Chapter Text
Percy
The elevator doors slid shut with a muted, expensive thunk. It was the kind of sound Percy was used to hearing in buildings where the carpet was too clean, the security guards pretended they couldn’t see you, and any crisis (a fire alarm, medical emergency, a kid crying in the lobby) got absorbed by the walls and handled well out of sight. People with money loved pretending the world had no problems.
The elevator started upward almost immediately, smooth enough that Percy only felt it in the faint shift of pressure behind his ears and the way the numbers above the door began to click through the floors with patient inevitability.
That steadiness set his teeth on edge.
Percy planted his feet too wide apart on the glossy floor, trying to give his body a job to do, a stance to hold, a posture that looked like he maybe knew what he was doing even when his stomach kept trying to slide out from under him. His backpack straps bit into the tops of his shoulders, and he kept his hands jammed into his pockets so they wouldn’t betray him. The last thing he wanted was for his fingers to do the humiliating thing where they started shaking like they’d decided to have a breakdown without consulting the rest of him. Noooo, thank you.
The mirrored walls turned the elevator into a little box of reflections, so Percy caught pieces of himself from angles he didn’t normally see: the pale set of his mouth, the too-bright, too-alert look in his eyes, and the rats' nest of his messy black hair. He patted it down half-heartedly, knowing it was no use.
Annabeth stood to his left, posture straight enough to be a soldier at attention, chin lifted, eyes tracking the glowing numbers as they climbed. Percy knew that expression on her—focused, composed, methodical. He’d seen it plenty of times by now. Percy envied her self-control. She kept one hand near the strap of her bag, fingers flexing once every few seconds in a rhythm that looked casual until Percy noticed it had the same timing as her breathing, like she was using her own hand as a metronome to stay steady.
Grover stood on Percy’s right, shifting his weight from hoof to hoof, trying to keep his movements quiet, but nerves made him fidget anyway. His fingers worried the strap of his reed pipes until the leather squeaked faintly, and his ears twitched toward the ceiling each time the elevator lights hummed.
The numbers ticked past twenty. Then one hundred. The guy behind the desk had told them they needed to get to floor six hundred to reach Mount Olympus.
Percy exhaled slowly through his nose and fixed his gaze on the panel. Focusing on one dull, predictable object felt safer than letting his mind drift.
Jeez, this is gonna take a while.
His mind drifted anyway.
Hades’s voice followed him, a smell that wouldn’t wash out, lodged in his memory with the same stubbornness as Underworld cold. It was an ache in the bones rather than a shiver on the skin, the kind of chill that made you feel older and more weary than you really were. Percy could replay the moment with awful clarity: the dim cavernous throne room, the glitter of jewels robbed from various graves, Hades’s eyes flat and tired and ancient as he leaned forward and swore:
She’ll be returned to the world of the living just as you wish, little nephew. I promise.
Percy swallowed hard and pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth until the pressure became a dull ache. It was a trick he’d learned in school when his temper threatened to blow up in front of teachers, most of whom were just waiting for Percy to prove them right. He’d see her soon. He just had to be patient.
The numbers ticked past two hