent monsters. And I’d love to keep arguing about who insulted whose tail’s flick, but I don’t have time.”

A voice squeaked excitedly from beneath him. Percy squinted until he spotted a tiny manta ray, no bigger than a dinner plate, fluttering up eagerly.

"Awesome! Who're you saving?" the tiny ray piped up.

Percy blinked. “Uh—”

“ZEPHYRUS.”

Everything froze again—this time in a different, far more personal way.

A ripple of horror passed through the gathered rays. Several slowly peeled away from the crowd like they wanted plausible deniability.

From below, a shadow rose—so wide Percy could’ve laid down flat and still not covered a third of it.

She emerged like a continent surfacing, water rolling off her back in heavy sheets. Sunlight caught the ridges of her wings and the long pale scars trailing along their edge. For a breath, she hovered just below the surface, vast and still, her presence enough to make the closest orca swim back a few feet.

“What,” she said, voice flat and terrifyingly calm, “are you doing here?”

The little ray did a slow 360 spin like he could somehow reverse out of the situation. “Uhhhhh. Observing. From a safe—ish—distance? Y’know. Just keeping an eye on things. Like a responsible citizen. Of the sea. Hi, Zephra.”

“You were supposed to be with the coral readers!”

“They were so boring! And also very far away. And you were here. And then there was fighting, and—I mean, you were killing it!”

Zephra didn’t blink. “You're grounded.”

“You’re not my mom!”

‟No. I’m worse. I’m your sister.”

The entire pod winced in unison.

One orca muttered, “Oh, he’s dead.”

Zephyrus tried to hide behind Percy.

Percy, still catching his breath and bobbing in open water, did not consent to being used as a shield.

Zephra’s wings shifted—barely—but the water reacted like someone had dropped a boulder into it.

Percy had to paddle just to stay in place, fighting the tug of the current curling off her back. It was like swimming next to a moving island.

“Do you have any idea what I would’ve done if you got hurt?”

“I didn’t get hurt!”

“You could have.”

“I stayed out of bite range!”

Zephra stared.

Zephyrus wilted.

One of the older rays made a low, vibrating sound that might’ve been sympathy. Or a warning.

Percy cleared his throat. “Um. Hi. Sorry to interrupt the very intense family moment, but I kind of have a ship to catch?”

Zephyrus immediately perked up.

“Right! The ship! Who’s on it? Why are they there? Is it a stealth mission? Or a siege? Do you have a battle cry? Are there traps? Are you gonna blow something up?”

Percy blinked. “What—no—I mean, maybe? I don’t know yet.”

“But you have a plan, right?” Zephyrus buzzed, fluttering in tight little loops around him. “Or are you the make-it-up-as-you-go type? Wait—do you have backup? A secret weapon? A code phrase?!”

Percy blushed deeply, suddenly hyper-aware that everyone was waiting for his brilliant tactical insight. "Uh… the plan… the plan is—well—"

He looked at the distant ship, then back at the expectant crowd. He shrugged sheepishly. "My current plan is: catch the ship, then improvise."

Several pairs of orca eyes blinked at him. A few rays glanced at each other skeptically.

"Solid," whispered an orca sarcastically.

"Right." Percy bristled, dignity bruised. "So if you'll excuse me, I've got step one to get back to."

"Wait," Zephra said, wings slicing the water as she turned toward him. "If heroics are what you're after, little prince, then count me in.”

She slid beneath him in a fluid arc, rising with him balanced neatly on her back.

‟Want a ride?"

Before Percy could answer, the largest orca thrashed the water in protest, sending a spray across half the circle.

"Oh, no you don't, Zephra! No one said your rays get to hog all the glory."

He turned sharply toward Percy and dipped his massive head with exaggerated solemnity.

"We'll attack the opposite side, prince. While they're busy panicking, you can sneak aboard."

Percy blinked.

Then blinked again.

The orcas were aligning like a strike team. Zephra was steady beneath him. Wings and teeth. Speed and strength.

He glanced toward the cargo ship. Suddenly, the odds didn’t feel so impossible.

He grinned—small, sharp, dangerous.

“Let’s cause some chaos.”

Chapter Text

They were flying. Underwater.

And yeah, Percy knew that made no sense, but sense had left the building around the time a gang of orcas offered him tactical support and a manta ray mob boss told him to hang on.

He didn’t know how else to describe it.

Zephra didn’t swim—the ocean bent around her. Gravity? A myth. Water resistance? Not her problem.

They tore through the blue like a launched spear, the world around them reduced to streaks of light and sound. Percy clung to her back, tucked in tight, heart pounding like war drums, ears roaring with the velocity. Every breath burned, every blink blurred.

Above them, the cargo ship lumbered forward, a bloated, clueless beast. No idea it was being stalked by an aquatic wrecking crew with a one-track mind for revenge.

“Best. Thing. Ever,” Percy gasped, grinning so hard salt sprayed his molars.

Behind them, Zephra’s crew of rays kept formation like a disciplined swarm of shadows. The orcas peeled away, dark shapes slicing toward the far side of the ship.

Soon, a chorus of clicking echoed through the depths.

The signal.

Zephra responded without hesitation. One wingbeat, and she dove—a razor-edged blade slicing down through the layers of sea. Darkness surged around them, pressure stacking on Percy’s shoulders like invisible hands.

And then—

She turned.

One impossibly tight arc.

And they rocketed up.

Just raw, reckless speed. Her wings slammed the water with precision force, every beat a thunderclap Percy felt in his spine. He flattened against her, eyes squinting against the tide of bubbles and shattered light.

Zephra exploded from the ocean in absolute silence. Just a sleek arc of power breaking the surface, lit with diamonds of spray. Sunlight caught on every droplet, painting her in gold and fire.

She climbed—carving the sky with her body, weightless and wild, like the gods had forgotten to leash her to the sea.

Percy rose with her, crouched on her back, breath caught somewhere between awe and adrenaline.

Higher.

Higher.

And then—

He jumped.

He launched off her back with every ounce of strength he had, arms flung forward, chest out, legs trailing behind like wings of his own.

Wind in his face.

Target dead ahead.

For one breathless moment, he was airborne.

Time slowed.

The deck surged up to meet him—a blur of crates, rusted railings, and salt-bitten flooring. Percy braced.

Boots slammed, knees bent, shock rippling up his legs like lightning. He rolled with the impact, came up crouched, chest heaving, hair dripping seawater.

And no one saw.

Across the ship, the chaos had detonated like a well-timed bomb. Screams and metal shouts echoed from the far side. The orcas were making good on their promise—banging against the hull, thrashing water into geysers, throwing the crew into full-blown panic mode.

Percy grinned.

“Gods, you gotta love orcas.”

Smoke rose from a broken stack of crates. Someone was yelling about ‘creatures in the water!’ Someone else was yelling about losing signal. Footsteps pounded away from him, not toward.

No one had eyes on this side of the deck.

He was invisible.

He moved fast. Low.

Darting between cargo containers, slipping over ropes and puddles of seawater, dodging fallen boxes and one extremely confused seagull.

So far, it was almost too easy.

Percy didn’t stop to savor it.

He knew where to go.

The bridge door creaked.

Barely.

But Percy still froze, breath caught mid-throat, every nerve lit up like bad static. His fingers tightened on the edge of the doorway. He waited.

No shout. No footstep.

Inside, the captain was pacing, half-barking into his walkie-talkie, half snarling under his breath.

“—don’t care if they’ve got fins, I want them off my ship—”

He turned, jabbed a button on the console. Static shrieked in protest.

Percy slipped in.

Silent. Soaked. Small enough to be a ghost.

The room stank of sweat and old smoke. One side was all windows, the ocean boiling beyond in glittering chaos. The other was clutter—maps, half-crushed cans, and a rack of waterproof jackets that probably hadn’t been washed since the Bronze Age.

And the captain—hunched, furious—his back to Percy.

The key ring swung from his belt.

Three steps.

That’s all.

Three steps across metal floor, don’t trip, don’t slip, don’t breathe too loud—

The walkie crackled. “Boss, we’re—uh—we’re being surrounded. Big ones. Real big—”

“I CAN SEE THAT, YOU IDIOT!” the captain roared, slamming the radio into the console so hard it left a dent. “WHERE’S MY GUN?!”

He spun.

Percy dropped flat.

The world narrowed to the pounding in his ears and the stink of oil on the floor.

Boots stomped past him. The captain threw open a locker, still cursing, metal clanging like warning bells.

Now.

Percy moved.

A crawl, a stretch, one hand hovering toward the keyring—there—hooked to a belt loop, dangling just above eye level. Close enough to touch.

Closer.

His fingers brushed cold metal.

One sharp tug—

Clink.

The keys jangled like a scream.

The captain’s head snapped around.

Percy froze, crouched beside him like a stray cat caught stealing fish.

For a split second, they just stared at each other.

Percy flinched, jerked back—but not fast enough. A meaty hand snatched him by the collar and hauled him clean off the ground.

“What the—you?”

The captain’s eyes went wide. Then they went wild.

“You little freak—how did you get out?!”

Percy kicked, squirmed, bit—anything—but the guy was a wall of rage and rotten teeth. The world blurred, and then—

WHAM.

Percy hit the wall hard, pain sparking bright behind his eyes. His lungs emptied in one hit. He slid down, dazed.

Something spilled.

A soft clatter.

A trail of something.

The captain froze.

Percy blinked, woozy, and followed his gaze.

Pearls.

Dozens of them—scattered across the floor, shimmering like fallen stars, glinting wet in the flickering bridge light.

They’d stayed in place through the cage escape, the wild ride with Zephra, even the leap through open sky.

But now, at the worst possible moment—

They went everywhere.

The captain crouched, stunned. His eyes locked onto the nearest pearl.

He picked it up slowly. Turned it in his fingers. Something unreadable flickered across his face.

Then he moved fast.

He crossed to the safe in the wall, punched in a code with shaking fingers, and ripped it open.

A bag came out—heavy and black. He dumped it on the table. Some of the content escaped. Perfect pearls. Polished. Familiar.

Percy’s.

His whole stash, sold off to Eurybatus what felt like another lifetime ago.

The captain held up one of the bagged pearls. Then the one from the floor. Compared them in the light.

One second. Two.

Then he turned slowly to Percy, expression darkening with something that chilled worse than the sea.

Greed.

He crossed the space in two steps and grabbed Percy by the shoulder, fingers digging in like meat hooks. He hauled him up, yanking him nose to nose, hot breath and spit hitting Percy full force.

“Where did you get these?!” the captain barked, flecks flying.

Percy didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His jaw clenched, his whole body locked tight. He just glared.

The captain shook him. “Tell me, you little—”

Percy twisted—snapped sideways out of his grip and hit the floor on all fours like a wild thing.

Before the captain could react, Percy scrambled up the console, using buttons, knobs, and sheer fury for leverage. He leapt.

Landed square on the captain’s chest.

He bit first—straight into the shoulder. The captain howled. Percy clawed at his face, nails digging, flailing, catching skin. He didn’t have a weapon, didn’t need one—he was feral and done being prey.

The captain shoved him off with a grunt, but Percy’s hand caught on the bag as he fell.

And that’s when things went sideways.

“You want my pearls?” he snarled, voice raw.

WHAM. The bag of pearls slammed into the captain’s jaw with a dull, crunching thud. The man reeled back, stunned.

Percy didn’t stop.

He swung again. WHUMP. And again. CRACK.

Pearls scattered underfoot with every hit, but the bag was still heavy, still full enough to hurt.

The captain dropped.

Flat on his back, dazed, wheezing.

Percy stood over him, chest heaving, hair wild, soaked and shaking.

“Oh. You want my pearls?” he spat, voice tipping into madness.

He dropped to his knees beside the man’s gasping mouth and shoved a fistful in.

“Here they are.”

The captain choked, coughed, reached weakly for Percy’s arms.

Another handful.

“Enjoy!”

He forced them in, one after another, gleaming spheres of salt and pain. The captain gurgled, scratching at his own face, trying to claw the pearls out as they clinked against his teeth and tongue.

Percy grabbed a final handful and raised it like a toast.

“For the record?” he said, voice shaking.

“You don’t deserve them.”

And he shoved that last fistful home.

The captain was coughing weakly now, one hand scraping at the floor, pearls tumbling from his mouth like broken teeth.

Percy stayed crouched over him, breathing hard, heart punching his ribs.

Then, slowly, the anger started to drain out of him. Like a tide pulling back.

Right.

He wasn’t here to punish monsters.

He was here to save nymphs.

He reached down and yanked the keys from the man’s belt. They came free with a jingle that suddenly sounded way too loud in the quiet room.

Percy stood, blinking through the adrenaline fog—and glanced at the open safe.

Inside: a ledger. Some kind of shipping book. Neat handwriting, red margins. And beside it, boxes spilling with jewels. Necklaces, rings, bracelets—some modern, some ancient, all of them glittering like they’d been stolen straight out of temples and tombs.

Probably had.

He didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed the ledger. Shoved it into the crook of his elbow. Swept the jewels into a canvas duffel slung in the corner—might’ve been for gear or laundry, whatever. It worked.

He stuffed it until it bulged, then slung it over one shoulder, chest still rising fast.

Mission.

Focus.

He threw one last glance at the captain, still twitching on the floor, pearls pooled around him like mock treasure.

Then Percy turned and ran.

He had cages to unlock. Lives to save.

Percy burst out of the bridge, duffel bouncing against his side with every step.

The chaos hadn’t let up.

Shouts still echoed from the far side of the ship—guards yelling over engines, alarms blaring, water slamming against steel. The orcas were not going quietly. Good.

No one even looked at him.

He sprinted past open crates and scattered tools, ducked under a swinging chain, and—

Skidded to a halt.

Chrysaor’s car. Parked like a crown jewel in the middle of a rusted junkyard.

Percy stared at it, chest heaving.

It could drive on water.

He hesitated.

Then scowled at the car.

“You know what?” he muttered. “Serves you right.”

He pointed at the car like it could hear him. “Maybe next time you won’t leave your keys in the ignition, genius.”

He took off again, leaving the car behind like a homework assignment he understood perfectly but refused to do just to spite the teacher.

The cage wasn’t far. He rounded the last corner—and there they were.

Five pairs of eyes snapped to him behind the bars. Salt-streaked, wide, blinking in disbelief.

Glikis gasped. “Percy?!”

He skidded to a stop, chest heaving. “Told you I’d come back.”

Then he grabbed the keys with shaking hands and started jamming them into the lock.

The door swung open.

And then they were on him.

Five shapes surged forward in a blur of salt and silk and wind, arms wrapping around him from every direction. Percy staggered under the impact, caught in a whirlwind of limbs, wet hair, and shaky laughter.

Glikis actually squealed. Oreithyia didn’t say a word but crushed him like a marble statue hugging a marshmallow. Kyma’s hand was at the back of his head, grounding him. Hortensia held his arm with that careful gentleness that always made him feel steadier than he was.

“Pearl-boy,” Bakkhe breathed into his ear, eyes wild. “You’re completely mad. Flung yourself right back into the lion’s den, did you? Tumbled down the gullet with knives in your teeth and blessings on your breath.”

Percy, still pinned between all of them, blinked up at her.

“That’s rich,” he muttered. “Really. The woman who threatened to break my legs so I’d flee without you is calling me mad?”

He rolled his eyes skyward.

“Yep. Kettle, meet Bakkhe.”

She grinned wider, like she'd taken it as a compliment.

A bang shattered the moment.

The bridge door slammed open behind them.

“THIEF!” the captain’s voice bellowed across the deck, ragged and furious. A shot cracked out right after it, the bullet pinging off a crate not three feet from Percy’s head.

“Get them!” he roared, spit and blood flying. “They’re escaping! NOW!”

Percy didn’t wait.

“Go!” he shouted, grabbing the nearest arm and bolting toward the rail. “Move!”

Gunfire exploded behind them. Footsteps thundered in the distance as the guards finally remembered what their jobs were.

Percy skidded to the nearest edge of the ship, the wind ripping at his soaked shirt. He jammed two fingers into his mouth and whistled—sharp and loud, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

Then he climbed.

Feet slipping, fingers scrambling for purchase on slick metal, he hauled himself up onto the lowest rail, turned—

And saw the nymphs frozen behind him.

“What are you doing?!” he yelled.

They stared up at him, hair whipping in the wind, eyes wide. Kyma had one hand half-raised. Hortensia was shielding Glikis. Bakkhe looked like she might bolt back toward the gunfire just to spite the bullets.

Percy’s heart lurched.

“Jump!”

Glikis blinked up at him. “Is this… the right time to tell you half of us don’t know how to swim?”

A gunshot cracked. Wood splintered.

Percy looked her dead in the eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

She gave the tiniest nod.

“Then jump.”

They did.

One by one, the nymphs threw themselves over the edge—hair streaming, limbs flailing, cries lost to the wind. Glikis shouted something halfway between a curse and a laugh. Bakkhe whooped.

Percy stayed a heartbeat longer.

The captain stood at the far end of the deck, half-lit by the midday sun, soaked in blood and seawater, one arm shaking as he leveled his gun. Behind him, the guards came running—bludgeons raised, swords unsheathed, rage pouring off them in waves.

Percy smiled.

And let himself fall.

Backward over the rail. Arms out. Eyes locked on the captain like a smirk made flesh—

Good luck explaining this to your boss.

Chapter Text

Percy surfaced just in time to see Oreithyia struggling—stone-heavy limbs dragging her down like, well, stone. Kyma was already there, slipping under one of her arms, voice low and calm, keeping her afloat.

Glikis was panicking somewhere to his left, half-drowning, half-complaining. She and Hortensia were tangled in a flailing knot, clutching each other like shipwreck survivors with no coordination whatsoever.

“Her elbow is in my mouth!” Glikis wailed.

Hortensia coughed, eyes wide. “You grabbed me!”

“I thought you were the surface!”

Percy swam toward them. “Just—stop panicking! I’ve got you!”

Which—yeah, easier said than done. Bakkhe chose that moment to appear, practically slithered under Hortensia’s back like a fever-drenched mermaid and started singing to no one in particular.

“Rescue me, o black-winged beasts,” she intoned. “I am beauty, burdened by blossoms of doom—”

“Bakkhe!” Percy gasped. “Less poetry, more lifting!”

“Poetry is lifting,” she sniffed, but hoisted Hortensia with one arm anyway.

Percy turned to grab Glikis—only to realize she was, in fact, floating perfectly fine.

Yet she was still flailing. Clutching at nothing and wailing like she’d already written her will.

“When is the rescue coming?” she demanded, “After I drown?!”

Percy stared at her, channeling every exhausted adult who’d ever tried to supervise a field trip. “You’re floating.”

For the first time in his life, he felt a sudden, powerful wave of empathy for his kindergarten teacher.

Glikis paused mid-flail. Her limbs slowed, cautiously, like maybe—maybe—gravity had forgotten her.

She bobbed in place.

“Oh,” she said. “Well. That’s suspiciously competent of me.”

Then she snorted. “Guess I’m more buoyant than emotionally stable.”

She laughed at her own joke so hard her head tipped back—and promptly sank under the water with a splash.

A moment later she came up sputtering, coughing seawater, panic reigniting like a switch had flipped.

She immediately latched onto Percy, clinging like he came with a pool safety certification.

He let her panic for three seconds. Maybe four. Then calmly wriggled free, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes. He had better things to do than be an emotional support floaty for overdramatic, glorified trees.

“You’re fine,” he said, with all the stern authority a seven-year-old could muster while trying not to laugh at her.

“Emotionally, I am not!” Glikis shot back between coughs. “Now get me out of this soup!”

Somewhere to the right, Bakkhe was still singing. Loudly. Off-key. Possibly in three conflicting keys at once.

“O bury me deep in a kelpy grave,
where sirens sob and sailors rave!
Crowned in seaweed! Clutched by doom!
Let the coral be my tomb!”

Hortensia, draped in her arms like a kidnapped bride, stared into the distance with the vacant expression of someone sincerely questioning whether drowning might’ve been the more peaceful option.

Percy sighed. Loudly. With every ounce of his seven-year-old soul.

Where was Zephra?

He needed extraction. Immediately.

As if summoned by pure emotional exhaustion, a sleek shadow sliced toward them beneath the surface.

Zephra burst from the water a moment later, wings flaring, tail flicking with don’t talk to me energy that said she’d heard at least some of the singing and was deeply unimpressed.

“Thank the gods,” Percy breathed. “Take me away from these people.”

Zephra tilted just enough to glance at him, voice flat and salty. “You’re the one who risked his life to rescue them.”

Percy huffed. “Yeah, well. No one warned me it came with musical numbers.”

He glanced back at the chaos still unfolding and added, half under his breath, “Next time I’m bringing floaties. And earplugs.”

Wings broke the surface—five more of Zephra’s crew, gliding in just in time.

Percy kicked toward the nearest ray and tried to boost Glikis up by the elbow.

“Up you go!” he grunted, legs paddling furiously as he attempted to lift her.

“Finally,” she huffed, letting him haul her over. “I was two splashes away from becoming driftwood with opinions.”

“You will be driftwood if you don’t start hauling yourself on,” Percy snapped, red-faced, as he shoved at her hip with all the force his tiny body could manage. “I’m not Superman!”

Bakkhe was already wrangling Hortensia onto another ray, cooing, “Let the sea cradle you, my wilted blossom—”

Her voice snapped mid-sentence.

“—get your knee out of my ribs before I break it.”

Hortensia made a distressed noise but didn’t resist.

Kyma gently pushed Oreithyia up onto a third—apparently the only competent adult in his entire collection of nymphs.

Percy scrambled up last, slipping twice before grabbing the edge of Zephra’s wing and flopping over it like a wet sock—dragging the soaked, overstuffed duffel behind him.

“I’m good,” he wheezed. “This is fine. Everything’s fine.”

Zephra clicked once, clearly unconvinced.

“So,” she said, voice bright with curiosity and just enough mockery to sting, “how’d your big wild rescue go?”

Percy lay there, dripping, breathless, face smushed against manta skin.

“…Well, nobody died. Yet.”

A pause.

Then, miserably:

“I deserve snacks for this.”

Which was exactly when Zephyrus shot from the water like a launched frisbee, flipped once—twice—and landed with a slap beside them.

“WAS THERE A FIGHT?!” Zephyrus shrieked, already wriggling in excitement. “Did you stab someone? Was there blood? Did anyone cry? Did you cry? Tell me how—”

With a lazy flick of one wing, Zephra smacked him sideways.

He flew several feet through the air in a perfect, spiraling arc.

“—DID IT GOOOOOOOOOO—”

Splash.

Percy blinked. “...Do you do that often?”

He felt Zephra sigh beneath him, a deep, long-suffering exhale.

“Yeah. Fair.”

Just then, a new ripple split the surface nearby.

The orca leader surfaced beside them, smooth and smug, exhaling a plume of mist.

“Distraction work for you, little prince?”

Percy blinked, still catching his breath. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, it was perfect.”

The orca chuckled, low and pleased. “Good. They were scrambling like squid in a shark pit.”

He tossed his head toward the distant cargo ship and bared his teeth in something between a grin and a threat. “Call me next time you wanna terrorize a fleet. That’s the most fun I’ve had in months.”

Zephra snorted, her wings twitching with disdain. “We’d rather swim backward through jellyfish season.”

Another ray chimed in, “Or scrape barnacles off whale bellies with our tongues.”

“Or babysit sea slugs during mating tides,” muttered a third.

‟—than work with you again,” Zephra finished.

The orca let out a low, smug click. “Suit yourselves. Just means you’ll be missing out. Nobody strikes like an orca—we hit fast, hit loud, and leave nothing floating but splinters.”

He flashed a grin, all teeth and ego. “You gliders can flap around all you want. Doesn’t mean you’re making waves.”

A scarred ray flicked it tail in response. “Terrorizing and showing off. Classic orca behavior.”

“Aw, come on,” The orca rolled its eyes, ‟Still mad I outpaced you back at that kelp trench?”

“Still mad you exist,” one of the rays muttered.

Zephyrus, now back from orbit and completely unbothered by having been swatted into the next time zone, perked up with a manic grin.

“At least we don’t look like we’re overcompensating for a very disappointing blowhole.”

Silence fell.

Even the sea seemed to cringe.

The orca blinked once. Slowly. Then let out a disgusted mutter.

“…Grow up before you say things like that.”

Then he flipped his tail and sank beneath the water without another word.

Zephra called sweetly after him, “Send our regards to your therapist!”

The rays snickered. One let out a full-body ripple of laughter. Even Percy cracked a grin.

Then Zephra turned, smacking her brother clean on the head, shoving him under with a well-aimed wing.

“I have the worst brother.”

A bubbly voice rose from below.

“I have the best sister!”

And with that, they arrowed forward—six fugitives on the backs of shadows.

Oreithyia’s ride soon started grunting under her weight.

“Oof. She’s made of granite or what—”

“Hey!” Percy barked, jabbing a finger. “Don’t be rude!”

He caught Oreithyia’s eye—calm, unreadable, oblivious.

Right. She hadn’t understood a word.

Percy winced.

“Never mind.”

He patted the ray’s back. “Just swim.”

Behind them, the deck of the Epsiolon Horizon roared louder—angry voices, pounding boots, orders shouted through cupped hands.

The splashs behind them didn’t scare Percy.

The revving engines did.

Percy looked back, heart hammering.

Motorboats.

Ten of them hit the water. Sleek and fast, already roaring after them like hounds loosed for the kill.

“Faster!” Percy shouted. “Please—faster!”

The plea tore from his throat, barely rising over the engines snarling behind them.

Zephra clicked low in her throat, then shot back without missing a beat. “Sure thing, princeling. Hold on to your spleen.”

And the ocean blurred.

The rays surged forward in unison, wings slapping harder against the sea. Spray burst in every direction. Percy gritted his teeth and crouched lower, wind ripping at his soaked shirt.

The boats were gaining. White foam churned in their wake, guards braced at the prows—shouting, pointing, one even drawing a sword like that was going to help at thirty knots.

On his left, Glikis clung to her ray with both arms and one leg. “Are we winning? I don’t think we’re winning—!”

“Shut up, Glikis,” Oreithyia snapped, arms locked tight around her ray’s back. Her jaw was clenched. Her skin looked a little greener than usual.

Her ray was starting to lag.

And Percy knew—if the guards caught up, she’d be the first they’d reach.

Percy could see the guards now—standing at the front of the boats, grinning like they already had them netted. Too close.

Percy let go of Zephra, keeping balance with only his legs and reached into the sea—into that humming place behind his ribs that sometimes answered when he called. He didn’t have a plan. Just panic and water and too many people to protect.

He pulled.

The ocean jerked.

The nearest boat slammed into a sudden wall of rising water and skidded sideways. One of the guards lost his footing and vanished overboard with a scream.

“Yes!” Percy barked.

But the second boat roared past the stalled one. The third came in even faster. Another guard braced on the prow, crouched low, arms reaching—

Percy reached again—desperate, wild—but the sea slipped through his grip, too wild to hold. His heart raced, hands shaking as he tried to get it under his control.

The guard lunged, hand outstretched—

Straight for Oreithyia.

And then—

A flash of bronze.

The guard jerked.

He made a sound—half gasp, half gargle—and staggered.

Three prongs emerged from his chest as a weapon skewered him brom behind.

For one long heartbeat, everything stopped.

Then his body tipped backward into the sea, leaving only ripples behind.

Chapter Text

The sea exploded.

Like a battlefield had been hiding just under the surface and someone pulled the pin.

Warriors burst upward in a tidal wave of bronze and rage—dozens of them, maybe hundreds, all gleaming like a shoal of knives. Their skin shimmered in colors Percy didn’t even know the ocean had—stormcloud grey, reef-green, deep abyssal blue—and every one of them was armed to the gills.

Literally.

Gills flared at their necks like battle crests.

And the tails.

Holy—uh—Poseidon's mustache? Beard? Fin? Whatever—THE TAILS.

Long and sleek and muscular, more weapon than body, scaled in colors that made Percy’s eyes water.

Every rider sat atop a seahorse the size of chargers—war-hardened beasts with armored flanks and brine-steam snorting from their nostrils. Harpoons dangled from their bridles.

One leapt out of the water with enough force to slam bodily into a motorboat, sending it spinning.

A harpoon pierced a windshield and took the driver with it.

One merman cleared a boat in three strikes. Bronze and bone cracked fiberglass. Blood slicked the foam.

The chase dissolved into slaughter and Percy didn’t move. Couldn’t. His brain had left the chat—and some darker, deeper part of him had taken over.

It wasn’t fear. It felt like awe, sharpened to a knife’s edge.

A thrill curled in his chest. He liked this. The way the sea turned savage for him.

Then came the call.

A single, deep note split the air—long an round and ancient, like the ocean itself had just exhaled after holding its breath for a thousand years.

Percy’s bones hummed with it. He felt it in his ribs, his teeth, his lungs.

The sea swelled.

Currents shifted. Waves reared up, pulled taut like breath held too long.

Then—rupture.

A chariot erupted from the deep, dragged by twin golden seahorses the size of bulls. Their manes whipped like underwater fire. Gemstone-studded bridles caught the sun and threw it back like shrapnel. Every kick of their tails churned the sea into a froth that smelled like salt and wrath.

The rider stood tall in the crashing spray, holding a conch shell to his lips—long and pearlescent. As the final note faded, he lowered it, and the waves seemed to still.

Blue-green armor clung to him like a second skin—scaled like a serpent’s hide,and gleaming bronze along the edges. His hair streamed like riverweed in a current, crowned with a circlet of coral and hammered bronze. Water coiled around his limbs like living chains.

And below the waist—two powerful tails, twin coils of muscle and scales.

The mermen pulled back as he passed them—reins drawn, weapons lowered, the battlefield folding open before him.

The rider’s gaze swept the sea—and landed on Percy. Just a flick of those glowing eyes, sharp and assessing. Then he turned back to the incoming bad guys.

Percy stayed frozen, breath tight in his chest, water dripping down his face, heart pounding like it had been handed new instructions.

From his left, Oreithyia whistled a low, approving noise. “You’ve got powerful connections, child.”

Kyma’s eyes followed the chariot, her voice barely louder than the hush before a wave breaks. “Fools, to think they could afford to make an enemy out of the ocean.” She reached out, resting a hand lightly on Percy’s shoulder. “We were lucky the tide brought you to us.”

Percy flushed. “I—I wasn’t even sure anyone would come.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out weird and tight. His heart felt full to the brim, sloshing with something warm and sharp all at once.

His father had listened.

A god had listened to Percy and sent help his way.

And that god was his father.

He might never say it out loud, but the thought burned bright enough to carry him through anything.

The rider raised one arm, and a stream of guttural syllables poured from his mouth—full of salt and teeth, like they’d been scrapped off the ocean floor and set on fire.

The mermen moved at once.

All but one peeled off, diving like spears, weapons dragging streaks through the water. The last of the motorboats didn’t stand a chance—one blink, and they were sinking. Hulls shattered. Screams cut short. Guards flung overboard like discarded trash.

Then the swarm turned, regrouped, and surged toward the cargo ship in a single arc of bronze and rage, streaking through the water like a thrown net already tightening.

And at their head—still terrifying—the rider on his chariot.

the rider drove his chariot through the chaos like he was born from it. His tails lashed the sea behind him, twin coils slamming rhythm into the waves. His seahorses surged forward, golden manes flaring, bridles snapping with pressure.

The ocean obeyed him.

Every wave bent toward his will—rising, folding, crashing with precision. His trident moved like a baton, each arc a new burst of ruin. Hulls split. Steel buckled. Water bloomed red.

Suddenly, another horn pierced the air. Not the deep call of a conch. This was brighter. Brassier. Almost smug—like it knew it was arriving late just to make an entrance.

Percy turned.

And saw gold cresting the waves.

His heart exploded.

On the far side of the cargo ship, parting the sea like vengeance incarnate, came the gleaming hull of Chrysaor’s trireme. Sunlight caught its golden plating and shattered into brilliance—a streak of fire on the water. The oars pummeled the sea like war drums, rising and crashing in a furious rhythm.

At the bow, the gorgon figurehead lifted her head with regal fury, hair of sculpted snakes gleaming like molten crowns, jaw set like she dared anything to meet her gaze and survive it.

Percy lit up.

He came!

The trireme looked like something out of a fever dream. Fire and thunder, rescue and rage, all wrapped in gold and headed straight for them like the ocean owed it a debt.

Percy threw his arms in the air and whooped, absolutely delirious. “CHRYSAORRRRR!”

Chrysaor.

Sword-swinging, ocean-conquering, dramatic-entrance-making Chrysaor.

Percy had imagined this moment a thousand different ways. Nightmares, daydreams, desperate what-ifs—but this?

This was better.

Every inch of him burned—chest, cheeks, fingertips. His legs actually kicked in the water, like he could swim to meet the ship faster if he tried hard enough.

He leaned forward, already urging Zephra. “Go—bring me closer—”

She started to turn, reading the shift in him before he even finished the words.

And then—

A hand clamped onto the edge of her wing.

Zephra’s wings flared like twin blades, and she let out a string of very creative language.

“Get your crusty, kelp-fondling mitts off me, you limp-finned, eel-breath little barnacle spawn—”

The merman left behind did not spare her a single look, instead fixing Percy with an unerving gaze. He spoke in that same low, guttural language as his boss.

“Marestê, diamathas anduran ummai rikhā.”

Percy blinked. “That’s... not helpful.”

Beneath him, Zephra twisted sharply, trying to shake the merman’s grip off her wing.

“—Oh, I see how it is. You think just ’cause you’ve got a shiny tail and a discount blade you can manhandle me? Try that again and I’ll knot your gills shut, you pompous sea-worm—”

Percy tried to nudge them forward. “C’mon, just let us through—”

The merman blocked him again. Eyes impassive. Unmoving.

Percy frowned. “Seriously? He’s my brother.”

“Is he dumb, or just decorative?” Zephra snapped. “I swear on the next trench I see, I will drag you down and wedge you in it headfirst.”

No response.

Zephra’s wing gave a violent twitch. Percy wobbled, clutching tighter, trying not to get yeeted.

“Zephra—can you not—”

She was still going. “I’ll tie your tail in knots and hang you from a reef like discarded netting. I’ve left prettier things stuck to propellers.”

Time to deploy the heavy artillery.

Percy widened his eyes. Tilted his head.

Ultimate baby seal mode: activated.

The merman blinked once. Then gave a small shake of the head.

“Duarkh.”

Zephra let out a sound of absolute disgust.

“Duarkh this, you crusted-up limp-fin. May your trident rust and your scales fall off in public.”

Percy slumped, clinging to her back as she thrashed in outrage beneath him.

“Thanks for nothing, M. Grumpgills,” he muttered. “I hope you fall off your fish.”

Kyma glided closer, her ray silent beneath her. She reached out and laid a hand on Percy’s back.

“He’s only following orders, Percy,” she said, trying to calm him. “Things will go faster if we stay out of their way.”

Percy didn’t look back. He just let his face flatten into Zephra’s body and groaned. “Yeah, yeah. Reason and logic. Love that for us.”

Zephra gave a sudden, forceful buckle, trying once again to shake the merman off. “I do not love that for me. I could be mauling someone right now.”

“Danva duarkh,” the guard murmured, looking dejected—but not relenting his grip on Zephra’s wing.

Stranded on a ray like a soggy backpack, Percy was condemned to watch the coolest battle in sea history from afar. The view wasn’t even great. Mostly flashes of gold, waves, and a lot of very dramatic splashing.

But even that was enough to dampen his mood.

Because Chrysaor?

Was on fire.

Not literally. (Tragic.) But the way he tore across that deck—sword gleaming, cape flying, probably yelling something heroic Percy couldn't hear over the roar of battle and crashing waves—it was art. He swung from the mast ropes with his crew, leaping across the gap like gravity was more of a suggestion. They landed on the cargo ship in bursts of motion—swords out, boots slamming down, all synchronized like some kind of violent ballet that made Percy clutch Zephra and gasp out loud.

“Ohhhhhhhhhh.”

Zephra jerked beneath him. “What? What’s happening?!”

“Don’t you see?!”

“No, sponge-skull, my eyes are under my body. I’m looking at bubbles.”

“Oh.” Percy blinked. “Right. Well—you’re missing everything and it’s incredible and I’m going to describe it now, hold on—”

He inhaled like he was about to argue his way out of time-out.

“Chrysaor’s sword’s doing that spinny thing that shouldn’t work but it does, because it’s him, and he just blocked a spear with his shoulder because apparently he’s made of rage and gold, and now—oh, oh!—he grabbed a guy by the shirt and threw him into a pile of crates! And he’s moving again—he ducked under someone’s blade, slashed their ankle, turned it into a spin move—he’s doing a pirate twirl, that’s a real thing now—he kicked a dude in the chest, with both feet, and now he’s back on his feet like it was choreographed, and—wait—he just caught a dagger in midair and threw it back without looking—that’s my brother!!!!”

He sucked in a wheeze of air, completely red in the face.

Zephra let out a long, low whistle. “Okay. I’m invested.”

A wet thump echoed from the distance as someone was definitely launched overboard.

“Okay—okay—he just elbowed a guy in the jaw, disarmed him mid-spin, and used the sword he caught to block another attack from behind—how did he know that was coming?!”

Zephra made a curious hum beneath him. Percy didn’t slow down.

“Now he’s parrying two at once, and he’s not even breaking a sweat—he ducked a punch, headbutted the guy in the stomach, and kicked him in the knee while still holding the other guy’s sword! Who is this man?! My brother! That’s who he is!”

Another distant crash, and Percy’s voice cracked with glee.

“HE JUST SLAPPED A DAGGER OUT OF THE AIR WITH THE FLAT OF HIS BLADE AND STABBED THE GUY WITH IT. Same motion. Same motion! Did you see—wait, no—you can’t, but still!”

Percy smacked Zephra’s back, gasping.

“Oh my gods, he dropped to the floor—he’s doing the slidey move, the one under the table legs—there isn’t any table, but it still works! He knocked three guys down with one sweep! Three!”

He finally stopped to breathe, face flushed, chest heaving.

Zephra, deadpan beneath him, said, “You okay up there, or do I need to start fanning you with my wings?”

He wheezed. “I think I’m gonna pass out. He’s just too cool.”

The mermen weren’t slacking either—grappling hooks flew like reverse fishing lines, snaring guards around the waist, ankle, throat. Anyone dumb enough to get near the railing got yoinked into the sea with a splash and a scream. The water was hungry, and they were feeding it bad guys.

Behind Percy, Bakkhe leaned forward with a delighted hiss. “Yes. Let them drown with their screams still trapped in their throats. Let the sea chew the bones clean and the tide carry their guilt back to shore.”

Percy scrunched up his face, trying to match her mood. “Yeah. And—and may their eyeballs float like jellyfish and get eaten by, uh, nightmare eels... With knives for teeth.”

The other nymphs turned to look at him. Disturbed. Deeply.

Bakkhe, on the other hand, looked delighted.

She reached forward and patted him—square on the side of the head, like a cat checking if a box was alive.

“We will make a terror out of you yet.”

Percy beamed, sharp teeth flashing. “Awesome.”

A scream echoed from the cargo ship—cut short.

One of the guards tried to run. A pair of dolphin-headed sailors cut him off—one sweeping his legs out from under him, the other slamming into his chest and launching him clean over the railing. He vanished into the bloodied surf with a splash and a scream.

Hortensia, perched high on her ray, didn’t say a word. But her eyes were locked on the chaos like she was memorizing it—every motion, every fall, every drop of red.

Kyma’s hand had stayed on Percy’s shoulder. Her gaze didn’t waver from the battle.

“They thought themselves untouchable,” she murmured. “But the sea doesn’t care for pride.” She gave Percy the ghost of a smile—sharp as a fin just beneath the surface. “It only drowns it.”

Glikis swayed beside her, fingers curled over her heart, gaze fluttery and faraway. She let out a breathy little sigh as a man was launched screaming into the sea.

“I want to marry the golden one,” Glikis said dreamily at her side.

Percy turned, scandalized. “That’s my brother.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t ask first.”

And then before Percy could launch himself in a tirade in defence of Chrysaor’s virtue—

Chariot-guy did something that broke Percy’s brain in half.

His twin tails whipped the sea into a frenzy, launching him skyward in a column of foam and force that lit the air with spray. The golden seahorses reared beneath the chariot and veered away, braying like war trumpets as he abandoned them mid-charge.

“Whoa,” Percy whispered.

Water spiraled around him like a living suit of armor, the sun catching on his scaled chestplate in a blinding flare of green and bronze. His hair streamed behind him like a stormcloud caught in a hurricane. For a second, he just hung there—suspended over the battlefield like he was judging the ship from above.

Then he dropped.

The upper deck exploded.

Wood screamed. Bad guys went flying. The railing shattered in a rain of splinters.

“OH COME ON!” Percy howled, practically vibrating. “THAT WAS AWESOME!”

“I heard that one,” Zephra muttered. “My ribs heard it.”

And then—it was over.

The rider moved through the wreckage like the eye of a storm. One final sweep of his trident, and the last of the guards surrendered like someone had cut the strings holding them up.

Then, once again, the conch sounded—low and deep, echoing across the water like the end of a sentence.

The stone-faced merman—Percy’s personal joy-stealer—immediately let go of Zephra’s wing.

Percy didn’t wait.

“Let’s go!” he shouted, already clutching the edge of her wing like a kid hanging off a subway pole. “I’ve been dreaming about this since forever. I need this. I deserve this.”

Zephra didn’t need more than that. She dove like a missile with a grudge, and the sea split ahead of them.

Percy barely had time to hang on before the world turned into bubbles and speed. She plunged deep, then angled up—water slicing past his face—and launched.

They shot out of the sea in a burst of spray, Zephra twisting at the apex to give him the best possible angle.

Percy flew.

And okay, he might’ve flailed a little—just for stability. And his landing wasn’t exactly how he’d planned. Maybe it was less “legendary superhero” and more “feral spaghetti noodle.”

But he landed.

Slid a little. Scraped his elbow. Stuck the last three steps like a champ.

He was onboard.

Panting. Grinning.

And ready.

He had one goal and it was gold-plated.

Percy bolted forward with everything he had—legs pumping, lungs burning, past the wreckage, past the groaning bodies, past the smell of salt and smoke and blood.

He launched himself without warning, mid-sprint, arms wide, all elbows and knees and motion.

And Chrysaor caught him.

Chapter Text

Chrysaor caught him.

One second Percy was mid-air—all flailing limbs and bad decisions energy—and the next, he slammed into warmth and gold and solid chestplate.

Arms locked around him like a fortress.

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

Then—

‟Miss me, Guppy?”

Percy exhaled.

Not a sob. Not even a whimper. Just a breath that cracked something wide open inside him, like a wave collapsing after holding too long against the shore.

He curled tighter.

Fists clenched in Chrysaor’s armor. Legs wrapped around his waist like he planned to stay there forever. He shook. Quietly. Violently. All over.

Chrysaor said nothing else.

Just held him.

One arm under his knees. One across his back. A steady hand braced between his shoulder blades, like he could press all the broken pieces back into place by force alone.

No “You’re okay.”

No “It’s over.”

Just a physical here. I’ve got you.

Percy pressed his cheek against the sun-warmed curve of Chrysaor’s collar. Tried to breathe. In, out. In, out. His body wasn’t listening. It still vibrated like his bones had been wired for emergency mode and didn’t know how to power down.

All he knew was that he was here.

In his brother’s arms.

And safe.

“I knew you would,” Percy mumbled, so soft it barely counted as sound. “I knew you’d come.”

Chrysaor’s fingers tightened—just a little. But it said everything.

Then he shifted, tucking Percy higher like he could shield him from the world with his whole body.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” he murmured. “Not in a thousand tides.”

Percy scrunched in even closer, somehow. His shoulder bumped awkwardly against the golden mask, and for once, he didn’t care that he couldn’t see Chrysaor’s face. He could feel it. In the arms that held him—anchor and anchorless at once.

It wasn’t soft.

Chrysaor didn’t do soft.

But it was solid. Fierce. Like he’d punched the world in the mouth just to get here.

Percy burrowed in deeper, clutching his brother like the world might disappear again if he let go. Like maybe he could stop shaking, if he just held on hard enough. Maybe the thundering in his chest would calm. Maybe he’d stop expecting the sky to fall on his head.

Chrysaor didn’t rush him.

Didn’t loosen his hold.

He just stood there—boots planted in blood and wreckage, sword on his back, completely unfazed by the fact that he was holding one soggy, trembling, seven-year-old limpet with abandonment issues.

And honestly?

Percy wasn’t planning on letting go until someone pried him off.

But now that the trembling had eased—just a little—and the breath in his lungs wasn’t all panic and seawater, his brain finally kicked back online.

He pulled back, just enough to peer up at Chrysaor’s mask. “Wait. How did you find me? They took your drachma from me.”

Chrysaor tilted his head toward the wreckage-strewn deck.

Toward the golden Chrysler, parked like it was the prize pig at a county fair.

“I tracked that.”

Percy blinked. Then squinted. “The car? You tracked your car?”

“It’s gold too.”

A pause.

A long, heavy pause.

Then everything hit Percy all at once—like a very salty bucket to the face. The panic. The spiraling. Every desperate, hopeless second he’s believed no one was coming.

He could’ve avoided all of it.

If he’d only realised that of course Chrysaor would’ve had a magical Find Me setting on his golden monstrosity of a car.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again with a full-body inhale.

“Okay. You know what? No. No, we are doing this.”

Chrysaor tensed slightly. “Doing what?”

“The lecture I’ve been mentally drafting since I got thrown into a cage because somebody left a one-of-a-kind, gold-plated, flashy car just sitting there—unattended! Unlocked! With the keys in the ignition!”

Chrysaor made a noise of protest, but Percy steamrolled right over it.

“Oh, no. You don’t get to interrupt. You invited this moment the second you parked it like bait for mythological carjackers.”

Chrysaor muttered something under his breath.

Percy ignored it. “I told you to take me with you. Multiple times! But nooooo. You said—what did you say? Go on. Say it.”

Chrysaor sighed. “I said, ‘Who’s gonna be stupid enough to steal from me?’”

“EXACTLY,” Percy roared, throwing a hand in the air like he was conducting divine judgment. “Like that was a defense! Like fear of your general vibe was stronger than greed or black market resale value!”

He pointed dramatically at the Chrysler. “It sparkles, Chrysaor. It has gorgon rims. You parked it unlocked like it was a trust exercise!

“It was in a luxury building parking.”

Percy gaped at him. “Oh no, not luxury! How secure! Let me guess, you thought the valet was gonna throw himself in front of a criminal out of loyalty to your brand?!”

Chrysaor grumbled. “I didn’t think anyone would be dumb enough—”

Percy was full-blown vibrating now.

“You said it was safe! You made me promise to stay put because you were so sure your car had divine immunity! Like it was guarded by sharks with swords for teeth!”

Chrysaor winced. “Okay, but—”

“HE STOLE IT IN UNDER A MINUTE, CHRYSAOR.”

Chrysaor tried, weakly, “I left it in a corner spot—”

“WITH THE KEYS IN THE IGNITION!”

“That’s not—look, you’re exaggerating—”

“I watched him start the engine. From under your coat.”

“Oh.”

Percy buried his face in Chrysaor’s shoulder—rage storage—then popped back up with a snarl.

“BECAUSE YOU LEFT THE KEYS IN THE IGNITION!”

Chrysaor groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “I didn’t think Eurybatus would have the guts.”

“HE KIDNAPS NYMPHS FOR PROFIT!”

“Well—he never stole from me before—”

Percy threw his arms wide. “YOU HAD JUST HUMILIATED HIM THE DAY BEFORE. Of course he had the guts! You embarrassed him, mocked him, probably wounded his tiny little smuggler ego—and then left your stupid car in the open with your little brother inside!”

He jabbed at the air—incensed, relentless, seething.

“And because it deserves to be repeated many, many times—you left it…”

He stabbed the air with each word:

“WITH. THE. KEYS. IN. THE. IGNITION.”

Chrysaor opened his mouth. Then thought better of it.

Percy folded his arms with an indignant huff. “Honestly, I’m amazed you didn’t leave a welcome mat that said ‘Free Child Inside, Please Take One.’”

Chrysaor stood there—shoulders sagging, arms limp—like a man who knew the jury had returned, and the verdict was ‘you absolute idiot.’

He mumbled, barely audible through the mask, “You’re never gonna let me live this down.”

Percy didn’t even blink. “Not in this lifetime. Or the next. Or the one after that. I’m going to tell this story at your funeral.”

Chrysaor sighed. “I’m immortal.”

“My mother is gonna learn about it.”

Chrysaor froze. “...Yeah, I’m dead.”

Percy leaned back, smugness oozing off him in a way that should be illegal at his age. “Don’t worry. Your wake will be epic. I’m giving a full reading of this saga at your eulogy. Chapter titles. Dramatic pauses. Maybe a slideshow.”

“I said I’m sorry—”

“No, you didn’t!”

“I am sorry.”

“Too late! You owe me a lifetime supply of trauma counseling.”

There was a beat.

Chrysaor let out a long-suffering groan and dropped his head forward—bonking the golden mask gently against Percy’s brow.

“You’re the worst,” he muttered.

Percy, glowing with righteous victory, leaned his cheek against the mask. “And don’t you forget it.”

They stood there for a beat, the storm passed, just breathing.

Then Chrysaor shifted his grip and drew Percy in—slowly, fully—until every part of him was gathered close.

“I’m glad I found you,” he said softly.

Percy didn’t answer right away.

He nestled closer, fitting perfectly into the space Chrysaor made for him.

“I knew you would,” he murmured at last, voice small and sure.

Chrysaor nodded—barely more than a tilt. But it meant everything. “Always.”

There was no rush. No pressure to move or speak or explain. Just two steady heartbeats, wrapped in gold and sea air.

And Percy—finally, fully—felt safe.

Behind them, someone cleared their throat. Twice. Then thrice. It was a whole cough symphony.

Chrysaor sighed through his nose like a man personally victimized by the concept of interruptions.

“Not now.”

The throat-clearing intensified.

Percy shifted slightly—not enough to loosen his grip, because he had no intention of detaching—but just enough to glance around.

There, hovering a respectful distance away and looking painfully awkward, was Bubbles.

His arm was halfway up in a kind of apologetic wave, like hi sorry hello yes I know you’re having a moment but also war crimes paperwork.

Of course it was Bubbles.

Percy had missed him too. He had missed every single member of Chrysaor’s crew.

Bubbles tried again—a cough? A squeak? Honestly, it was impressive how expressive he could be with a face permanently locked in enthusiastic cheer.

Chrysaor tilted his head toward him with the slow, exhausted menace of a man who had exactly five seconds of patience left.

“What.”

Bubbles gestured behind him. Paused. Then gestured again, a little more frantically.

Chrysaor didn’t move.

Bubbles gave the dolphin equivalent of a wince. Then he leaned in close and said, very quietly, “He’s waiting.”

Chrysaor’s jaw flexed.

Still barnacled to his brother’s armor, Percy blinked up. “Who’s he?”

Bubbles pointed toward the far end of the deck—where the prisoners had been gathered in a miserable, dripping cluster, watched over by a dozen armed dolphin-headed sailors.

And at the front of it all, arms folded, expression like a thundercloud carved from coral—

Stood him.

Chariot guy.

Except now he had legs.

Bronze-green armor hugged his frame like forged seafoam, and the circlet still clung to his brow, water dripping from his hair in lazy rivulets. He stood like someone who didn’t need a throne to prove anything.

He was watching them.

Hard.

Percy froze.

The man looked...less like someone who’d just exploded half a deck and more like someone who was judging the efficiency of that explosion.

Like maybe he’d expected cleaner lines. More precision. Fewer hugs.

“He wants you to come,” Bubbles added, eyes flicking back to Chrysaor. “To decide the prisoners’ fate.”

“Of course he does,” Chrysaor muttered. “Wouldn’t be satisfying if nobody showed up to spectate. What is he now? A herald?”

He barked a laugh—short, smug, clearly pleased with himself.

Percy gave him a blank look.

Chrysaor sighed through his nose. “Typical.”

He looked to Bubbles—who stood there absolutely motionless, arms pinned to his sides like he’d sooner drown than risk getting caught even thinking about chuckling.

Percy’s brother huffed.

The moment passed.

Chrysaor adjusted his grip, turned to face the other end of the deck—

“He’s got legs,” Percy blurted, scandalized.

“He does that,” Chrysaor muttered. “Don’t ask. He’s dramatic.”

Percy stared. “Are we not dramatic?”

Chrysaor started walking—Percy still wrapped around him like high-stakes cling wrap.

“We’re passionate.”

The silence stretched as they drew closer.

Percy could feel chariot-guy’s eyes on him—sharp as a harpoon, weighty in a way that made his spine try to sit up straighter without permission.

He peeked around Chrysaor’s shoulder again, and—yep. Still terrifying.

The man radiated authority. Each line of his posture was rigid, every inch of him carved from storm and coral. Even the seawater dripping from his hair felt judgmental.

Percy swallowed. The closer they got, the more it felt like approaching a tsunami that had chosen—very deliberately—not to crash down. Yet.

Halfway through Chrysaor slowing to a stop, Percy blinked, startledd, and remembered he had manners.

“Um,” he said, trying very hard not to sound like he was still being cradled like a particularly needy koala. “Thank you. For, uh. Saving us. Sir.”

Chrysaor didn’t comment, but Percy could feel the subtle shift of his chest—like he was holding back a snort.

The man didn’t respond. Just stared down at Percy with a face as expressive as barnacle-encrusted stone.

Percy pressed on, determined. “And also, I—I saw you fighting. You were really impressive. With the, uh. Trident stuff. It was cool.”

The compliment tanked so hard he was surprised the sea didn’t spit it back up.

The man simply said, voice clipped and even, “I was fulfilling my duty.”

Percy nodded a little too quickly. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

But something warm curled up in his chest anyway.

Because he knew what that meant.

Poseidon had sent this guy.

He tightened his arms around Chrysaor’s neck and tried again, voice a little stronger this time.

“Still,” he said, “your timing was really good. You and your army. If you hadn’t come when you did...”

He trailed off. He didn’t need to finish.

The man inclined his head.

Barely a movement.

But enough.

Percy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, feeling better now that his thanks had been accepted.

Percy had barely finished settling back down in Chrysaor’s arms when his brother cut in—like he’d been holding back a rant and couldn’t wait another breath to let it rip.

“Well,” Chrysaor said, tilting his head with theatrical scorn, “I’m shocked you dragged yourself off that coral throne long enough to slum it with the rest of us. Must’ve been hard—climbing all the way up from your palace to rumble with the rabble.”

The man didn’t so much as blink. “Unlike some, I don’t shirk my responsibilities.”

Okay.

That was… tense.

Percy blinked between them, still bundled in Chrysaor’s arms. He hadn’t expected the sudden frost. Or the way his brother’s grip tightened slightly, like someone had poked a scar that hadn’t quite healed.

And then, it really began.

“You always did like that word,” Chrysaor said, teeth grinding behind the mask. “Responsibility. You swing it like a sword. Or a leash. Depends on the day.”

“It’s a concept you might want to try understanding,” the man shot back. “You can’t just vanish into obscurity for centuries and then act surprised when someone competent has to clean up after you.”

“Oh, I’m not surprised. Cleaning up is your favorite thing—cleaning, correcting, controlling—gods forbid someone breathe without your permission.”

“It’s called discipline.”

“It’s called choking the life out of everything you touch.”

Percy’s head ping-ponged between them like he was watching a particularly tennis match. Or a schoolyard fight. If the schoolyard was divine. And everyone had weapons.

Was this normal ocean warrior behavior?

If so, someone should’ve definitely mentioned the dramatic sibling energy.

“You shouldn’t be entrusted with anything,” the man snapped. “Let alone a child.”

Chrysaor scoffed. “Please. You’d put a tracking collar on him and a leash made of regulations. If the world ended tomorrow, you’d file a report.”

“That’s because protocol—”

“Oh here we go. Protocol. You are a one-man parade of pomp and procedure.”

“At least I have structure.”

“At least I have a personality.”

Percy blinked.

Wow.

He was still in Chrysaor’s arms, but honestly he wasn’t even thinking about getting down. This was gold.

Percy’s shoulders shook with a barely contained snicker.

Gold.

Chrysaor.

He was hilarious.

They were still going. Every word a spear, every retort sharper than the last. Percy shifted slightly to get a better view—one face, one very angry golden mask—and mentally started keeping score.

Point to the terrifying chariot-guy for the “child” comment. Brutal. Clean hit.

Point to Chrysaor for the leash bit. Percy was 90% sure it was accurate.

Double point for “one-man parade of pomp and procedure.” That one sang.

Then—

Chrysaor scoffed. “What’s the point of being heir to an immortal king anyway? That’s not a legacy. That’s a waiting game with no finish line.”

Oof.

Direct hit.

A muscle ticked in the other man’s jaw. “Father entrusted me with everything he holds dear.”

Percy’s brows shot up.

That sounded… loaded.

He looked between them again.

Wait.

Father?

He squinted.

His brain started stitching pieces together. Slowly. Suspiciously.

They paused—both of them still, just long enough for Percy to realize how out of breath they were. Not panting, but close. Like they were trying really hard to pretend they weren’t winded.

Then, in the most dramatic tone Percy had ever heard—and he’d met nymphs who cried like opera singers sang arias—Chrysaor flung a hand out toward chariot-guy with all the grace of someone introducing a villain at a dinner party.

“Guppy,” he announced, voice positively dripping with sarcasm, “I present to you Triton—God of the Waves, royal mouthpiece of the Deep, heir to the throne of Atlantis… our perfect brother. Poseidon’s first draft.”

Chapter Text

Percy gaped.

He looked at Triton—coral crown, ocean-glinting armor, the kind of presence that made you feel like your bones needed to stand straighter just being near him—and then back at Chrysaor.

Then back again.

And then he exploded.

“WAIT.”

He squirmed so hard in Chrysaor’s arms he nearly flopped out sideways. “WAITWAITWAIT—he’s—he’s—he’s our BROTHER?!”

Chrysaor made a noise—half sigh, half snort—and loosened his grip just enough for Percy to slither out like a particularly excited hermit crab abandoning its shell.

Percy didn’t even stop to find his footing. He landed in a squelch and popped right back up, pointing both hands at Triton like he was a limited-edition action figure come to life.

“You’re my brother?!”

He bounced on his heels. Stars in his eyes. Entire body vibrating like a shaken soda can.

“This is the best day ever—I have two big brothers??”

He skidded forward, arms wide, spinning, miming Triton’s epic trident entrance with full-body dramatics—hands flying, feet skittering, his face a mask of Very Serious Concentration™.

“I saw you—whoosh!—and then you did the—schoom!—and the deck just—BOOM!” He spun in a delighted circle, arms thrown out like he could hug the whole sky.

“You’re almost as cool as Chrysaor!” he finished brightly, practically vibrating with joy.

Then—arms still wide open—Percy looked up.

Beaming.

Glowing.

Waiting.

Hug incoming in three… two…

He blinked.

Triton was staring at him like he’d just clogged the royal plumbing.

The joy in Percy’s chest hiccupped.

“I—I’m Percy,” he said, still trying to hold the smile in place. “I guess we’re—um—family now?”

He took a step closer.

Triton’s face didn’t change. Not a flicker.

Then something shifted in the background—someone moved, or coughed, or breathed wrong—and Triton’s head turned like a compass needle locking onto a new target.

And just like that, he walked away.

No nod. No wave. No hey-there-kiddo.

Nothing.

Just turned and left like Percy hadn’t even been talking. Like he wasn’t still standing there, arms open, grinning like a dork.

Percy’s arms stayed open for a second too long.

Then another.

And then—

He blinked rapidly.

Lowered them, slow and unsure, like maybe if he moved gently enough, the moment wouldn’t shatter.

But it did.

His chest felt weird. Tight. Like the excitement had popped and left all the air behind it sour and hollow.

He stared at the empty space where Triton had been. At the perfect, straight-backed walk that didn’t so much as twitch.

“Oh,” Percy said.

Barely a sound. Like it fell out of him by accident.

He looked down at his shoes—muddy, half-untied, still squelching from saltwater and panic and running.

“Maybe he doesn’t like hugs,” he mumbled.

Tiny voice. The kind you don’t mean anyone to hear.

The kind that almost gets lost in the wind.

But suddenly—

Warm fingers against his cheek.

Gentle.

Grounding.

Chrysaor was kneeling beside him.

He tilted his head—just enough for the gold of his mask to line up with Percy’s eyes.

Percy couldn’t see his face. But he imagined it behind the mask. Eyes like his. Gentle, and furious, and sad.

“Don’t take that personally, Guppy,” Chrysaor said, voice low and scratchy, like something scraped off the seafloor. “Triton doesn’t like anyone.”

Percy’s mouth pulled tight. He didn’t answer. Didn’t trust his voice.

Chrysaor’s thumb brushed just under his eye. Not quite wiping a tear. Just… waiting, in case it came.

“He’s the only trueborn son of Poseidon,” he said. Not soft. Not angry. Just... there. “The one who grew up in the palace. Under the sea. With a throne already promised.”

Percy sniffed. His throat hurt.

“He doesn’t like us bastards,” Chrysaor added.

He said it flat. Like it was just a fact.

Like Percy couldn’t feel his own hurt echoing in his words.

Chrysaor’s fingers curled a little tighter on his cheek—just enough to say but I do.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “You were perfect.”

And Percy just… sagged.

Not all at once. Just a slow, tired unraveling. Like something inside him had stopped pretending it was fine.

Chrysaor caught him again.

Held him close, kneeling in the mess, letting Percy hide his face in his shoulder. Letting him stay small and tired and not okay for a minute longer.

Then—

A soft, perfumed something wrapped around his back.

Percy blinked and peeked sideways, just enough to see greenish arms winding gently around him. A head leaned against his temple.

It was Glikis.

She was hugging him. Very seriously.

Like she was posing for the saddest oil painting ever.

“It’s okay,” she said solemnly. “Some people don’t deserve a hug.”

There was a pause.

Then she added, nodding a little like she was remembering something important.

“But you do. You deserve all the hugs.”

She gave him a squeeze for emphasis, arms tightening like a weighted blanket made of fragrant blooms and affection.

Percy sniffed again—half-laugh, half-sob—and melted into both of them.

But then he noticed the angle of her eyes.

Not on him.

On Chrysaor. Her lashes lowered. Her expression softened.

Oh no.

She was fluttering.

“Glikis,” Percy warned.

She batted her lashes once. “What?”

And then—of course—Chrysaor, like some kind of living, breathing problem, reached up and unbuckled his chest plate with one hand.

Before Percy could say anything, Hortensia’s voice floated over—calm, gentle, absolutely without shame.

“Don’t flirt during comfort time.”

Except—Percy squinted—she was definitely side-eying the triangle of golden chest exposed by the open lapels of Chrysaor’s pirate shirt while she said it.

“Seriously?!” he hissed.

Glikis patted his back like he was the one being unreasonable.

Bubbles let out a trill from beside Triton—something between a nervous chirp and a whistle—and called softly, “Captain.”

Chrysaor sighed, low and resigned, and turned toward the line of bedraggled prisoners still huddled under guard.

Percy groaned internally but started untangling himself from Glikis. He slid off the nymph hug pile and trotted after Chrysaor, trailing just behind his brother’s golden boots.

Behind him, the nymphs followed like some sort of —

Percy squinted.

Ducklings?

No. Wrong energy. They were too graceful. And way too tall.

He reconsidered.

Swanlings?

...Nope. That sounded fake.

Mermaid interns?

Too corporate.

Sea ballerinas?

Too twirly.

A nymph parade?

Too sparkly. And also kind of accurate. Ugh.

While trying to think of a term that didn’t make him sound like the baby of the group, he kept a sharp eye on his companions—just in case anyone decided to start swooning again.

Thankfully, only Glikis and Hortensia still looked like they were floating on golden chest fumes.

Glikis had a dreamy smile on. Hortensia… less dreamy, more evaluative. Like she was contemplating architecture.

The others, blessedly, seemed immune.

Oreithyia’s expression hadn’t changed once.

Kyma was too busy watching the prisoners like she planned to personally deliver judgment.

And Bakkhe was—Percy blinked—braiding seaweed into what looked like a noose. With her teeth.

Okay. Slightly unhinged. But that was just Bakkhe. Pretty normal, really.

Percy shook his head and picked up the pace to catch up with his brother.

Business first. Weird nymph stuff second.

They lined up in front of the prisoners. Chrysaor at the center, casual and deadly. Triton beside him, spine straight as a spear. Percy on the other side, squaring his shoulders and stepping into place like he belonged there.

Like his brothers.

Brothers. Plural.

How cool was that?

Even if one of them looked at him like he was a moldy kelp sprout someone had dragged onboard.

Okay. Now he was depressing himself.

Percy inhaled through his nose and focused harder. He copied Chrysaor’s stance with pinpoint accuracy—minus the whole towering presence and centuries of battle experience. He even threw in Triton’s death-glare for good measure.

Glikis made a cooing sound behind him. He ignored it.

He planted his feet. Clasped his hands behind his back. Lifted his chin.

He was steel. He was salt. (He was seven.)

The wind caught his hair and puffed out his too-big shirt like a bedsheet.

Someone from the prisoners’ cluster coughed.

Percy narrowed his eyes, glowering.

The effect was… less “ancient wrath of the sea,” more “displeased baby seal.”

But let’s not linger on that.

Then Triton turned toward him.

And the full force of those eyes hit like a rip current—

Intense. Icy. Heavy enough to make his lungs forget how air worked.

“Did any of them hurt you?” he asked.

Percy blinked.

So surprised to get his attention, his brain took an extra second to realize the question was meant for him.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Me? Oh. Uh—no. I’m fine. They didn’t—”

“If I may, my prince,” Kyma cut in.

She stepped forward with the kind of grace that made seafoam look clumsy, her voice smooth and formal. She bowed her head slightly to Triton before turning her gaze toward a particular spot on the deck.

The captain was slumped against a crate. Barely conscious. Face a ruin.

Percy felt a dull flicker of disappointment. Honestly, he should’ve hit harder.

Kyma’s eyes burned cold. Her voice stayed level. “That one intended to do... unspeakable things to the little prince.”

She paused. A heartbeat, no more.

Then added, softer—and sharper.

“He simply lacked the time.”

A sound tore from Chrysaor’s throat.

Raw. Brutal. Not meant for a human mouth.

His sword was half-drawn before Percy registered the movement. His feet already moving toward the captain—

“I will unmake him,” Chrysaor growled.

Not a shout. Not a threat.

A promise.

Triton’s arm shot out.

He caught Chrysaor by the bicep—quick, clean. Only one hand. No effort.

Chrysaor snarled. Strained. Muscles flexed under golden armor, every inch of him poised to destroy. But he didn’t break free.

Triton’s whole bearing had shifted. No words. No movement. Just pressure—like the sea pulling back before a tsunami.His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked in his temple. The tendons in his neck pulled taut like mooring ropes.

The silence around them felt thinner. Tighter. The moment stretched—pure tension, brittle and breathless.

Then—calm, absolute—Triton turned to the guards.

“Prepare him for transport,” he said. “He’s going to face the justice of the depths.”

A pair of armored sailors moved at once, yanking the man up by his arms. He didn’t resist—he couldn’t. He just groaned, dazed and broken, as they started binding him.

Triton let go.

And Chrysaor dropped to his knees like someone had snapped his strings.

Before Percy could blink, he was in inspection mode—one hand already on Percy’s shoulder, the other ghosting down his ribs, tapping here, pressing there, turning him like a living action figure.

“I’m fine,” Percy said, voice going slightly squeaky as Chrysaor tilted his chin and stared into his eyeballs like a possessed school nurse.

Chrysaor didn’t respond.

He was busy doing full-body diagnostics, complete with a forehead brush and a muttered curse that sounded suspiciously like, “Should gut everyone who laid hands on him.”

Percy huffed. “Seriously, it’s all healed. Sea water. Magic. I’m good.”

Chrysaor finally stopped—then, with no warning at all, scooped him up like he weighed nothing.

Percy made a noise that might’ve been a protest. Or a squeak. Or a “help.”

Too late.

He was already buried against golden armor, locked in a one-armed squeeze that clearly said: you are mine, and I will personally murder anyone who dares touch you.

Over his shoulder, Percy met Triton’s eyes.

Triton looked away immediately.

Too fast. Like someone who hadn’t meant to look.

And really hadn’t meant to get caught.

Then Chrysaor stood—securing Percy higher with one arm while his free hand dropped to his sword hilt like it lived there.

Then he spoke, low and deliberate. “You should give me five minutes with him.”

Triton’s jaw twitched. He made a vague gesture toward the captain—still being trussed up like driftwood with a seaweed gag slapped over his mouth. “You’ve already done enough damage.”

Chrysaor’s head tilted.

“I never touched him,” he said. And somehow managed to sound... regretful about it.

Percy squinted at the prisoner. At the bruises. The cuts. The general impression of someone who’d lost a wrestling match with an angry coral reef.

Huh.

“…Oh,” Percy said. “Those are me.”

There was a beat of silence.

Both brothers turned to look at him.

Everything stopped.

Both brothers turned to look at him.

Triton stared like Percy had just confessed to setting a hippocampus on fire by accident and then pretending it was part of the show.

Chrysaor didn’t say a word, but the silence absolutely screamed I’m sorry, what now.

Even the guards glanced over—first at Percy, currently squished in Chrysaor’s arms like a decorative plushie…

Then at the wrecked, barely-conscious captain…

Then back to Percy, eyes widening.

One of them, with a chip in his beak helmet and a harpoon slung lazily across his back, let out a low click. Then muttered, voice thick with disbelief.

“…Remind me not to volunteer for babysitting duty.”

Chrysaor turned. Slowly. Just a long, golden look in the sailor’s direction.

Sir Clicks-a-Lot visibly tensed. Like someone who had just, very belatedly, remembered who he worked for.

Yeah. That guy was definitely about to spend the next ten shifts polishing barnacles off the hull with a toothbrush made of his own regret.

Percy waited a beat, then decided, yeah, now’s the time to share.

“I headbutted him,” he explained, a little too cheerfully. “And, uh. Bit him. A little. Maybe scratched him a few times and—”

And tried to choke him with my own tears, but he was keeping that one for himsef.

Chrysaor still hadn’t blinked.

Triton’s brow twitched. Just slightly.

Percy wilted a bit in Chrysaor’s arms. “…I was angry,” he added, very helpfully.

The silence lingered.

Long enough for Percy to start second-guessing every life choice that led him to this exact moment.

Then—soft and low, like something warm cracking through the armor—

Chrysaor started chuckling.

He shifted Percy slightly in his arms, giving him a look Percy couldn’t see but could absolutely feel.

“My fierce little Guppy,” he said. “Did you even need rescuing?”

Percy’s cheeks went hot. “I mean... I got out easily. But I couldn’t rescue the others by myself, you know.”

Triton let out a sharp exhale.

It wasn’t quite a laugh. More of a nose-huff. But it counted.

When Percy risked a glance, Triton was definitely looking at him differently now. Not soft. But… less coral-judgey. Almost like he was impressed and deeply confused about it.

Percy blinked. “Wait. Are you—was that a smile?”

Triton’s expression reset like a slammed gate.

“No.”

Chrysaor snorted.

Percy grinned into his brother’s shoulder.

A brief lull passed as the guards finished tying the last knot on the captain’s bonds.

“What’s going to happen to him?” Percy asked—right as the sailors yeeted the guy overboard with all the ceremony of tossing out yesterday’s chum.

He hit the water with a spectacular splash and a muffled “MMPHHH!” that was probably a last complaint.

Triton didn’t even look. His voice came low and cold, scraped from the seabed. “He will be judged and executed. The traditional way.”

Percy hesitated. “…Which is?”

“Fed to the sea serpents.”

“Oh.” Percy considered that. “Wow.”

His brain immediately conjured an image of giant fanged noodles in sunglasses fighting over a snack like it was a game of tug-of-war.

Then he pictured the captain in the middle, spinning like a cartoon, maybe yelling “I regret my choices!” as he got flung between jaws.

Getting eaten alive felt...

Well. Intense.

A little overkill, maybe. Even for bad guys. His first instinct was yikes, not yes.

But then he glanced over his shoulder. At the nymphs. At the memory of cages. Of terrified silence and forced smiles.

And just like that, the idea that the punishment might be too much... shriveled up and died.

“Too nice,” Chrysaor muttered, voice rough at the edges.

Yeah. That.

Triton’s lips barely moved, but the promise in his words rang clear.

“He won’t die easy,” he said. “I’ll make sure of that.”

It was the first time Percy had heard agreement in their voices.

No barbs. No rivalry.

Just matching fury—quiet and cold and older than both of them.

He imagined the look behind Chrysaor’s mask matched Triton’s dark smile.

He could feel the weight of that same grin tugging at the corners of his own mouth.

That same sharp-edged satisfaction.

That same dark heat pooling in his chest.

…Okay.

So maybe he’d slammed the captain’s head three extra times after he’d already gone down.

And maybe he’d tried—very sincerely—to drown the guy in his own tears.

And maybe that part of him hadn’t felt scared, or sorry, or gross about it.

Maybe it had felt good.

Like, really good.

Revengey-good.

Like setting someone’s bed on fire in a dream and waking up smiling.

He glanced between his brothers.

Triton, who looked like he’d never smiled in his life.

Chrysaor, who’d probably filed teeth at some point just to make a point.

Yeah.

He was starting to think wrath might be in their blood.

Chapter Text

Percy was still tucked against Chrysaor’s chest, high on blood justice and sibling solidarity when Bakkhe suddenly slid into view — emerging like a bad thought someone had left on the floor.

She twirled once. Slow. Unnaturally graceful.

Then sank to her knees beside the largest prisoner on deck: a hulking serpent-woman with arms like coiled rope and a jaw that split too far down. One eye was swollen shut. The other flicked left and right like it was trying to file an emergency exit request. Jagged scales ran in crooked lines down her shoulders, glinting like broken glass pretending to be armor.

Bakkhe leaned in.

Closer.

Closer still.

Way, way too close.

She smiled.

Tilted her head.

And in the sweetest voice imaginable, said, “If I eat your dreams backwards, will the screaming start sooner?”

The monster made a noise. Somewhere between a growl and a prayer.

Bakkhe blinked slowly. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. She tilted her head the other way, matching the prisoner’s flinch with tiny, twitchy bobs like a carousel horse going off-script.

Then whispered:

“Do you know what sound a windpipe makes when you play it like a flute?”

She tapped the prisoner’s neck. Once. Twice. Like a rhythm she meant to remember.

The serpent-woman recoiled, but Bakkhe only leaned in further, her seaweed noose trailing from one hand like a pet.

“It gargles.”

That was apparently enough to break the last few nerves on deck.

Chains scraped. Boots scuffled. A few of the prisoners scrambled back, dragging each other like anchors.

Someone cried out, “Guards! Guards, do something!”

“Get her away from us—”

“Please—”

One of the dolphin-headed guards took a brave little step forward.

Bakkhe looked at him.

And every dolphin-headed guard took a synchronised, polite little step back.

“Good boys,” she said.

Then she turned back to the prisoners.

And began to hum.

It wasn’t a tune Percy knew. Or one he wanted to know. It wobbled like a broken music box—all wrong notes and hiccups, like it was trying to eat itself in reverse.

Her fingers trailed along the prisoner’s jaw. Gentle. Delicate. Like she was choosing where to place the bow on a birthday present.

“Hush now,” she cooed. “Your screams’ll wake the moon.”

She paused.

“She’s so grumpy when she wakes up hungry.”

And then—still humming—Bakkhe stood.

And she started to sing.

The melody spilled out of her like syrup over shattered glass. Sticky. Sharp. Sweet in all the worst ways. The kind of tune that got stuck in your head and stayed there like mold.

“Stomp-stomp-stomp, break the knee!
Make a harp from what bleeds free!”

She spun, trailing the seaweed noose like a ribbon in a dance recital choreographed by nightmares. The noose dipped and rose beside her, brushing the deck with soft, leafy sways.

Her feet whispered across the wood in a pattern too smooth to be anything but practiced. It wasn’t like a flower in the wind. It was like a cat walking through feathers. Like a blade stalking a throat.

“Snap the ribs and make them sing,
Fiddle the guts string by string—”

She pirouetted between the prisoners. They recoiled as one. Shackles rattled like teeth. One man tripped over another trying to crawl backward.

“Crack the jaw for dulcet tone,
Twang a trill from whimper-bone!”

She flung the noose into the air, caught it in mid-spin, and wrapped it across her shoulders like a scarf. A beat. A breath. A step.

And then she passed Chrysaor.

Percy barely had time to blink—just a blur of green and seaweed and sharp, dizzy Bakkhe-smell like somebody spilled perfume in a haunted house—

And then—

“Wha—”

He was spinning.

Lifted. Swung. Yanked right out of Chrysaor’s arms with all the effort of scooping up a teddy bear—and exactly as much dignity.

“HEY!”

The world tilted. His feet flied. His stomach twirled. One wild glimpse of Chrysaor, still standing in the exact same spot, now holding a limp seaweed noose and staring at it like it had personally betrayed him.

Percy blinked.

Twice.

Yup. He’d just been pickpocketed. Like the security codes in a heist movie.

Which raised some pretty important questions.

Like: What had he done to deserve this? Besides exist. And be portable.

And—most importantly—could you press charges if you were the stolen item.

“Chrysaor?” Percy called, upside-down and increasingly concerned. “Help??”

No response.

Only Bakkhe.

She spun him once. Caught him in a dramatic dip like they were ballroom partners at a blood-soaked wedding. Then kept on dancing like absolutely nothing was wrong.

Percy blinked.

This was fun. Right?

He couldn’t tell if he was dizzy from the twirling or the fact that Bakkhe smelled like perfume and something burnt. Like a house that smiled too wide.

The song was still going.

And somehow?

It slapped.

Percy hesitated. Just for a second.

Something in the back of his brain was like, maybe don’t sing the murder song.

But it was already stuck in his head like bubblegum on a sandal. He couldn’t help it. He started humming along.

And slowly—despite himself—he joined in.

“Stomp-stomp-stomp, bow the knee!
Make a harp from what bleeds free!”

Soon he was belting it out at the top of his lungs, whooping when Bakkhe twirled him like a carnival prize. They spun. And spun. And spun—until the whole world went fuzzy and sideways, and they collapsed in a heap of limbs and laughter, both of them breathless and wild-eyed and absolutely delighted with themselves.

Percy snorted. Tried to sit up. Failed.

And that’s when he noticed.

Chrysaor’s hand was on his sword. Triton’s arms were crossed tight, every muscle in his jaw working overtime. And Kyma—sensible Kyma—was talking fast to both of them in low, urgent tones. Percy couldn’t catch the words, but he could read the vibe: ’She’s harmless. Please don’t skewer the mad maenad’.

Before he could wriggle free, a familiar pair of arms scooped him up from behind.

“I’ve got him!” Glikis declared triumphantly, like she’d just caught the bridal bouquet at a wedding.

Hortensia was there the next instant, taking Percy from her arms without missing a beat.

“Hey—what are you doing?” Glikis demanded.

“You were holding him wrong,” Hortensia said calmly, with a smile sharp enough to slice fruit.

“What? No I wasn’t!”

And just like that, Percy was passed back and forth like a sentient gift basket, limbs flailing, dignity disintegrating. His right shoe flew into the rigging. His left shoe made a break for freedom and launched itself directly into the side of a prisoner’s face.

“I’ll bring him back,” Glikis tried, hoisting Percy like a trophy.

“No,” Hortensia said, and wrestled him back with deceptive strength.

Percy twisted in her arms, scanning the deck for rescue.

Bakkhe was still lying on the floor, laughing at nothing. The prisoners were huddled in a far corner, trying to become one unified blob of nope. The dolphin-headed guards stood behind them, fully statue-mode, eyes wide and unblinking like they’d just witnessed a live exorcism.

So. No help there.

But then—mercifully, blessedly—Oreithyia arrived.

“What,” she said flatly, “are you doing.”

Glikis instantly wilted like a kelp salad under a heat lamp. “Nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“I was—he needed—” Glikis gestured vaguely at Percy, who waved half-heartedly like a kidnapped balloon animal.

Hortensia, the opportunist, took advantage of the distraction and snatched Percy one last time—then marched toward Chrysaor with the solemn grace of a high priestess bearing a sacred relic.

Specifically: Percy.

Held aloft like a blessed fish at a religious ceremony.

“Here, Prince Chrysaor,” she said, voice demure, eyes not demure.

Behind her, Glikis crossed her arms with the wounded pride of someone robbed of their spotlight mid-solo.

“Unfair,” she muttered. “I got to him first.”

Chrysaor took Percy back like someone accepting a fragile package he hadn't ordered.

Specifically: a package that was squirming, slightly sweaty, and still humming about bone harps.

He held Percy at arm’s length for a second. Then tucked him back against his chest with one last huff in Bakkhe’s direction.

The mask betrayed nothing. But Percy could feel the vibe.

The vibe was murder.

He opened his mouth to explain—

And came up short.

Because Bakkhe couldn’t be explained.

Bakkhe had to be experienced.

It was too late anyway, Glikis and Hortensia had already moved in.

They flanked Chrysaor like rival vendors at a war-themed bridal expo, eyes locked on the prize. The prize being: Chrysaor. Still masked. Still silent. Still doing an excellent impression of someone internally screaming through a bucket of gold.

Alert. Flirting detected.

Initiate emergency exit protocol.

Percy swiveled his head. Slowly. Desperately.

Triton. Triton was right there. Still talking to Kyma.

Percy hit him with the full-force baby seal eyes. Wet. Wide. Help me, O Mighty Warrior, you emotionally constipated seahorse, HELP ME.

Triton blinked once. His jaw tensed.

Then he looked away.

Like he’d just caught feelings from a houseplant and didn’t want to deal with the emotional consequences.

But he looked back again.

And again.

And again.

And yet—

No help incoming.

Useless.

Target change.

Oreithyia was looming above Bakkhe, who was still lying on the deck, still singing, and possibly doing the backstroke.

Percy tried to project distress. Telepathically. With his entire face.

Oreithyia met his eyes.

And like a true hero, she came to his rescue.

No questions. No ceremony. She just walked up and hip-checked both Glikis and Hortensia off to the side like she was rearranging furniture. Graceful. Efficient. Unapologetic.

Catastrophe averted.

The girls made annoyed little scoffs and staggered back—temporarily repelled but if Percy coined them right, definitely planning a sequel.

Oreithyia’s eyes moved from Chrysaor to Triton, then to the prisoners curled in on themselves a few feet away.

A nod. A dangerous spark behind polished gemstone.

“What happens now?”

Chrysaor and Triton answered at the same time.

“We kill everyone and sink the ship,” Triton said, flat as a sword blade.

“I find Eurybatus and kill him, to teach him not to mess with me,” Chrysaor declared—smug, theatrical, already halfway to the dramatic exit.

They turned.

Met eyes.

Nodded once. Perfect sync.

And started to move.

“Or,” Percy said quickly.

They both froze. Mid-step. Like two very handsome statues paused halfway through a homicide.

Percy cleared his throat and spoke quickly—because, wow, interrupting two divine sea warriors mid–murder brainstorm was intimidating.

“Or—you could sink all of Eurybatus’s ships. Not just this one. And, like, keep one of the prisoners alive to send back. That way he’ll know what happened. And live in fear of your revenge forever.”

He gestured vaguely. The words kept tumbling.

“Every wave? Could be you. Every creak on a boat? Could be sea vengeance. Every shadow? Could be his final reckoning.”

A beat.

“Just saying.”

Silence followed. Heavy as pressure at the ocean floor.

Then—both brothers turned to look at him.

Triton’s expression was unreadable.

Chrysaor’s mask tilted slightly, like he was considering whether Percy had just said something brilliant or insane.

Then—

Chrysaor let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“I knew I was right to like you.”

Triton gave a slow, reluctant nod.

“It is a suitable plan. Efficient. Strategic. And if the rabble has begun to think it’s acceptable to dishonor the sons of Poseidon…”

His eyes narrowed, cold and deep.

“Then perhaps it’s time they remember the consequences.”

Percy grinned. Just a little.

He liked being a problem-solver.

Especially when the solution was vengeance.

And theatricality.

Just saying.

Chrysaor, still half-laughing, deposited Percy unceremoniously on the deck like a beloved trinket.

“Stay here, my wrathful guppy,” he said, grinning beneath the mask. “I’m going to strip this ship of its merchandise before the Dreadwave Prince sinks it. No need to let good cargo go to waste.”

He ruffled Percy’s hair. Then he turned away, already shouting over the wind like this was just another Tuesday on the high seas.

“Strip it down t’ the nails! I want every crate, every coin, every salted sardine—an’ if someone finds my patience, toss it overboard!”

His crew weirdly didn’t acknowledge Chrysaor—but they moved fast. Dolphin-headed sailors vaulted over debris like the world’s weirdest ballet troupe, scooping up loot with the lazy confidence of people who’d done this way too many times before.

Honestly, it was kind of impressive.

And disturbing.

Triton stepped forward next. One flick of his fingers—and the remaining dolphin-headed guards snapped to attention like puppets yanked on strings.

“Execute all but one,” he ordered. Quiet. Flat. Like he was commenting on the weather. Not, you know, sentence a bunch of people to die.

The prisoners erupted at once—a ragged, chaotic chorus of sobbing pleas and shouted denials, voices stumbling over each other in desperation. Some tried to surge to their feet, only to be shoved roughly back down by armored hands. Percy caught glimpses of wild eyes, spit-flecked mouths, chains scraping fast across the deck.

Bakkhe rose from the floor like a jack-in-the-box, spring-loaded and smiling.

She moved forward like she was settling into a velvet seat at the theater, eyes fever-bright, lips parted in fascination as the prisoners wailed louder. She clicked her tongue softly, like she was savoring something sweet.

“Oh,” she said, almost tender. “I do love a matinee.”

The first execution was quick. A flash of bronze. A sickening sound—

Something rolled. Thudded wetly. Came to a stop near Percy’s foot. Something warm spattered across his ankle.

His gaze dropped before he could stop it.

And there it was.

His stomach lurched. He swallowed—once, hard—and snapped his eyes back up, locking onto a scuff in Triton’s polished armor like it was the only safe thing left in the world.

Snap the ribs and make them sing…

Triton hadn’t moved.

Another blade came down. Another wet sound he didn’t want to assign a shape to.

Someone sobbed. Someone else threw up. Chains rattled like teeth in a jar.

Fiddle the guts string by string…

Percy flinched. His fingers dug into his palm. Hard. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.

Don’t look. Don’t think. Just breathe.

Somewhere behind the static in his head, something shifted.

Triton’s head. Angled toward him.

Percy kept staring straight ahead, pulse hammering, breath shallow.

The third head hit the deck with a sound like fruit dropped from too high.

His shoulders jerked. He blinked hard, trying to swallow air that didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

Twang a trill from whimper-bone…

“Come,” Triton said sharply, the word slicing cleanly through the buzzing noise.

Percy startled. He had not sensed him getting closer.

He braced for a shove, for a hand like iron, rough and impersonal. But when it came, the touch on his shoulder was light, almost gentle.

He looked up, confused.

Triton’s eyes were already forward again. Jaw set. Expression unreadable. He didn’t glance back.

But he didn’t let go either. Just led him away.

Chapter Text

Triton didn’t say anything else.

He just walked.

And Percy followed, legs moving before he even thought about it—because what else was he supposed to do? Stay?

The nymphs trailed after them in a loose, silent procession. No words. No giggles. Just soft steps and serious faces. Less like ducklings this time. More like mourners. Like they were escorting something sacred. Or broken. Or both.

Behind them, the deck was noise and blood and steel. Screams, sobs, wet sounds that faded with every step. Like someone turning down the volume on a nightmare.

At the shattered edge of the cargo deck, Triton raised his hand.

And the waves answered.

A slow, tidal breath drawn from deep below. The water curved upward, shaped by will alone, and carried the golden trireme with it.

Up it rose, on a swell smooth as polished marble, the ship weightless in the lift, sunlight gilding its hull like a blessing. The sails caught the wind in a proud rustle. Salt spray hung suspended in the air like pearls flung skyward just for them to admire.

Percy’s mouth fell open.

A firecracker spark of wonder lit up in his chest. It cracked straight through the fog in his head and burned right past the buzzing static.

Was that what gods could do?

It felt like watching someone lift a mountain with their pinky.

Or win the biggest claw machine prize on the first try.

“Wait there,” Triton said, nodding toward the golden ship. “On that... contraption Chrysaor insists on sailing. You won’t be in the way there.”

Translation: Percy absolutely wimped out of watching justice happen.

Fantastic. Barely five minutes into having a new big brother, and he was already flunking the family murder vibe check.

The nymphs climbed aboard the trireme, skirts whispering against gold.

Only Kyma paused—turning back just before she stepped away. She bowed to Triton—a deep, fluid thing, formal and strange. Like a ripple folding itself into the sea.

"Mirthrim aikharmara ethano diamoth khrondarkoth.," she murmured, voice steady and solemn. "Gamathak nest, manduros. Orutha rikhea duarkh."

"Uera ethano," Triton replied coolly, gaze sliding briefly toward Percy, eyes unreadable. "Imriamuar diavigos jumokossi."

Percy narrowed his eyes. He didn’t know what they’d said. But he was 90% sure it involved him.

Rude.

Still, he made a mental note: learn scary sea-people language. ASAP. Maybe Kyma would teach him.

Kyma stepped aboard.

Triton didn’t say anything.

So Percy didn’t either.

He just stood there, blinking too hard and trying to pretend it was the sea spray making his eyes sting.

There was a lump in his throat. He wasn’t sure what it was. Guilt, maybe. Or the aftertaste of Bakkhe’s lullaby. Something sharp and sticky that didn’t want to go down.

Behind them, the sounds of justice had finally stopped.

Like someone slammed a lid on a box of screams and sat on it.

There was a difference, he realized. Between fighting and… this.

Between watching bad guys go down in a battle—when everyone was shouting and running and trying not to die—and standing still while they cried and begged and said sorry, and then the sword still came down anyway.

It didn’t feel like cheering. It felt like trying to breathe under something cold.

And maybe that made him weak.

Maybe that’s why Triton hadn’t wanted to acknowledge him.

Because a real son of Poseidon wouldn’t flinch.

Percy sneaked a look.

Triton stood like a statue, carved from salt and blade and command. His shoulders didn’t move with his breath. Percy wasn’t even sure he had breath. He might’ve just been willpower in armor.

Triton was a god.

Capital G. God.

A god who was also his brother.

Technically.

Did it still count if the guy looked like he’d rather get vaporized than breathe the same air?

Percy decided it did.

Family had been just him and Mom for so long, he wasn’t about to get picky now. He had Chrysaor—and that alone made his chest feel like it might float away from sheer joy, like a balloon someone forgot to tie down. He wanted to pass that feeling on. Hand it off. Share it like candy. Like, here’s what having a brother feels like—don't you want one too?

Triton might be a tougher nut to crack than Chrysaor.

Okay.

He was more like a full walnut fortress with security lasers and emotional spike traps.

But Percy had been called stubborn enough times to take it as a compliment.

One day, Triton would stand beside him—not just because Poseidon made him show up for some rescue mission, but because he wanted to. Because he’d look at Percy and see something worth sticking around for.

Even if Percy wasn’t made of sea-steel and murder vibes.

Even if he flinched sometimes.

Even if he didn’t know how to keep the awful stuff from sticking in his head.

He’d get there.

Eventually.

Probably.

Hopefully before Triton tried to drown him out of disappointment.

He rubbed his thumb against the strap of his bag, thinking.

Equivalent exchange.

That was Chrysaor’s rule. Divine math.

You don’t get something for nothing.

You give something first.

Even if it’s small.

Even if you’re seven and don’t know what you’re doing and your heart’s still scrambled eggs from the morning.

You still offer.

So that’s what he did.

His hand drifted to the bag still slung across his shoulder. He considered the pilfered jewels from the captain’s safe. Briefly. Then scrunched his nose.

Too impersonal. Too shiny-and-soulless. Not his.

He dug in his pockets. Pulled out a small cluster of pearls.

Their glow was faint and warm against his palm—soft, silver-white, like a secret only he could give.

That felt better.

That felt right.

Triton’s gaze snapped to them.

Percy refused to hesitate.

He stepped forward and held them out.

Triton didn’t move.

So Percy, naturally, escalated.

He grabbed the god’s hand. Which, in hindsight, was like grabbing a marble statue that hated being touched. It was big and cold and very obviously not used to being held by mortal seven-year-olds.

Triton blinked down, delayed—like his brain had short-circuited somewhere between divine protocol and wait, is this child initiating physical contact?

His brows furrowed. His jaw twitched. For one wild second, he didn’t look like a god at all.

He looked like someone whose spreadsheet had just caught fire.

And Percy, very gently, poured the pearls into his hand. One by one.

Then folded his fingers closed over them.

Like sealing a promise.

He opened his mouth. Meant to say something cool. Heroic. Worthy of the moment.

Triton’s eyes met his.

And every single thought Percy had ever had in his entire life went sprinting off a cliff.

Because wow, yeah, turns out that eyes forged from ocean pressure and eternal judgment can absolutely fry your brain on impact.

His mouth just… hung there.

Useless.

Silent.

Then the emergency babble system kicked in like a car alarm.

“Okay, so—I don’t really know how sacrifices work! Like, not exactly, and Chrysaor kind of explained it but also not really? So if this is wrong, sorry! I just—uh—this is for you. Like a thank-you. For the whole ‘save the day, ride a murder chariot, be really cool while doing it’ thing. You know. Classic god stuff.”

He nodded. Stiff. Formal. Possibly concussion-coded.

Then he turned on his heel and launched himself toward the trireme with the grace of a cat who’d just knocked over a priceless vase and chosen flight over accountability.

And definitely didn’t check to see if Triton was still watching him.

(He was.)

The moment Percy stepped onto the trireme, something in his chest unclenched. Like slipping back into his own bed after too many nights away.

Just a soft awareness curling at the edge of his thoughts. Every plank, every nail, every faint creak of the hull beneath his feet—like the whole ship had exhaled when he came aboard. Like it had been waiting for him.

Percy smiled, small and real.

He padded toward the bow, feeling the hum of the ship like a phantom second heartbeat, quiet and steady beneath his own.

The gorgon figurehead stood watch at the front, fierce and golden as ever. Snakes mid-snap. Jaw set. Eyes forward.

Then—without a sound—she turned her head and looked straight at him.

Percy blinked.

She blinked back.

“Welcome back, child of the sea.”

His eyes went wide.

Then wider.

“You talk?!”

The gorgon gave him the faintest, most unimpressed look in existence.

“Why wouldn’t I talk?”

Um. Because you’re a statue?

Because no one else’s boat has built-in conversation?

Because apparently the universe just keeps forgetting I’m seven and would like a break now?

He kept it all in his head, where the sass could live safely out of snake range.

Instead, he sat cross-legged near her base. The gold was warm under him, steady and sure, like the ship hadn’t stopped thinking about him the whole time he was gone.

The gorgon didn’t say anything at first.

Then, almost offhand:

“He wore a trench into my deck while you were gone.”

Percy blinked. “Who did?”

She arched a brow like it was obvious.

“Chrysaor. Pacing. Snarling. Mumbling about slitting the wind’s throat for taking too long.”

Percy blinked again, slower.

“He threatened to skewer the sun at one point. I assume he didn’t mean it literally.” A pause. “But with him, it’s hard to tell.”

Percy stared at her.

Then smiled. And this time it stuck.

Warm. Giddy. A little crooked.

He turned slightly, leaning against the railing, shoulder just brushing gold.

“Tell me more,” he said. “All of it.”

And he could have sworn the ship purred beneath him.

The gorgon spoke, and Percy listened.

Not out of politeness—though she had that kind of voice that made you want to sit up straighter—but because every story she told made his brain do a little somersault.

Chrysaor, it turned out, had a very colorful track record.

There was the diplomatic brunch.

Selkie mercenaries, linen tablecloths, twelve courses, and an incident with a butter knife that ended with someone losing a boot and the dessert course being declared a maritime hazard. According to the gorgon, Chrysaor kept eating through the entire scuffle and only stood up when someone flipped the dessert tray.

“That,” he reportedly said, “was crossing a line.”

And then there was the hat funeral.

A favorite hat. Stolen by harpies.

The funeral had a formal procession. Black sails. Dirges. A eulogy performed atop the mast during sunset, shirt billowing dramatically. Crew attendance was mandatory. Tears were strongly encouraged.

The harpies returned the hat three days later. Folded. Pressed. With a small apology note pinned inside.

The gorgon kept talking. Calm. Dry. Occasionally fond in the way you might be about a pet cat who once knocked a flaming torch into a barrel of gunpowder and survived out of sheer ego.

Percy listened, legs swinging, smiling like someone had just handed him a gift box full of secrets.

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t ask questions.

Just stayed exactly where he was—warm gold beneath him, the sea in front of him, and the sound of his brother’s embarrassing legacy being catalogued by a literal murder-statue.

It was maybe the best he’d felt for days.

Meanwhile, on deck, the dolphin-headed crew was in the middle of what Percy could only describe as a full-scale loot exodus.

Crates. Crates everywhere.

Big crates. Little crates. One that looked like it was built sideways on accident. One that had twelve handles for no reason.

They just kept coming.

There was no way everything would fit in the hold.

The ship wasn’t that big below. Unless—oh.

Right. Magical boat. Infinite loot stomach.

Of course.

Then one of the dolphin-headed sailors spotted him.

The crate he was helping carry hit the deck with a thud, causing the other porters to stumble and scramble with muffled shouts as they tried not to be flattened beneath it.

The sailor didn’t notice. Or care. He let out a high-pitched, delighted trill and launched himself across the deck like a torpedo in sandals.

Percy had about half a second to brace before he was scooped up—lifted bodily into a pair of muscular arms and spun around like someone had just won a very small, very confused prize at a carnival.

The trills came rapid-fire, ecstatic and squeaky and fast. Too fast. Percy’s brain, while magically wired for sea creatures speach, was absolutely not ready for this level of enthusiasm. The best he could catch was something like:

“—safe—small prince—victory snack—triumph cub—!!!”

He tried to hug back, really he did, but his arms wouldn’t reach all the way around the dolphin neck. He patted the side of the sailor’s head instead, awkward but sincere.

This apparently met with approval. The sailor gave him a gentle forehead boop with the tip of his rostrum and passed him to the next crew member in line.

Because—somehow—there was a line now.

One by one, Percy was passed from arms to arms like a beloved mascot or a sacred egg. Every sailor gave him a hug, a trill, and a forehead nudge. Some rocked him a little. One patted his hair.

Percy didn’t even mind.

He was dizzy and slightly squished, but still—he felt weirdly flattered.

He had no idea Chrysaor’s crew liked him this much.

Chapter Text

Percy was halfway through hug number thirty eight—wrapped snugly in the arms of a very enthusiastic sailor who smelled faintly of sardines and seawater-scented soap—when a familiar voice roared across the deck.

“What in the Styx is going on up here?! Why is the looting stopped? BACK TO WORK!”

Chrysaor.

He stormed into view like a thundercloud in golden armor, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other gesturing wildly at the piles of unattended crates littering the deck. He looked around, spotted the hug parade, and threw his hands in the air like it personally offended him.

“I leave for five minutes—five!—and I come back to find a cuddle cult?!”

The sailor holding Percy didn’t move. Neither did the growing line behind him.

Chrysaor’s mask tilted with growing irritation. “Seriously? We’re doing this now?”

That’s when Percy heard it.

Low. Muffled. But definitely there.

Grumbling.

At first he thought it was just an unusually disgruntled dolphin trill. But no—the sound spread, rippling through the crew like the start of a wave with bad intentions. Mutters. Clicks. A loud slap of a flipper on wood. One very audible:

“Maybe if the captain hadn’t let him get taken—”

Percy blinked.

Oh.

Oh no.

They were mad at Chrysaor.

He caught more of it as the dolphin-speech filtered into words, slow and a little too clear:

—tiny one—

—soft and small—

—snatched because he wasn’t protected—

—and now he wants to stop us from comforting the teeny tiny sparkle baby—

Percy’s eye twitched.

First of all, he was perfectly height-appropriate for his age, thank you very much.

Second… well—

He was totally going to let that one go.

Absolutely.

He was not going to throw oil on a metaphorical fire just because someone handed him a jug and said “you wouldn’t dare.”

…

Who was he kidding.

He cleared his throat and called, a little louder than necessary, “I mean, yeah—if someone had maybe, I don’t know, not left the keys in the ignition, maybe I wouldn’t have gotten kidnapped?”

The crew perked up.

Chrysaor whipped around.

“Guppy.”

Percy smiled.

“I’m just saying.”

Several sailors began nodding. A couple trilled what Percy assumed were very supportive slogans.

Okay. That was fun.

But then the energy shifted.

More sailors were stepping forward now. Not toward Percy. Toward Chrysaor. There was posture involved. Some of it bristly.

One growled something Percy didn’t catch, but the tone was definitely: “Give me a reason.”

Wait.

Was this… mutiny?

Was that a thing people did because their commander interrupted hug time?

It was getting heated. One slapped his flipper-arm against a crate like it owed him money. Another crossed his arms and trilled something sharp in Chrysaor’s direction. Percy didn’t catch the words, but the vibe was very much “you had one job.”

Oh no.

No no no no no.

He was still being held like a beloved emotional support child, but suddenly it felt less like fanfare and more like the moment before someone threw a chair.

Okay. He should probably do something.

Preferably before someone got smacked with a crate.

Time to de-escalate.

Percy took a deep breath, puckered his lips, and let out what was meant to be a sharp, commanding whistle.

What came out was… not that.

Sort of a wheezy bird gasp.

No one noticed.

Alright. Fine. Plan B.

He shoved two fingers into his mouth and let out the loudest, shrillest whistle he could manage.

It sliced through the rising tension like a wave through foam.

Dozens of dolphin heads turned to him in unison, blinking.

Percy froze for half a second. His mouth went dry.

Oh.

Right.

Now everyone was looking at him.

He cleared his throat, adjusted his dignity (what little was left while being cradled like a prize melon), and tried to sound taller than he felt.—

“With all due respect,” he declared, voice wobbling slightly, “stop yelling at my brother.”

A pause.

Percy swallowed hard. He could feel his heart thumping under his ribs, faster than the ship's hum beneath his feet.

“I mean… yeah, okay. Maybe he messed up,” he rushed on, words tumbling a little. “People mess up. That happens.”

He tried to sit up straighter in the sailor’s arms, clinging to the memory of his mom’s voice.

“But what matters most—” he said, slower now, the words smoothing out with mom-convinction, “—is what you do after the mistake. That’s the hard part. That’s the important part.”

He pointed at Chrysaor, even though his hand shook just a little.

“And he did that. He came back. He fixed it. He made it right.”

He drew a breath, chest tight but lifting with the rhythm of the ship.

“So maybe ease up,” Percy finished, trying for stern and diplomatic at the same time.

“...Please.”

A beat.

Silence.

Then one of the sailors made a soft, chagrined squeak and tapped his crate apologetically. Another gave a short trill that sounded suspiciously like a muttered “yes, ma’am.”

The mood shifted.

Grumbling faded. Crates were picked up. A few sheepish nods were exchanged.

Just like that, order was restored.

And Percy, still perched like a slightly squashed captain’s hat in a pair of strong arms, let out a slow, secret breath.

His mom would have been so proud.

Honestly?

He was a little proud too.

He hadn't even tripped over his words that much. No one had laughed. Nobody had thrown a crate.

He'd stood up—well, sat up—for what mattered.

And for once, the world had listened.

Percy’s fingers curled a little tighter into the sailor’s jacket as the tension bled off the deck, leaving only the creak of wood, the smell of salt, and a few soft, embarrassed trills.
It felt... good.

Weird. And terrifying. But good.

The sailor currently holding Percy let out a fond warble, gave him one last enthusiastic forehead boop, and turned toward Chrysaor to return him.

Chrysaor—who had been standing there with his arms very pointedly crossed, expression hidden behind the mask but whole body radiating do not test me—held out his arms.

The sailor walked right past him.

And handed Percy off to the crew member behind him.

Bubbles.

Percy burst out laughing.

Chrysaor didn’t say a word, but his stance changed just enough that Percy could picture the face under the mask with perfect clarity—somewhere between royal offense and older sibling betrayal.

He reached to reclaim Percy, but Bubbles just rotated slightly and began walking toward the helm as if nothing had happened.

“Unbelievable,” Chrysaor muttered.

Percy giggled harder and threw an arm around Bubbles’ broad shoulder.

Bubbles gave a pleased trill, the kind of sound Percy was interpreting as good job, tiny guppy prince, and adjusted him a little higher, like precious cargo that needed a better view.

Someone struck a rhythm on the rail with the flat of a blade. Another answered with a slap of palm on crate.

A low, melodic whistle rose up from the group—bubbly, high-pitched, and layered with strange dolphin syllables Percy couldn’t fully understand but felt down to his bones.

It rolled through the deck like a wave, gathering strength as more voices joined in.

A sea shanty.

The dolphin version, all sharp clicks and watery harmonies.

Percy didn’t know the words.

But he hummed along anyway, grinning wide on Bubbles’ shoulder as the ship rocked gently beneath them and the sun climbed higher over the sea.

The work wound down fast after that.

Percy stayed put on Bubbles’ shoulder, feeling the rhythmic lurch of footsteps as the last few crates were hauled aboard.

He didn’t really get the logistics of it—how the ship had managed to swallow so much cargo without sinking—but at this point, he was willing to chalk it up to pirate magic and call it a day.

He leaned against Bubbles' head, soaking in the warmth of the sun and the solid hum of the trireme underfoot.

There was a shuffle of boots and scraping metal as the prisoner they’d kept alive was dragged across the deck in chains, shoved roughly toward the mast, and secured there with no ceremony. He slumped against the wood, defeated.

And just like that, the looting was over.

Out across the waves, the Epsilon Horizon floated low and broken, its hull dark against the glittering water. Triton’s mermen surrounded the cargo ship, corralling it like wolves herding a wounded deer.

Then—like a giant taking a breath underwater—the sea swelled.

The cargo ship groaned, listing hard to one side. Bubbles shifted his stance automatically, balancing Percy higher so he could see.

Below, mermen pulled in tight formation, churning the water to a furious boil. The hull cracked with a sound Percy felt more than heard—a deep, splintering snap that rattled in his teeth.

The Epsilon Horizon went under fast.

One moment it was there—tilted, shuddering, ropes snapping like whips—and the next, it was gone. Sucked down into the deep, dragged away as easily as a toy disappearing into a bath drain.

Percy clutched Bubbles' shoulder, wide-eyed.

It was brutal.

It was beautiful.

It was over.

Somewhere to the side, the nymphs had gathered in a small, solemn cluster. So close to each other, their hands just sort of tangled together. They looked taller somehow, like shaking off something heavy made more room inside them.

Hortensia turned a little and found his eyes across the deck.

Her gaze was bright and wet, but it didn’t feel sad.

And when she smiled at him—soft and sure and shining—Percy thought it might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

It wasn’t just a ship going down out there.

It was their resignation.

It was their fear.

And now it was sinking.

Chapter Text

Percy gripped the rail and stared.

The marina was gone.

Or—it was still technically there, in the way a wineglass is technically still a wineglass after you drop it off a cliff. The piers had been snapped like breadsticks and flung deep into the surf. Sleek smuggling yachts lay in pieces across the sand, hulls torn open like peeled fruit. One had landed belly-up in what was left of the boathouse. A seagull was perched on its radar mast like it owned the place now.

Farther inland, the villa wasn’t faring much better. Once a showy sprawl of white balconies and courtyard gardens, it had been scooped hollow like someone wanted to wear it as a hat. Marble columns leaned like they were tipsy. Gauzy curtains fluttered from a second-floor railing with no room attached to it. A golden lyre sculpture had been hurled across the pool deck and stuck there, half-buried in the tiles.

It looked less like a storm had passed through and more like the ocean had stood up, walked inland, and decided it hated modern architecture. This wasn’t random destruction—it was a god’s hand, sweeping the board clean.

Percy let out a low breath. “Wow. He really wasted no time.”

“No,” Chrysaor said, behind his mask. There was a sigh in the word, like it had picked up some sand on the way out. Then, almost fondly: “Show-off.”

Percy turned. “He does this kind of thing a lot?”

Chrysaor’s eyes didn’t leave the wreckage. The gold of his mask caught the light, unreadable. But his voice softened, like he was suddenly somewhere else. Somewhere with salt in the air and fire on the water. “Back in the Caribbean Golden Age, I’d crowned myself pirate king. Thought I was untouchable.”

Percy leaned in, because obviously he did. Pirate king? That was practically engineered in a lab to get his attention. If there were swords and sea monsters involved, he was going to need popcorn.

“And yet I managed to get boxed in off Tortuga,” Chrysaor went on. “Royal Navy on one side, Spanish armada on the other. I was outgunned, outmanned, and halfway through a speech about glorious last stands—”

Percy blinked. “And then?”

“The waves turned.” Chrysaor’s tone went distant. “They curled around my ship like hands. Lifted us straight out of the trap. Dropped half the enemy fleet into each other like toys in a bath.”

Percy’s jaw slackened. He could almost see it—the chaos, the screaming, two navies slamming together while Chrysaor’s ship rose untouched like some divine middle finger. It sounded impossible. It sounded awesome. It sounded exactly like the kind of thing a god did when they were bored of being subtle.

“Did he say anything?”

“He said, and I quote—” Chrysaor deepened his voice into a cold, perfect imitation: “‘Don’t embarrass us again.’”

Percy let out a low whistle. “Okay. That’s… kinda cool.”

Chrysaor tilted his head, just slightly. “It was.”

A pause. Then, dryly: “Didn’t even look at me when he said it. I was this close to throwing a cannon at his head.”

Huh. So this was what having older siblings was like. They saved your life, insulted your honor, and left you vibrating between hero worship and the overwhelming urge to swan-dive off a ship and throttle them personally.

Percy was so ready for brotherhood.

What remained of Epsilon Marina looked less like a harbor and more like a battlefield that had lost the will to keep fighting. The Golden Gorgon eased into what was left of a berth, guided more by Chrysaor’s precision than the shredded excuse for mooring lines.

They disembarked in silence.

Percy and Chrysaor stepped down followed by the nymphs. Bubbles lumbered after them, carrying the only surviving prisoner over one shoulder like a sack of disgraced laundry.

At the far end of the wrecked dock, framed by a backdrop of twisted steel and splinters that still bled seawater—stood Triton.

In one hand, he held his trident, leaning on it like it was just a walking stick and not a three-pronged death spear.

In the other, he held Eurybatus by the neck, arm extended like the guy weighed nothing at all.

He just dangled there—coat soaked, boots barely scraping the dock, looking like someone had wrung him out and forgotten to finish the job. His fancy cuffs were shredded, his cravat was unraveling, and he wasn’t even fighting back. Just shallow breaths and twitchy eye-blinking, like if he stayed really quiet, maybe Triton would forget he was there.

Triton didn’t speak. He just watched them approach—expression unreadable, grip steady.

Chrysaor stopped a few paces short. “Let him talk.”

Triton didn’t move. “He already has.”

“I want to hear it myself.”

After a beat, Triton released Eurybatus. Not gently. The man dropped hard, crumpling to his knees like his spine had given out. He stayed there, coughing seawater and shame.

Chrysaor stared down at him. “Well?”

Eurybatus sagged where he landed—knees splayed, hands twitching uselessly in his lap. His coat clung to him in heavy, wet folds, still trying to look expensive. A puddle was spreading underneath him. Percy caught the sour sting in the air and looked away fast.

“I—I didn’t know,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I swear—no aura, no sign—how was I supposed to know he was—was—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“You knew he was mine,” Chrysaor growled.

Eurybatus looked up—at Chrysaor, at Percy, at the trident still braced in Triton’s hand—and whatever he'd been about to say shriveled in his throat.

His lips started moving. Not toward them. Not to explain. He was praying—whispering fast and broken under his breath, words tumbling over each other like he didn’t care who heard. Percy caught the name Hermes.

Over and over.

He didn’t even finish the prayer. Just kept muttering it like a spell, hunched and stinking and shaking in his own puddle of piss, waiting to be struck.

“You will not die.”

Eurybatus twitched. His head lifted, slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Hope cracked through the wreck of his face.

Triton watched him relax.

And smiled.

It was the kind of smile that said the sentence—the punishment—had already begun. A quiet, perfect curve of the mouth that promised Eurybatus would hear footsteps for the rest of his life, and never be sure they weren’t coming for him.

“Not today,” Triton said.

Eurybatus made a sound—thin, breathless, almost a laugh. It caught in his throat and curdled into something wetter.

He shook—full-body, helpless, like something fraying at the seams. Percy saw his mouth move again, not in prayer this time, but in a whisper he couldn’t hear. Maybe it was math. Maybe it was names. Maybe he was already trying to calculate which corner of the world would be quiet enough to hide in.

And still he rocked, knees grinding against the dock, small and silent and very much alive.

That was the punishment.

A cage of his own fear.

Slow, trembling, like it took everything he had. Eurybatus lifted his eyes and searched for something in Percy’s—mercy, maybe.

Percy held his gaze.

He let it in—the cramped terror of the cage, the breathless hours, the certainty that no one was coming. He let it twist in his chest, settle in his bones, go cold and harsh and sharpened.

He let it grow teeth.

And then he let it show on his face.

Eurybatus flinched like he’d been struck.

Then he turned—slowly, miserably—searching the others. His gaze landed on the nymphs. Maybe he thought they were softer. Kinder.

Hortensia took two quiet steps forward and slapped him.

Hard.

The sound cracked across the dock like a wave breaking. Eurybatus rocked sideways, blinking, dazed.

That opened the floodgates.

Kyma struck next, then Glikis. Eurybatus hunched under the blows, arms raised feebly. He didn’t try to run.

Oreithyia didn’t slap him.

She stepped in with a sharp breath and planted her fist square in his face. His head snapped sideways. He dropped flat, cheek to wood, blood spilling from his mouth in a thick red string.

Somewhere behind Percy, Chrysaor let out a low, involuntary wince.

That might’ve been the end of it.

But then Bakkhe stepped forward, humming to herself.

She crouched beside Eurybatus’s bloodied face, shoved her fingers straight into his mouth, and rummaged around like she was elbow-deep in a candy jar.

When she pulled back, her hand was full of teeth.

“I’m starting a new collection,” she chirped. “Jewellry that scream when you polish them.”

When it was over, Eurybatus just lay there—bleeding, shivering, half-conscious in a growing pool of seawater and blood, his mouth red and gap-toothed.

Percy stepped past the others and stood over him.

The dock was quiet now. Just the slap of waves against ruined pilings, the creak of ropes, the wind picking up.

When he spoke, his voice was flat and quiet—too quiet. Like something old had surfaced behind his ribs and borrowed his throat.

“You can run,” he said. “Hide. Move inland. Climb the tallest place you can find and build walls.”

He stared down at the man at the man who had tried to sell him. He didn’t feel afraid anymore.

“You can sleep with a blade and pretend to forget.”

He tilted his head.

“But the sea’s patient.”

A pause. A breeze. The gulls didn’t even cry.

“One day, you’ll hear it again. A drip in the pipes. A storm you didn’t see coming. The floorboards will creak, and the tide’ll be halfway up your stairs.”

He smiled—all sharp teeth and nothing human behind the eyes.

“The ocean remembers every name it swallows.”

Then he turned his back on Eurybatus and didn’t look down again.

On the next step, he looked up to Chrysaor with sudden brightness, eyes wide and round and impossibly cute.

“Can we get ice cream before we leave Florida?” he asked, sweet like a baby seal begging for fish.

Chapter Text

A god, a mad maenad, and a pirate walked into an ice cream shop.

It sounded like the start of a bad joke.

It was the start of a bad idea.

But unfortunately, it was also Chrysaor’s life now—and somewhere in the middle of it, wedged between divine family trauma and mythological smuggling fallout, sat a seven-year-old demigod vibrating with the barely-contained energy of a small sugar-powered nuclear device.

Percy had insisted on ice cream.

Insisted with all the stubborn majesty of a small ocean-born tyrant—wide eyes weaponized for emotional warfare, a tone that brooked no compromise, and the quiet fury of someone who’d heard “no” too many times and had decided he was done listening to it. Chrysaor had agreed, mostly because he wasn’t ready to find out what would happen if he didn’t. Sally had given him very few instructions, but “keep him alive and emotionally intact” seemed implied.

He’d mostly failed on every point.

At this stage, he was aiming for content.

If the guppy wanted ice cream, ice cream the guppy got.

The shop was aggressively pastel. Mint walls. Bubblegum counter. A menu written in seven different colors and six different fonts, none of them legally sanctioned. Someone had decided the aesthetic needed stuffed octopuses hanging from the ceiling. They were all smiling. One of them had teeth.

Chrysaor hated it here.

He slid into a booth at the far wall—worn vinyl, half-patched with duct tape, right under a mural of a grinning dolphin who seemed to know exactly where Chrysaor buried his victims. Across from him, Bakkhe immediately set about rearranging the sugar packets into a summoning circle.

Percy slumped against the backrest with a dramatic groan of relief, curls plastered to his forehead, shirt clinging damp to his shoulders. “It’s December,” he muttered. “Why is the sun so loud?”

Chrysaor huffed, amused despite himself. “You mean bright?”

"I mean loud." He squinted toward the window. "It’s yelling at my skin.”

Fair enough. The Florida heat pressed through windows like a siege force, and the breeze carried more salt than mercy. It was unnatural—too sharp, too strong, too bright for the season. For a moment, Chrysaor’s mind drifted sideways.

If the golden idiot was already sniffing around Percy’s trail—

“I should get two scoops,” Percy said suddenly. “I earned it.”

Chrysaor blinked, dragged out of a spiral of divine politics and possible solar threats. “Did you?”

“Yeah,” Percy said, kicking his heels lightly against the booth. “I was kidnapped. I escaped. I didn’t even cry that much.”

Across the table, Bakkhe didn’t look up. She was too busy balancing a spoon on her nose and humming in a minor key. “He cut through his restraints,” she said cheerfully. “With his teeth.”

Chrysaor turned slowly.

Percy beamed, very proud of himself, and opened his mouth wide.

Rows of small, sharp teeth gleamed up at him—white and serrated, not quite human.

Chrysaor blinked. “Huh.”

“He bit a trafficker,” Bakkhe added.

“Twice,” Percy said brightly.

Of course he did. Of course he brags about it.

Chrysaor stared at the boy. This sun-scorched, salt-sticky, half-feral wreck of a child—stolen from under his nose, fought his way out gnashing and snarling like some ancient creature wearing a child’s skin—and somehow came out smiling.

The last few days had been the most stressful of Chrysaor’s several-thousand-year existence—and that included the Kraken Uprising, the drowning of multiple civilizations, and the time he’d gotten drunk enough to gamble his sword to a harpy in Marrakesh.

He had torn through the Atlantic in a rage, driven his crew to exhaustion hunting down the monsters who took the boy from him—

Only to find Percy had mostly saved himself—with nothing but his wits, his teeth, and a gaggle of nymphs who clearly weren’t prepared for Hurricane Jackson.

And now he was grinning, all fangs and dimples, like the world made sense again.

Chrysaor didn’t know if he was supposed to feel proud.

Or very, very afraid.

He exhaled through his nose. “You can get two scoops.”

Percy threw both fists in the air, victorious. “Ha! Justice!”

Triton, of course, looked like he was one sticky countertop away from declaring war on humanity.

He’d taken the seat at the end—straight-backed, arms crossed, expression carved from marble and held together with barely restrained judgment. He had refused to order anything. When the server asked if he wanted water, he’d said he was water.

Chrysaor made a mental note to mock him for that later.

The moment the ice cream hit the table, Bakkhe vanished—disappearing in a blur of movement toward the toppings bar, possibly to rob it, seduce it, or induct it into a cult. It was hard to tell with her.

Chrysaor’s attention flicked away for one second.

Just one.

When he looked back—

Percy was gone.

Correction: Percy was now on Triton.

Curled in his lap, looking impossibly small and impossibly smug, holding a napkin like it was a royal decree and methodically devouring a scoop of red velvet ice cream. The kind that came with an alarming swirl of crimson syrup that now coated half his face like he’d face-planted into a vampire homicide.

“Stomp-stomp-stomp, bow the knee!
Make a harp from what bleeds free!”

The boy looked like a blood-soaked cherub, happily licking chaos off a cone and softly warbling Bakkhe’s eerie lullaby for corpses—his voice sweet and clear, heartbreakingly lovely, the kind that should’ve belonged to a temple hymn, not a murder song.

Chrysaor flicked his gaze up, past Percy’s sticky halo of curls, to Triton—hoping, praying, for shared horror.

No help would be coming from that side.

Triton looked like someone had unplugged him from reality. His trident-hand twitched slightly. His face had gone blank in a way that suggested his soul had temporarily checked out and left no forwarding address.

Chrysaor grinned, slow and sharp.

Oh, this was good.

He leaned back, arms draped over the booth, savoring the moment like a fine wine. The great Prince of the Sea, Perfect Scion, Golden Trident of Eternal Self-Importance—reduced to an unwilling throne for weaponized cuteness.

Truly, the gods were just.

And yet—somehow—Chrysaor still ended up paying.

One moment, he was riding the high tide of Triton’s discomfort, basking in schadenfreude.

The next moment, Triton adjusted his cuffs, straightened a sleeve, and turned to the server with the unhurried grace of someone who had grown up perfect—and made sure you never forgot it.

“He’ll cover it,” he said—smooth as sea glass, and with the practiced cruelty of an older sibling who knew exactly when to strike.

Chrysaor blinked. “Why me? You’re the eldest.”

Triton didn’t answer. He just stared. Then raised a single, devastating eyebrow.

Of course he did. Smug bastard.

Chrysaor turned to Percy, hoping for some kind of support—loyalty, basic gratitude, even vague confusion.

Percy, bless him, nodded like this was the natural order of things. “He’s right. You’re rich.”

Chrysaor gaped. “He’s our father’s heir!”

“And you,” Percy said gently—and far too slowly for Chrysaor’s dignity—“clearly have more money than sense. You put gold in your sails, Chrysaor. Everything you own is gold-plated. Paying for ice cream is nothing.”

Chrysaor stared at him.

There were insults, and there were betrayals, and then there was this: being financially eulogized by a boy sticky with dessert and still small enough to drown in his own tunic.

Worse still—he could see it on Percy’s face. The genuine concern. The belief that he was doing Chrysaor a favor by pointing this out.

As if this were a quiet intervention.

As if Chrysaor’s questionable spending habits were a shared family burden and not a personal aesthetic.

Gold-threaded sails were timeless.

He opened his mouth to defend himself—and found absolutely nothing to stand on but the glittering ruins of his own opulence.

And the worst part?

He’d walked straight into it.

Like a fool.

A very expensive, extremely shiny fool.

Triton accepted his victory with the quiet grace of someone who expected nothing less.

Not a smirk. Not a word. Just the serene composure of a man whose entire aura said: I win by existing.

Chrysaor could feel his eye twitch behind the mask.

Fine.

Fine.

He let the silence stretch, just long enough for the bill to be carried off. Then, with studied casualness:

“So, guppy,” he said, folding his arms and leaning back with mock interest. “Out of curiosity—between me and Mister Trident over there…”

He tipped his head toward Triton, whose expression remained glacial.

“Who’s your favorite?”

Percy blinked, mid-lick. “Right now?”

Chrysaor tilted his head, slow and expectant. “Always.”

Triton finally glanced over, one brow arching again.

Percy looked between them.

There was a long, thoughtful pause. He licked a bit of red from his knuckle. “Chrysaor.”

Chrysaor didn’t move.

Didn’t gloat.

Didn’t need to.

The satisfaction bloomed low and slow, like sunlight hitting a reef.

Triton’s jaw twitched.

Victory, Chrysaor thought, rarely came so sweet.

He took another look at Percy’s face—red-smeared, sugar-glossed, eyes wide with innocent chaos—and amended:

No.

Victory was sticky, humming a murder song, and beaming up at him with ocean eyes.

Chrysaor reached out and tousled Percy’s hair fondly.

Curls stuck to his fingers, still damp with sweat and streaked faintly pink where ice cream had somehow made its way to the top of the guppy’s head.

But the real pleasure wasn’t in the touch. It was in the eye contact—over the halo of curls and syrup-glossed cheeks, straight at Triton—transmitting pure younger-sibling glee across the table like a psychic slap.

Triton simply stared back, trident-hand twitching like it wished to smite something—preferably him.

It only made Chrysaor feel warm.

Percy leaned into the touch, practically glowing, eyes gone bright as beach glass.

Then he beamed.

It was... a lot of teeth. A smear of red still clung to the corner of his mouth, like velvet or blood, hard to say in the lighting. He looked delighted. Angelic. Carnivorous.

What wasn’t to love about this lovely little monster?

Oh.

Love.

Chrysaor blinked once behind the mask.

He loved him.

Of course he did.

It didn’t feel sudden like a discovery. Just overdue evidence. Like the tide rolling in—quiet, steady, and impossible to argue with.

And strangely, simply—good.

Chapter Text

Florida’s winter had all the subtlety of a spotlight.

Chrysaor squinted against the glare. Every surface reflected too much light. Every shadow felt too shallow. There were no clouds to anchor the sky—just an endless stretch of blue, as if the sun had nowhere to be and nothing else to do but watch.

The breeze coming in off the water was sharp with salt, car exhaust, and the faint sting of sun-baked asphalt.

Somewhere nearby, a gull screamed like it had just committed murder and wanted the world to know.

And yet guppy didn’t seem to mind.

He was bouncing from heel to toe like a malfunctioning wind spirit—arms flailing in interpretative joy, curls springing with each step, face still streaked with red velvet ice cream like an enthusiastic abstract painting experiment. All the while, he narrated his movements in a breathless stream of consciousness:

“I’m a shark, I’m a knife, I’m a knife that’s a shark!” Percy sang, twirling on the edge of the sidewalk. “Dun dun dun—stabby time!”

Gods.

Chrysaor watched him spin, all elbows and feral glee. Weaponized adorableness wrapped in chaos and sugar.

Damn the Fates. Damn his own dumb heart for rolling over like a tide-drunk fool.

He was going to have to teach the little menace how to fight.

Not just bite-and-run survival tactics. Real fighting. Blade work. Footing. How to read an opponent and how to make sure they don’t get back up. How to stay alive when the world realised he existed.

Chrysaor dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his teeth. He turned toward Triton—only to find his brother already watching Percy, expression unreadable, jaw tight.

They locked eyes.

Then, in perfect, resigned unison:

“He’s going to need training.”

They blinked at each other.

Percy leapt to the side to avoid a crack in the pavement, then immediately lunged back to stomp on it for good luck.

“He’ll need a weapon,” Triton said, eyes still following Percy as he zigzagged along the sidewalk like a drunk wind spirit.

Chrysaor didn’t miss a beat. “Sword.”

“Trident,” Triton snapped back.

Chrysaor blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious,” Triton said, like that was something to be proud of.

“You want to arm him with a glorified fork?”

“It’s not a—”

“It’s a fork, Triton.”

“It’s not a fork,” Triton said, spine straightening like a drawn blade. “Three points. Three options—strike, feint, disarm.”

“Oh gods, don’t start.”

“You don’t get that kind of versatility with a sword. It gives you reach without losing control. You can fight close, fight wide, and with the right spin—”

“It’s a hazard,” Chrysaor cut in. “Tridents are just pitchforks that got delusions of grandeur.”

“You’re quoting Opsimedes?” Triton inhaled, scandalized. “He once lost a duel to a jellyfish.”

“He made a strong case. ‘Three blades is two too many for anyone with a death wish and a dramatic streak,’” Chrysaor recited, voice bone-dry.

Triton gave him a withering look. “He was talking about Kymopoleia.”

Chrysaor shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “Exactly my point.”

“She could beat you with her eyes closed,” Triton said coolly.

Chrysaor’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t take the bait.

Everyone knew—every god, monster, and half-sunken warlord in Poseidon’s messy bloodline knew—that Chrysaor was the best swordsman of the brood. He didn’t need to argue it. Didn’t need to brag. The tide knew. The steel knew. Olympus just tried not to talk about it.

“She dual-wielded tridents, Triton. In a cyclone. While laughing.”

“She conquered the Gulf of Corinth in forty-seven minutes.”

“She also accidentally sank three allied fleets because she sneezed mid-spin.”

Triton looked skyward, like maybe the Fates would intervene and smite his brother for him.

Chrysaor just jerked his chin toward Percy, who was currently spinning in circles and yelling, “SPIN ATTACK!” while nearly taking out a halpless mortal.

“Percy doesn’t need a lightning rod. He needs a weapon he won’t trip over every third step.”

“He’s Poseidon’s son. The trident is—”

“A liability,” Chrysaor said flatly. “He’s chaos incarnate with a baby face. You want to hand that child a high-conductivity spear with a built-in god complex? Are you trying to get him struck by our bolt-happy uncle on sight?”

Triton exhaled slowly, visibly reconsidering.

“…We’ll start with wood,” he allowed.

Chrysaor snorted. “What he needs is a sword.”

Triton groaned. “You’re still on that?”

“I never left it,” Chrysaor shot back. “Because unlike your overgrown seafood skewer, a sword is a weapon built for control. Precision. Elegance and brutality. It doesn’t need three prongs and a divine heritage to be deadly—it just needs a hand that knows what it’s doing.”

Triton folded his arms. “And I suppose you think you’re that hand.”

Chrysaor ignored him. “A sword teaches balance. Not just in your feet, but in your judgment. Every swing has weight. Every angle matters. You don’t just stab and hope—you calculate. You choose. It forces clarity. It punishes hesitation. It rewards discipline.”

“Sounds like something a trident already does—except with better reach and actual utility.”

Chrysaor raised a brow. “Better reach doesn’t mean better control. You ever tried to block in tight quarters with a trident? You knock over one vase and suddenly you’re the villain of the peace treaty.”

Triton scowled. “You’re romanticizing a glorified dagger.”

“And you’re clinging to your overcompensating cuttlery like it’s the answer to everything.”

“Because it is!”

“A sword,” Chrysaor said, cutting over him, “is clean. Direct. You don’t—”

“—consult the tiny chaos pearl before you forge his instruments of war, maybe?”

Bakkhe exploded into existence between them like a feral jack-in-the-box on too much nectar, wild-eyed and grinning, somehow wreathed in grapevines and sprinkles, holding a churro in one hand and a very confused pigeon in the other.

Chrysaor took an instinctive step back. Triton didn’t flinch, but only because he was too proud.

He couldn’t fool Chrysaor—not when he’d seen him freeze up at the sight of a swarm of unmarried mermaids and badly bluff his way out of a solstice gathering.

“I mean, honestly,” Bakkhe continued, eyes wide with manic delight, “here you are, divinely posturing like two overcooked barnacles, and neither of you has thought to ask the sentient pearl of impulsive doom what kind of pointy object he wants to wield in his tiny, destructive hands?”

She flung a dramatic arm toward Percy, who was currently headbutting a recycling bin with the focus of a conquering warlord and yelling, “SHARK HUGS!” like it was both a battle cry and a legally binding threat.

“The guppy prince might surprise you!” she sing-songed. “He could want a scythe! A spoon! A flamingo!”

Triton blinked. “A what?”

“A FLAMINGO, LORD TRITON. A WEAPONIZED FLAMINGO. Do not underestimate the aesthetic potential of avian-based carnage!”

Chrysaor stared at her for a long moment.

Then slowly, with the weight of several thousand years pressing into his shoulders, he made a silent vow:

He was never letting Percy out of his sight again. Not if this was the kind of alliance the guppy forged in his absence.

And worst of all—gods help him—he felt his stomach drop with dawning horror as the thought crept in, uninvited and undeniable:

“…She might have a point.”

Triton turned to him like he’d grown a second head. He actually stepped back this time, eyes flicking between Bakkhe and Chrysaor like her madness was contagious and he was assessing the incubation period.

“You agree with her?” he asked, scandalized.

Chrysaor blinked, realizing what he’d just admitted to outloud. “About—about asking the guppy’s opinion, obviously.”

He waved a hand, trying to shoo away the sheer implication.

“Not the flamingo,” he added, more firmly now. “Never the flamingo.”

Bakkhe was grinning like Enyo at the start of a festival riot, the pigeon on her shoulder now wearing a paper napkin like a cape.

Chrysaor sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and finally called out, “Guppy! Front and center!”

Percy stopped mid-battle with the recycling bin, blinked at them, then sprinted over at full tilt—arms flapping, curls bouncing, war cry trailing behind him like a banner.

“Aye Captain, Sir!” he shouted, saluting with all the discipline of a sugar-high pirate mid-mutiny.

Chrysaor crouched, bringing himself closer to eye level. “All right, menace. Serious question. Sword or trident—what feels right to you?”

Percy’s eyes lit up like someone had just handed him the throne of Atlantis.

“Both,” he breathed reverently, like it was the obvious answer.

Chrysaor raised an eyebrow. Triton sighed.

Wordlessly, Chrysaor handed him his sword.

And Triton extended his trident.

Percy grabbed one in each hand, blinking owlishly. The sword immediately dipped left. The trident swayed right. They were each longer than he was tall.

For a glorious half-second, he stood tall.

Triumphant. Eyes wide. Chest puffed. Curls haloed in sunlight like some tiny, sugar-anointed war god summoned by dessert and delusion.

And then—

A twitch in the elbows. A wobble at the knees.

The weapons tipped.

Percy tilted sideways under the combined weight, legs scrambling, arms flailing—before toppling forward like a felled buoy in a silent, inevitable, tragic arc.

He hit the pavement with a spectacular clatter and a small, offended “oof.”

“I’m fine!” came the immediate muffled protest from somewhere beneath Chrysaor’s sword. “This is fine! I was—uh—testing gravity!”

Chrysaor bit the inside of his cheek, hard.

He risked a glance at Triton—just in time to catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his brother’s mouth.

Bakkhe had them beat. She dropped like she’d been harpooned, shrieking as she rolled across the sidewalk, cackling like a demented hyena let loose at a wine-fueled funeral.

“Long live the doom pearl!” she howled. “Vanquished by the cruel tyranny of gravity!”

Still tangled in sword and trident, Percy glared at her from the ground, cheeks burning, curls fluffed with righteous fury.

Then, with the slow, deliberate menace of a child wronged by the universe, he shoved the weapons toward her with both arms—just enough to knock them over onto her shins.

The trident thunked. The sword clattered. Bakkhe shrieked with laughter, delighted by the attack.

Percy rose from the wreckage with all the wounded dignity of a sea prince. He dusted himself off, lifted his chin, and stood tall—eyes storm-bright, lower lip out in full regal pout.

“I meant to do that,” he announced.

Chrysaor swallowed another laugh. Gods, he loved this ridiculous little menace.

“Right,” he said, exhaling. “So... probably start him with a dagger.”

Triton, to Chrysaor’s mild surprise, nodded without hesitation. “Something light. Blunt. Preferably incapable of puncture.”

“And padding,” Chrysaor added.

Triton didn’t miss a beat. “A lot of padding.”

Chapter Text

The sugar high had waned.

Not vanished—gods forbid—but dulled to a warm buzz, like the trailing foam after a wave’s crash. Percy walked between them now. One hand clasped in Chrysaor’s, the other tangled in Triton’s, like it was the most natural arrangement in the world.

Sticky curls clung to his cheeks, still faintly flushed from laughter and ice cream exertion. His sandals slapped quietly against the sidewalk, slightly out of rhythm, like his body couldn’t decide whether it was tired or triumphant.

But the guppy looked content.

He was humming under his breath—soft and aimless, like a breeze with no ship to carry. But it threaded through the air strangely well. Fit into the spaces between footsteps and seagull cries, like it belonged there more than silence did.

Just a child’s hum.

Just a thread of melody winding through the air—

—one his senses kept reaching for.

Chrysaor’s shoulders eased.

The sun still burned.

The light still glared.

But the world felt... softer. For no good reason at all.

Even Triton looked... peaceful.

That was saying something. The Herald Of Poseidon—always so poised, so composed, like tension was a birthright—had let the tight line of his shoulders slip loose.

Between them, Percy shifted his weight, and for a moment, his feet left the ground—suspended by their arms in a gentle arc before touching back down with the next step.

A few more steps, and he did it again.

Then again—

A slow, swaying rhythm settling in between their strides.

Chrysaor didn’t even care about the sticky hands.

For one strange, sun-drenched moment, Percy looked his age.

Just a kid—bone-thin limbs and gap-toothed joy, shirt riding up, feet kicking mid-air.

Too small for the world he’d been dropped into. Too bright for the shadows he’d already walked through.

Just trust, hands holding on…

And Triton—

Triton, who was playing along. No annoyance. No lecture brewing. Just quiet indulgence. Maybe even softness, if you squinted.

Chrysaor watched him, baffled.

Okay.

Now he was concerned.

Who was that man, and what had he done with his straight-laced brother?

Triton—actual Triton—didn’t play along. Triton issued commands, drafted treaties, and looked at fun like it owed him an apology.

He didn’t swing children by the arms like a perfectly normal, affectionate brother figure.

Chrysaor narrowed his eyes.

Was this a trick?

A curse?

A concussion?

Maybe he took a glancing blow to the pride during the rescue, and now Triton was stuck being agreeable out of residual daze.

Or maybe—

Chrysaor glanced down again. Percy was kicking his feet midair, laughing like salt spray, hair plastered to his forehead, one shoelace untied and flapping like a puppy’s ear in the wind.

—maybe the guppy was just impossible not to love.

Dangerous thought.

He shelved it immediately.

They were nearly back at the marina when something exploded in the distance.

A garbage bin on the corner rocked sideways, lid flying into the air like a cursed discus. Seagulls scattered like they’d seen war, and in the middle of it all stood Bakkhe—arms outstretched, laughing like she'd just been crowned Queen of the Rats.

Chrysaor didn't want to know.

He had only known her for five very long hours, and already she was in his top five most concerning beings. Possibly top three.

She moved like a punchline delivered five centuries early. Like an omen scribbled in the margins of a prophecy and promptly ignored by everyone who should’ve known better.

Now she was holding the smoking bin lid over her head like a battle standard, stomping in circles as the seagulls regrouped behind her like feathered infantry.

Triton watched the chaos unfold like it was a stain on Poseidon’s legacy—and he’d just been handed the sponge.

“Is she always like this?” he asked, in the tone one might reserve for someone who dared bring olive oil to his temple altar.

Chrysaor snorted. “You’ve known her just as long as I have.”

“Yes,” Triton said flatly. “And somehow it still feels like too long.”

They both watched as Bakkhe tripped over a curb, caught herself with a flourish, and bowed to the seagulls like she’d choreographed the whole thing.

She was radiant. Terrifyingly radiant. Like the spirit of revelry itself had been handed a match and told to behave.

That was the influence his littlest brother was bonding with.

Maybe she was just dramatic. Eccentric. Plenty of immortals liked theatrics. Maybe the seaweed noose was symbolic. Maybe the fire in her eyes wasn’t always literal. Maybe—

She was now directing the seagulls at bystanders, jabbing a churro like a scepter and shrieking in a pitch high enough to rattle glass, while startled mortals scattered in all directions.

Nope. That was an active concern.

“She has... presence,” Triton offered, after a beat—grudging, disdain barely concealed.

Chrysaor grunted. Presence.

Sure.

So did floods. And volcanic eruptions. And shipwrecks caused by singing rocks.

“Fungus has presence,” he muttered. “Doesn’t mean you want it establishing colonies on your ship.”

There was a sudden drag on his arm.

The guppy had stopped walking—heels dug in like a dropped anchor, small hand still latched in Chrysaor’s, holding him in place with all the righteous force of someone exactly four feet tall and morally unshakable.

He was frowning now. Serious. Looking up at him with the exact expression Aunt Hestia wore every time her brothers’ bickering ruined the Winter Solstice feast.

“No being mean,” he said firmly.

Chrysaor blinked. “What?”

“You’re being mean. To Bakkhe.”

“It’s not mean if it’s true.”

Percy crossed his arms—somehow still holding Chrysaor’s hand in the process—in a knot of indignation and conviction. “It’s still rude. You don’t make fun of people just because they’re different. Or loud.”

Chrysaor resisted the urge to look around for an exit.

Was this really happening?

Was he being scolded—handheld and scolded—by a pint-sized moral philosopher sticky with ice cream?

Apparently yes.

Was it working?

Also yes.

Somewhere beneath the exasperation and fondness, a feeling was forming.

Heavy. Unfamiliar.

He was almost certain it was shame.

“Or excited,” Percy added with emphasis, utterly unaware he was dismantling Chrysaor’s emotional defenses like a toddler with a crowbar. “Miss Tanner says everyone’s allowed to take up space.”

Gods.

He was quoting his mortal teacher like it was divine law.

Chrysaor was going to die.

Not in battle. Not to blade or beast.

Not even to one of Poseidon’s badly-timed declarations of fatherhood.

But to dimples and moral lessons from a child who couldn’t tie his sandals properly.

Chrysaor opened his mouth to argue something—logic, context, volume limits—but the guppy steamrolled on.

“You have to be nice,” Percy insisted. “Especially to friends. Even if they’re weird. That’s extra important!”

Triton’s mouth twitched.

Percy saw it. His head snapped toward him like a compass needle hitting true north.

“And you—!” he started, finger halfway raised, voice already gathering momentum. “You shouldn’t—shouldn’t—”

He faltered.

The finger dropped a little. His eyes widened a fraction as his brain caught up to his mouth and registered who exactly he was talking to.

Triton stared down at him, expression unreadable—stone-faced and silent, like a statue built for disapproval.

Chrysaor wanted to throttle him.

Would it kill him to show something? A flicker of reassurance? A smile? Gods forbid, warmth?

Apparently yes. It would kill him.

The guppy was standing there being devastatingly adorable, and Triton was giving him the emotional support of a marble column.

Percy’s voice dropped to a murmur. “I mean. Um...

He shifted his weight. Glanced down. Glanced up again. And up. And a little farther up.

His fingers fidgeted at the hem of his shirt, still clinging to Chrysaor’s hand like it was the only thing keeping him from drifting into the abyss.

“You’re really tall,” Percy added quietly, as if that were both a compliment and a valid reason to retreat.

Triton said nothing.

Chrysaor could feel the silence looming, thick as seawater pressure.

But then—gods bless the guppy—Percy squared his shoulders.

Tiny chin lifted.

Lip trembled.

Voice wobbled once.

Then:

“But you were still being mean,” he said in one breath, eyes wide but steady. “And you’re supposed to be a good example. For ocean people.”

Brave guppy.

“I’m not mad,” Percy finished, with the solemn finality of a kindergarten teacher issuing divine decree. “Just disappointed.”

And with that, he gave Triton the slow, tragic shake of the head reserved for lost causes and broken leaky dinghies. Then he let go of Chrysaor’s hand, turned, and sprinted full-speed toward chaos.

Chrysaor choked back a laugh.

Triton looked like a child caught yanking a sacred seal’s mustache in front of Amphitrite—frozen mid-crime, dignity crumbling, and fully aware terrible judgment was incoming.

Good.

Chrysaor shouldn’t be the only one overcome with the urge to sit in time-out and compose an apology letter.

Misery should be shared. Wasn’t that the point of having siblings?

“Bakkhe!” Percy shouted ahead.

She looked up just in time to catch him mid-leap, scooping him from the air like a passing comet. He latched onto her shoulders and swung himself around her like a jungle gym, giggling madly, one leg hooked around her waist, the other dangling like bait.

She spun in place, roaring something in Ancient Thracian that made three seagulls flee the state.

Chrysaor watched them, dragging a hand down his face.

“Fantastic,” he muttered at the joy they took in feeding each other’s chaos.

He was still trying to figure out if she counted as an ally—or if the Olympians had just decided to outsource entropy.

Either way, she’d adopted Percy.

And Percy—gods help them all—had adopted her right back.

Having regained composure, Triton said nothing, but Chrysaor could feel the judgment radiating off him like a heat haze.

He gestured ahead. “Go on, say it.”

Triton didn’t look at him. “I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I’m always thinking it.”

Percy was now perched on Bakkhe’s shoulders, shouting pirate commands while she stomped in erratic circles like a drunken centaur. A trail of startled mortals and seagulls followed in their wake.

Chrysaor watched for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose.

“This isn’t sustainable.”

Triton hummed. “You don’t say.”

They walked a few more paces—feet crunching against the salt-dusted planks of the boardwalk, the breeze tugging at the hem of Chrysaor’s open shirt. It wasn’t quiet. Not really. Just old tension wearing the mask of silence.

Chrysaor finally said it.

“What was he thinking?”

Triton didn’t answer.

Because there was no answer.

Because Poseidon—their illustrious, wildly irresponsible, oceanic disaster of a father—had fathered yet another child.

Again.

And this time, instead of the usual monster or another demigod for Olympus to politely ignore, he’d broken a sacred oath—

And gotten Percy.

Chrysaor shoved his hands in his pockets, fists curling tight around the lining.

“We’re supposed to pretend this is fine? That he can just exist like this?”

“He does exist,” Triton said, coolly. “That’s the problem.”

Chrysaor flinched. “That’s not—” He stopped. Dragged a hand in his hair, fingers catching in his curls. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

They paused as a tourist couple passed by—floral shirts, plastic sandals, and the instinctive mortal talent for steering clear of beings so far above them, their feeble minds couldn’t begin to comprehend it.

Chrysaor waited until they were out of earshot.

“He’s just a kid, Triton. All elbows and questions and too much heart for his own good.”

“I noticed.”

“And the Olympians—when they find out—”

“They’ll have to deal with it.”

Chrysaor barked a laugh, sharp and bitter. “You think they’ll deal with it? They’ll debate it. Weaponize him. Send him on some quest he won’t survive. Or worse, execute him on the spot. You’ve heard about the King’s daughter on the west coast?”

Triton’s jaw twitched. A storm behind the eyes. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Chrysaor gave him a long look.

“You care now?”

“I always cared.” Triton’s voice came flat. Steel laid bare. “You just make it hard.”

His heel skimmed the edge of a plank. He adjusted mid-step, weight rolling forward and masking the hitch in his stride.

He turned his head, slow.

Looked at Triton.

And Triton was already looking back.

No tilt. No tell.

Just the sea meeting the sea.

Gods.

Was this what sibling affection felt like?

No wonder Percy looked manic all the time.

For a breathless second, the millennia lifted off of his shoulders.

The wars, the masks, the titles—all scraped off like barnacles.

He was young again. Saltborn and furious.

Hungry for something that didn’t have a name, and never thought it could be offered.

He looked away before it could undo him.

Stride even. Spine straight.

They kept walking, the weight of the words trailing behind them like an anchor line through silt.

Finally, Triton spoke again—low, certain, with the force of tide and trench behind it.

“Anyone who tries to hurt him,” he said quietly, “will answer to the sea.”

Chapter Text

The sun pressed down on Chrysaor’s shoulders—unblinking, relentless—flattening the light into hard-edged shadows across the marina pavement.

Beside him, Triton walked in silence. Not stiff—measured. Like he was choosing his words for once instead of aiming them like spears. Chrysaor wasn’t sure what unnerved him more: the quiet, or the effort behind it.

Somewhere ahead of them, Bakkhe skipped happily, humming something off-key and probably homicidal.

Percy was asleep in Chrysaor’s arms. Out cold, soft and warm and wrecked from the sugar storm he’d summoned like a pint-sized maelstrom. One sticky fist clutched Chrysaor’s tunic. There was frosting on his cheek. Possibly syrup residue in his curls.

Triton cleared his throat. “There’s room for him in Atlantis.”

“No.” Chrysaor didn’t even glance over. “Absolutely not.”

Triton frowned. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“I didn’t need to.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You were going to say it’s safe.” Chrysaor adjusted Percy slightly, making sure the kid’s head stayed tucked beneath his chin. “And I’m telling you: no.”

Triton exhaled through his nose like a bull trying very hard not to gore anyone. “He’d be protected.”

Protected.

Chrysaor almost laughed—but there was too much weight in his arms. Real weight. Fragile, mortal, dreaming-of-daggers weight. It kept the bitterness lodged behind his ribs.

Atlantis. Protected. Sure. And sharks made excellent babysitters.

He shook his head once. “You send him there, you’re not hiding him—you’re shouting to Olympus that he exists.”

“No one in Atlantis would betray him,” Triton snapped. “He’d be safe.”

Chrysaor finally glanced over. “You really believe that?”

“I know it.”

Chrysaor let out a low, humorless sound. “The cyclopes alone would have the whole sea whispering his name before breakfast.”

Triton scoffed. “That’s a myth.”

“I’ve never met a looser tongue than a one-eyed warrior.”

Triton’s eye twitched. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I know that you use them as your informants.”

Triton’s eye twitched. “And how would you know that, dear brother?”

Chrysaor didn’t answer right away. He just shifted Percy higher in his arms and gave an exaggerated sigh—long, pointed, and full of disdain.

“What now?” Triton asked, dry.

“Oh, just grieving,” Chrysaor said. “For Father’s standards.”

And then, conversationally, like he was diagnosing a shipwreck:

“This is the heir Poseidon picked. Thank the Tides he’s eternal.”

Triton jabbed him in the shin with the butt of his trident.

Chrysaor’s entire leg spasmed in betrayal. He bit back a curse so sharp it nearly took a tooth with it, jaw locking tight with the effort not to wake the small sugar-coma demigod curled across his chest.

Triton narrowed his eyes. “Again, brother—how do you know?”

Chrysaor slowly turned to look at him, one brow arching with maximum disdain.

“I obviously heard it from a cyclops.”

A long pause.

Then—quietly, like a curse beneath the waves—

There was a beat of silence.

Then Triton muttered, “Fine. Not Atlantis.”

It was the closest he’d come to admitting defeat in years. Or maybe just...trust.

Chrysaor allowed himself a single smile. It wasn’t smug. Not quite. Just steady. Like something had realigned.

He shifted Percy’s weight in his arms and looked ahead again.

“His mom’s raised him well. You want to keep him safe?” he said, voice rough now. “You don’t lock him in a palace. You teach him to survive outside it.”

Triton didn’t argue.

He didn’t agree either.

But he didn’t scoff. He just kept walking. And that said enough.

At the docks, the sea lapped softly against the hulls, and the Golden Gorgon waited, moored in gold-touched stillness.

Triton stopped just short of the gangplank.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said at last, voice low. “About the protections. Quiet ones.”

Chrysaor nodded. Not thanks—just acknowledgment. Triton didn’t need gratitude. And Chrysaor didn’t have any to spare.

But maybe—just maybe—he had room for respect.

A shimmer of light caught the edge of the waves. Sunlight—too bright, too deliberate, like it had paused to listen.

Triton vanished with the tide.

Chrysaor didn’t even taunt him for fleeing while the guppy was down. He wouldn’t have had the heart to say goodbye either—not to that face. Not when those eyes could look at you, out of all the wonders in the world, and still think you were the coolest coolest goddang fish in the sea.

He climbed aboard—one arm curled tight around the cutest dead weight ever. All loose limbs and uneven breathing, head tucked against Chrysaor’s shoulder. One shoe dangled loose, the other had vanished somewhere between the pigeon offensive and his third gravity-defying leap.

A mystery for the ages. Along with how one mortal child could produce so much kinetic chaos on a diet of sugar and spite.

He stepped onto the deck—and breathed.

Salt air, tarred wood, rope oil and the faint tang of gold—home.

The kind of home no Olympian meddling could strip from him. Because it hadn’t been given. It had been taken. Claimed. Anchored in blood, gold, and every bitter choice that made him who he was.

The figurehead stirred as he approached.

Her voice rang out—clear, melodic, and entirely unimpressed.

“Your maenad is terrorizing my oarsmen.”

Chrysaor didn’t pause. Just kept walking up the gangplank, boots thudding in steady rhythm. “She’s not my maenad.”

Krysis.

Not just wood and gold, not just clever enchantment. She was carved from timber hauled out of a cursed grove, bound in celestial bronze, and kissed into awareness by an oath no one dared try repeating. She’d been with him since the beginning—or close enough that it didn’t matter. Old ship. Older soul. Older grudges.

Which meant she had opinions. Loud ones. And unfortunately, the lungs to voice them.

He still trusted her more than any god.

“Not-your-maenad’s been aboard for less than ten minutes and already half your crewmen are scuttling like rats during a hull breach,” she continued. “Half a dozen have barricaded themselves in the ballast hold. One of them is crying. Loudly. I think it’s Darion.”

“I’m not surprised,” Chrysaor muttered, stepping past a coil of rope someone had left twisted the wrong way. Sloppy. Lazy. He didn’t give it long before Krysis noticed and started yelling about standards.

Two hours if they were lucky. One if she was bored. Ten minutes if she saw it now.

A figurehead with opinions she was. A relic with wrath. She called herself the spirit of the ship, but really, she was the spine.

And sometimes—on good days—the heart.

And on bad days, the judge, jury, and executioner of his sanity.

“Are you going to do something about her?” Krysis asked, all affected innocence now. “Or should I start composing eulogies preemptively?”

Chrysaor didn’t slow. “They’ll survive.”

Probably. Statistically. If not, fewer mouths to feed.

“Morale won’t.”

“I have bigger priorities.”

He glanced down at the guppy—still tucked against his chest, mouth open slightly in the vulnerable peace of deep sleep.

Tiny priorities, actually.

Tiny, marshmallow-scented priorities who couldn’t hold still for five minutes and somehow still had his entire heart in a headlock.

They could stew in it. He wasn’t feeling particularly charitable. Not after the stunt they’d pulled that morning.

“Fine,” Krysis sniffed. “Just don’t blame me when someone tries to mutiny. Again. You remember the mutiny? That thing from four hours ago?”

“I do,” Chrysaor said flatly.

Let them sweat.

He’d spent the entire afternoon with Bakkhe weaving chaos like it was a performance art. They could handle ten minutes.

“I liked the old days better,” she went on. “When stowaways brought rum, not revolutions.”

So did he, sometimes. The sea had been wilder then, yes—but purer. Before mortals choked it with plastic and politics. Before kingdoms rose and fell on oil slicks and offshore waste.

At least the monsters used to have the decency to be defeatable.

Chrysaor stepped around another mislaid rope and gave the mast a warning knock as he passed. “You liked the old days because you had a harpoon launcher and no supervision.”

“I miss the harpoon launcher.”

“I know.”

Krysis shifted in the prow. “She painted a mustache on the bowline watchman.”

He sighed. “Was it a good mustache?”

“It curled at the ends.”

“…okay, that’s a good one,” Chrysaor muttered, lips twitching despite himself, as he pictured it.

A sly smile curled across Krysis’ carved lips. “I like having someone new cause chaos around here. Reminds me of you when you were younger. Slightly less clothes, marginally more screams.”

“She’s not staying.”

“You sure?” her eyes flicked to the bundle in his arms. “Because the small one seems to think otherwise. He’s very attached. Dangerously so.”

“I noticed,” Chrysaor said grimly—like a man who had spent the entire afternoon listening to a murder lullaby sung in angelic falsetto by a a too-cute-for-its-own-good menace.

On repeat.

“Mm. I give it two days before she teaches him how to brew wine in a boot.”

Chrysaor muttered something impolite in Ancient Minoan.

Krysis only smiled wider.

“Welcome home, Captain.”

Chrysaor gave a noncommittal grunt and angled toward the helm, boots skimming past loose lines and ducking instinctively beneath a swinging pulley some fool hadn’t secured.

The docking rope lay coiled in a sun-baked heap. With a slow exhale, he knelt and eased the guppy down with the kind of caution he usually reserved for unstable relics and volatile contraband. Percy stirred only slightly—fingers twitching around the hem of Chrysaor’s sash before letting go.

“Easy,” Chrysaor muttered, tucking the wayward arm close to his side.

Then, with careful fingers, he shifted a strand under the boy’s head and pulled another over his side like a crude improvised blanket.

The guppy sighed, went boneless again. One day this kid would level nations. For now, he drooled.

Chrysaor straightened. Adjusted his belt. Rolled his shoulders once.

Back to business.

His voice, when it came, was pitched just above a whisper—razor-edged and velvet-wrapped. The tone he’d used in the dead of night during delicate operations where waking the mark meant blood on the deck.

“Get the rigging in order,” he said as he passed the foremast. “Tangle like that again and I’ll make the lot of you untie it with your teeth.”

A startled clatter came from behind a barrel.

“Darion,” Chrysaor added without turning, “I can see your dorsal fin. If you’re going to hide, do it properly.”

A yelp. Scrambling.

“Tell the cook I want something hot and not made of despair. We’ve got guests.”

If it was fish sticks again, the galley was getting torched.

He swept past the wheel, gave it a fond pat, and scanned the deck for the most flammable source of trouble.

It didn’t take long.

Bakkhe balanced on the boom like a cat who’d just knocked something fragile off a shelf—and was considering a second round, one leg swinging, arms outstretched in perfect balance. Below her, his rowers scattered like upturned crabs as she rained down orange peels and condemnation in equal measure.

“You!” she shrieked at no one in particular. “Salt-stained sinners in borrowed skin! You think millennia can wash away your crimes against the Twice-Born?”

She flung a peel. It hit the deck with an anticlimactic flop.

“You wrapped my god in chains!” she wailed, throwing her head back like the sea had personally betrayed her. “In chains! And for what? Because he sang too sweet? Because you caught sight of his other thyrsus and thought a pretty stem meant no bite?”

A sudden gasp. She clutched her heart.

“I remember your screams,” she whispered, mournful now, eyes wide with ancient grief. “When He-Of-The-Ivy took your bones and made them rubber. When you forgot your names and your knives and your sins.”

She blinked, cheered up abruptly, and clapped.

“Do it again!”

Someone ducked behind a barrel. She pointed and cackled.

“Do it again,” she snarled, “or I’ll glue grapes to your gills and ferment your next breath!”

She started pelting them with whole oranges now—half missed in a flurry of pulp and fury, but the ones that struck sent sailors reeling, slipping, cursing, one even dropping to his knees.

“DO IT!” she screamed. “REPENT! SCREAM! DANCE!”

Darion lurched upright from behind a barrel and flung himself dramatically onto the deck.

“Oh noooo,” he cried, voice nasal through his blowhole and twice as shrill as it should’ve been. “The salt! It’s in my bones! I can’t feel my legs!”

He thrashed once for effect. “What are legs?!”

Bakkhe gasped like it was opening night at the Dionysian Theater.

“Yes!” she shrieked, applauding with sticky orange hands. “Finally, someone with pathos!”

Chrysaor stalked in her direction, already bracing for the headache. He could feel it coiling at the base of his skull like a kraken with a grudge.

An orange bounced off his shoulder. He did not acknowledge it.

Another one whizzed past his ear. He caught it without looking and crushed it in one hand.

“Psaros, stop flopping.”

That wasn’t his real name, of course. But the crew had called him that after he got stuck in a fishing net trying to impress a siren, and it stuck like barnacles on bronze.

Psaros flopped harder.

Of course he did. Drama spread fast aboard this ship. Like mildew. Or maenads. Or mildew-covered maenads.

He squinted up at Bakkhe, just to be sure.

No visible spores. Yet.

Chrysaor stopped in front of still flopping crewmate. Looked down. Slowly. Silently. Orange juice dripping from his fist.

He didn’t need to say anything more. He let gravity and disappointment do the talking.

Psaros whimpered. “I—I just wanted her to stop and leave us alone.”

“I gathered.”

He turned to Bakkhe, still balanced on the boom like a citrus-soaked banshee.

Her arms were spread like the prow of a warship. Her expression? Full-throttle Dionysian rapture. The kind that usually preceded the lighting of torches and the shedding of laws.

“Maenad.”

She gasped, delighted. “You noticed me!?”

Chapter Text

Bakkhe blinked down at him, beaming like a chandelier possessed.

“You noticed me!?”

“Yes,” Chrysaor said flatly, “And so did the crew. The fish. And any halfway-sentient organism within three leagues.”

She lit up like she’d just been crowned Empress of Pandemonium and Given Unlimited Confetti.

“You are,” Chrysaor added, “a lunatic lighthouse—blinding, loud, and somehow visible from every corner of my ship, whether I want it or not.”

She clutched her chest like he’d proposed.

He stepped forward. Not letting her spew another mad syllable, not while Percy was asleep and the deck still stank of citrus and near-insubordination.

Gods, he needed a moment of silence. Just one. And maybe a drink.

The sun should’ve been sinking by now—softening, cooling, slipping west like any normal celestial body with manners. Instead, it lingered —bright, and far too hot. It pressed against his shoulders like a gaze he couldn’t shake, bleeding into the planks beneath his boots, baking the salt into his nerves.

“You will stop martyring my crew.”

Her smile twitched, but he didn’t give her the space to twist it into amusement.

“Whatever crusade you think you’re on—avenge your patron, dragging these fools back through the punishment they already served—I don’t care. Those sailors may be idiots. But they are my idiots. My responsibility. My ship.”

His patience was splintering. His temple throbbed in rhythm with the hammering sun.

Her smile dipped, just a fraction. Enough to show she was listening, even if her toes were still flexing like she was imagining a solo interpretive stabbing to express her dissent.

“I know what they did,” Chrysaor went on, voice cutting now. “I know who they are. The fools who mocked a god and tried to sell him in chains. And the Twice-Born made them pay. He broke their minds, turned half of them into dolphins, and cursed the rest.”

He gestured toward the crew—sunburnt, trembling, citrus-streaked wreckage. Some pretending not to listen. Others still trying to disappear into the deck.

“Then he gave them to me. Not for mercy. For service. For centuries of it. And only I get to decide how their sentence plays out. Not you. Not anymore.”

Chrysaor didn’t sigh. If he started sighing, he might never stop.

Bakkhe pouted. “But they’re so squishy when they panic.”

“And you’re not here to squish,” Chrysaor said. “You’re here because the guppy is fond of you, and because I’m tired. Too tired to explain to his mother how her already traumatised son is sad because I had to get rid of his new friend.”

She sniffed. “Mortal women are so possessive of their young.”

He didn’t answer that. Mostly because the answer was a snarl, and he was trying—very hard—not to snarl at the guppy’s favorite chaos goblin while said guppy was asleep a few feet away, curled up like a sugar-stained cherub in a coil of ropes.

“This is my ship. Mine.” His voice dropped an octave. “And that means I am generous enough to give you a cabin—with windows, and curtains, and an absurd number of cushions—”

“I like cushions,” she interjected.

“—but not generous enough to let you terrorize my crew because your preferred method of spiritual engagement is performance art and psychological warfare.”

His armor was too hot. The sun pressed down on him—bright, unwavering, demanding. He didn’t look up. He wouldn’t give it the satisfaction.

She crossed her arms. “You’re no fun.”

“Correct. I’m the captain.” Chrysaor’s tone dropped into the depths. “And if you test my command again—if you bring your chaos beyond that cabin door, if you so much as twitch in a maenadic key while we’re underway—”

He let the pause stretch. A wave of heat shimmered on the deck.

If this blasted sun so much as warped a plank, he’d provoke an eclipse the old-fashioned way—by punching it square in its radiant face.

“—I will throw you overboard. With ceremony, if you’d like. You can choreograph the splash.”

Bakkhe’s eyes sparkled with something between thrill and genuine alarm. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Chrysaor said, low and final. “And I’ll endure the guppy’s heartbreak if I must. Do we understand each other?”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then sighed, long and theatrical, tossing her arms into the air like a diva mid-tragedy. “Fiiiiiiine. No more cleansing the world of repentance-dodging apostates with kelp for spines.”

“And?”

“And I’ll keep the chaos inside the very generous, cushion-stuffed cabin.” She paused. “But only because I don’t want Pearly to be sad.”

Chrysaor nodded once. “Good.”

Chrysaor nodded once. His back hurt. His eyes stung. The sun was still hovering.

“And because,” she added smugly, “you called me a lunatic lighthouse. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in centuries.”

He didn’t answer. Just turned toward the helm, muttering something half-prayer, half-invective, and all salt.

He needed wind. Shade. Silence.

And if the sun didn’t stop hovering like an expectant guest, he was going to throw something sharp at it.

Chrysaor froze mid-step as he passed the coil of rope where he’d left the guppy—out-cold, sugar-crashed, dream-heavy.

Or so he thought.

Two eyes blinked up at him from the shadows. Awake. Clear. Soul-crushing.

Chrysaor nearly flinched.

He could still remember the look on the kid’s face the last time he’d been less than gentle with Bakkhe—pure, guileless disappointment. Like Chrysaor had personally sunk a basket of puppies for fun.

He braced for impact. The sigh. The wide-eyed “Chrysaor, that was not very kind!” followed by a soul-scouring lecture.

He was a warrior. A pirate. A living blade forged by gorgon pain and saltwater vengeance. And yet here he was—paralysed by the judgment of a pint-sized mortal with syrup on his face.

What. Was. His life.

But then—Percy smiled.

That tiny, infuriatingly sincere, proud smile. The kind that could disarm armies. Or melt gold.

He stretched like a sleepy cat, arms overhead, back arching with a squeaky yawn, and then—before Chrysaor could move or argue or breathe—launched himself forward and wrapped his arms around Chrysaor’s waist. Full-body. No hesitation. One small hand gave a firm, approving pat on the nearest bit of armor he could reach—somewhere around the chest.

“You did a good job,” Percy said with gentle conviction, like that settled the cosmos.

Chrysaor stared down at him.

“What.”

Percy pulled back, nodded seriously, and added, “But I’m gonna talk to Bakkhe. It’s not nice to bully people.”

Then he trotted off.

Just like that. Marching down the deck with sleep-rumpled confidence and a moral mission.

He stopped at every crewman he passed—one by one—to offer a quick, tight hug. Some of them looked like they might cry. Psaros the dolphin-headed disaster made a noise like a kettle boiling.

Then the guppy vanished below deck, humming something wildly dramatic, and—of course—perfectly in tune. Because even half-asleep and covered in the remnants of his ice cream tribute, the little menace sang like a siren.

Chrysaor stood there, completely still, the sound of that perfect little hymn lingering in the air like joyful judgment disguised as a lullaby.

Huh.

"...I’m being out-commanded by a dessert-smeared child."

He scrubbed a hand down his mask, then let it drop.

At least this time, it wasn’t him on the receiving end of the guppy’s righteous disappointment. The maenad would be the one to face the moral tribunal.

A small, hollow victory. But he'd take it.

He'd threatened her with ocean burial. But a quiet scolding from a sticky seven-year-old might teach her better than a thousand storms ever could.

He exhaled.

“Gods help us all,” he muttered.

He turned toward the crew, still sluggish and wary after the maenad’s performance. “Ropes cleared, deck scrubbed, and someone get the ink off the watchlan before he starts monologuing about it.”

There was a collective groan, a few mutters of “Yes, Captain,” and one defeated splash as someone apparently decided saltwater was the only cure for a squid-ink mustache.

Order, or the nearest lie to it, was slowly returning.

By the time the guppy’s voice floated back above deck, Chrysaor had just enough breath wrestled back from the jaws of absurdity to start pretending his ship had a functional command structure.

The sun, naturally, took it as its cue to blaze brighter. As if it were responsible for the guppy’s triumphant return and deserved applause.

Chrysaor turned.

And there he was.

Percy. Marching back across the deck like a miniature diplomat after armistice—face scrubbed clean, curls damp, shirt changed, expression determined.

Dragging a bag twice his size that thunked ominously with every step.

Behind him trailed the two nymphs from earlier—he still couldn’t remember their names. One with trailing lilac hair and a laugh like petals hitting wine, the other with blue petal skin and a gaze like it had already undressed him twice and was debating a third time. Flowers. Flirting. Chaos.

He resisted the urge to sigh.

They fluttered after Percy like he was leading a parade, which—knowing the guppy—was entirely possible.

Percy, naturally, noticed them eyeing Chrysaor.

The guppy turned mid-stride, cast a scandalized glance between Chrysaor and his floral fan club, and pulled a face like he was about to file a formal complaint with the nearest goddess of propriety.

Chrysaor barely held back a laugh.

That look. That little spark of wounded, mortal indignation.

As if he was the one being inappropriate, simply for existing in front of a pair of nymphs with poor impulse control and no shame.

He offered Percy a subtle shrug, the closest he’d get to an apology for being, unfortunately, irresistible.

Gods. He was centuries past the age where he needed a chaperone—and if he did, it certainly wouldn’t be a fiercely blinking guppy with judgmental eyebrows and a new change of clothes.

Still—it was oddly flattering. In a doomed, adorable sort of way.

He made a mental note to buy the kid something unnecessarily shiny later. Compensation for emotional flower trauma.

Percy marched straight up to him, the bag thunking once more against the deck like a bag of rocks.

“Look!” he said, beaming, and swung it open with both hands.

Inside: jewels. A ridiculous assortment of them. Gold chains, polished opals, rings too big for any reasonable finger, and a ruby-studded brooch shaped like a pineapple wearing a crown.

Chrysaor blinked.

“Where—”

Percy cut him off, voice low and a little breathless, like he was sharing a secret he was really proud of. “I took them when I was rescuing the nymphs.”

“In movies,” he said seriously, “pirates always share the booty. So.” He looked down at the treasure, then back up at Chrysaor with absolute guileless sincerity. “This is what I got. How do we share it?”

He looked up at Chrysaor, eyes wide with hope, like he was waiting to hear if he'd done the pirate thing right.

Chrysaor didn’t stand a chance.

He reached out and ruffled the guppy’s curls before he could stop himself, fingers sinking into still-damp hair.

Percy blinked up at him, startled, then smiled so brightly it should’ve been illegal.

Gods. If his whole crew were made of guppies, the Golden Gorgon would be invincible. Not because of strength or skill or divine blessing—but because no sane enemy could bring themselves to fire on that face.

They’d surrender on sight. Or throw down their weapons out of sheer emotional compromise.

Chrysaor let his hand fall, a little slower than he meant to.

“You earned it,” he said. “All of it. You can do whatever you want with it.”

Percy lit up like a lantern. That too-big grin broke across his face and, without warning, he flung his arms around Chrysaor again—a triumphant squeeze of pure, unfiltered joy.

Then he was off.

Bag clutched in both arms, legs pumping, expression fierce with determination and just a hint of mischief. He made it three steps before the weight of the loot overbalanced him and he stumbled—dramatically, awkwardly, arms flailing.

He froze mid-wobble. Turned his head. Scanned the deck like a cat caught mid-crash—trying to pretend gravity was someone else’s fault.

The crew, to their credit, immediately looked anywhere but at him.

Bubbles developed a sudden fascination with the mast. Someone else coughed in semaphore. Psaros made a heroic attempt to look like he hadn’t just gasped in panic.

He straightened up, adjusted his grip on the bag, and marched with exaggerated dignity toward the sails where the nymphs waited in a cloud of floral perfume and barely-contained coos.

He plopped down in the shade, the bag landing with a clink and a thud beside him, and unspooled the treasure like a merchant laying out wonders.

The nymphs gasped. Ooh’d. Aah’d. Glikis clapped. Hortensia made a sultry comment about sapphires matching Percy’s eyes that earned her a flustered glare and a very pointy finger-wag.

Chrysaor chuckled—couldn’t help it. A full, hearty sound that startled the nearest sailor.

And then he froze, a ripple of heat sliding across his shoulders—sharp and smug, like applause with teeth. The laughter died in his throat, severed clean as a cutlass swing.

He scowled up at the sky, muttering a threat in a dialect no mortal spoke anymore.

The sun, predictably, did not answer.

Enough was enough.

He squared his shoulders and spoke, voice pitched to carry across the glaring heavens:

"If you’re waiting for an invitation, you’ll be dust long before it ever comes. Even the Fates won’t waste thread on that kind of hope."

Chapter Text

Across the deck, safely tucked in the shade of a stack of crates, Percy sat with his legs folded beneath him, a ledger balanced on his knees. His finger traced each line as he read, his lips shaping the words in a silent murmur, brow drawn in deep concentration. The nymphs lounged on either side of him, weaving strands of wisteria and hydrangea directly into his hair.

Even as it bled toward the horizon, the sun clung to the sky like a miser refusing to part with gold—dragging out the inevitable. The helm burned against Chrysaor’s palm even through the gloves, the metal hoarding its heat just as greedily. The leather stuck to his fingers, and sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat.

Enough was enough.

"If you’re waiting for an invitation, you’ll be dust long before it ever comes. Even the Fates won’t waste thread on that kind of hope."

Chrysaor was too weary to entertain this tiresome game any longer. The last few days had worn him raw—too many frights, too many fires to put out, and at the center of it all, a sharp-toothed gremlin with no sense of self-preservation and a talent for turning the simplest situation into a disaster.

The heat swelled in response, heavy as breath against the back of his neck. Light slanted at the wrong angles, pressing at his shoulders like a too-familiar hand. Even the air had turned dense, burdened with that unmistakable, smug presence.

Chrysaor exhaled through his nose.

“If you’ve got something to say, say it. Or shine down a clue already. I’m too old for coyness.”

The heat curled in tighter, a pressure, a presence. Leaning in with a smirk just out of sight, delighted by its own subtlety.

And then—

‟Such a cold welcome.”

Apollo’s voice came from nowhere and everywhere, carrying like a melody composed for his own amusement—each syllable spun smooth, refusing to move on until it had been properly admired.

Chrysaor didn’t turn. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Cold?” His reply came flattened, worn smooth like a sea-stone. “That’s rich, coming from the one who’s been baking me alive all day.”

A chuckle—low, indulgent—brushed against the air like fingers tracing the rim of a glass. The heat curled with it, a ripple of warmth up Chrysaor’s spine. He ignored it.

"Now, now. I can’t take all the credit. Maybe the sun just likes you."

The light behind Chrysaor condensed, drawing inward, pulling itself into something less scattered. It didn’t harden into flesh so much as decide to exist: radiance resolving into the shape of a man, indistinct, golden, and utterly without shadow.

And then, with an exhale that could have been mistaken for the satisfied hum of a song completed, Apollo was simply there.

Chrysaor turned at last.

The sight did not improve his mood.

The motion was slow—almost decadent. He rolled his shoulders, tipped his head back, and let the last rays of sunlight catch his skin, basking in his own radiance. The sound wasn’t bones shifting but the slow tuning of an unseen instrument—strings pulled taut, a low, resonant hum, the whisper of a lyre before the first note is struck.

Then, as if no part of his arrival had been the least bit intrusive, Apollo smiled.

Bright.

"I thought you’d never notice me."

Chrysaor stared at him, tallying up every past mistake that had led him to this moment.

Somewhere along the way, he must have taken a particularly disastrous turn, though for the life of him, he couldn’t pinpoint which one had summoned Apollo back into his orbit. Especially when he’d made himself perfectly clear the last time, at the foot of Olympus, when the gilded nuisance had tried worming his way into his clientele.

"Never?" he finally said, voice dry as a sailor’s tack. Experience told him staring wouldn’t make him vanish. "You’ve been about as subtle as a beacon on a starless night. "

Apollo laughed. It was the echo of a poet reciting his own verse, certain no other words could ever compare. It was the joy of admiration received and the certainty that it would never run dry.

"Flattery," he said, eyes glinting, "will get you everywhere."

Chrysaor didn’t sigh. He considered it. Deeply. But he suspected Apollo would take it as encouragement.

“What do you want?” he asked instead. “Besides a second chance to coat the air in smug and call it music.”

Apollo tilted his head, mock-wounded. “Is it so hard to believe I came for you?”

Then, with the unhurried grace of someone who knew the world would bend to his rhythm, he lifted a hand—palm open, fingers poised as if plucking the first note from a lyre. The dying light clung to him like a lover reluctant to part, gilding every movement in a slow, honeyed glow.

His voice rippled through the air, settling like a refrain waiting for its echo.

"The sea may boast of its endless tides," he declaimed, basking in the moment as though even the air should hold its breath for him, "but even the waves break for the golden shore."

Chrysaor exhaled sharply and dragged his fingers down the helm. His gaze flicked to the water—calculating. Jumping overboard wouldn’t fix anything, but it was starting to feel like the least painful option.

"I’m not in the mood, Apollo. Say why you’re here."

Apollo sighed, long and indulgent, the sound of a man burdened by the woes of others, as if Chrysaor’s lack of admiration was the true tragedy here.

"Fine," he said, stretching the word as though granting a favor. Theatrical, magnanimous—humoring a child too young to grasp the brilliance before him. "No love for poetry. But tell me, Chrysaor…"

His lips curled, slow and knowing, eyes half-lidded with the promise of mischief. He stepped closer, not closing the distance so much as claiming it.

His voice dipped, smooth and languid, playful at the edges but tempered beneath—like the pull of a bowstring before release.

"Don’t you have anything to say to me?"

His words hung in the air, expectant, like a trap laid with the lightest touch of bait.

Chrysaor frowned. He had no patience for riddles, least of all from Apollo.

"If there’s something I ought to say to you, I’m sure you’ll enlighten me," he said, keeping his tone even.

Apollo hummed, head tilting, but he didn’t answer immediately—which was never a good sign. Instead, his gaze flicked sideways, lazy and knowing, and nodded toward something past Chrysaor’s shoulder.

Chrysaor followed his line of sight.

Percy.

The dryad had taken over the ledger, reading aloud while Percy lay sprawled across her lap—unguarded, content. A flower crown of blue and violet now rested on his brow. The other nymph, apparently unsatisfied with stopping there, was busy crafting matching bracelets, winding blooms around his wrists with idle precision.

It was a relief to see he wasn’t the only one it happened too. The guppy had the pull of a riptide—stronger than he looked, sweeping others into his current before they realised there was no swimming free.

Chrysaor turned back to Apollo, every muscle coiled tighter.

Why was he looking at Percy?

Apollo’s smile didn’t falter. But something in his eyes had sharpened.

“You’ve been so radiant lately,” he said, gaze sweeping down and back like a painter appraising a canvas he already wanted to ruin. “And I just had to see what you were hiding on this little pirate daycare you’ve been running.”

Oh, no.

Realisation struck Chrysaor like a harpoon to the chest.

He did not react outwardly. But deep in the marrow of his bones, a very specific kind of dread unfurled—slow and inevitable, like the first curl of a storm spilling over the horizon.

Apollo knew.

Chrysaor didn’t move. Couldn’t, with the cold spike of realisation threading down his spine. He never would’ve brought Percy this close to Olympus if he’d known who he was at the time.

Now, two sons of Zeus knew the boy existed. And it was entirely Chrysaor’s fault.

Kairos—whose silence Chrysaor could still buy, barter, or bully into place—was one thing.

But Apollo?

He had no leverage there.

While Chrysaor was still stunned, Apollo’s eyes sparkled. Not the glint of mischief this time, but the flare of theatrical betrayal—the kind that came with violins and golden spotlights.

“You didn’t even tell me.”

He stepped closer, indignation blooming like a sunflower turning to the sun—bright, dramatic, and entirely unnecessary.

“Me! Of all gods, Chrysaor—after everything—you didn’t think I might want to know?”

Chrysaor’s spine stiffened. What in the depths was he talking about? Did Apollo actually expect—what?—a courtesy scroll? An announcement? A party?

“You expected me to inform you?” Chrysaor said, incredulous.

“Well, yes!” Apollo flared, sun-hot and scandalized, his entire aura vibrating with personal offense. “I would’ve appreciated a message, at the very least. A raven! A dream! Even a passive-aggressive limerick would’ve been something! Instead I find out like this?”

A beat too long. Chrysaor’s mind scratched at the words like barnacles on hullwood. This was either the slowest ambush in history or the most bewildering grievance ever aired.

Chrysaor blinked once. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re impossible,” Apollo huffed. A solar flare of ego wrapped in wounded pride. “Honestly. You act like I’m some deadbeat.”

Now they were on familiar territory.

Chrysaor raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

Apollo drew back like he’d been slapped.

Theatrical silence. A gasp that probably summoned a few nearby dolphins.

“I am not that bad of a father. Ask any of my kids! Actually, no, ask the nice ones. The well-adjusted ones. I have several of those.”

Chrysaor resisted the urge to groan. Instead, he tilted his head by a millimeter—just enough to register doubt without committing to it. ‘Several’ was a kind number. He’d met several of Apollo’s children. Most of them carried emotional damage like divine inheritance.

He was rapidly redoing the math. None of this was adding up. Apollo wasn’t posturing like a threat. He wasn’t threatening at all. He was… hurt? Personally?

Apollo crossed his arms. “Okay. Two. I have two. Possibly three, depending on how you define ‘well-adjusted.’ Point is—I care. I would’ve shown up.”

What a strange reaction. It was clear to anyone with sense that secrecy was Percy’s best shield. And Apollo—quirky as he was, prone to dramatics and delusions of lyricism—was usually quick-witted enough to see that. He wasn’t stupid. Egotistical, yes. Extraordinarily loud. But not blind. So why did he look like he was mourning a missed birthday?

Chrysaor ran a hand down his face. “How did you even find out?”

Apollo brightened, as if the conversation had finally pivoted back to something worth monologuing about.

“One of my daughters spotted him.”

Chrysaor froze. The Miami doctor, of course. He’d thought he’d gotten away with it.

“A darling girl. Brilliant. Chose to live in sunny Florida—sunny, can you imagine? I can keep an eye on her most of the year. So thoughtful.”

His pride radiated like a sunrise.

“Anyway, she prayed to me—bless her heart—because she saw a little boy with healing powers who was clearly divine, and—this is the best part—he was brought in by a man with a golden mask.”

Apollo leaned in, smug. The exact expression of someone about to win a game he invented five minutes ago.

“And I thought, ‘I know only one man with that level of flair.’”

Chrysaor felt every nerve in his body scream.

Oh, gods.

The urge to launch himself into the sea returned with fresh appeal.

“I mean, really,” Apollo continued, “what were the odds? Healing powers, a beautiful singing voice, stubborn like a mule in love—and a guardian with a tragic fashion sense and a hero complex.”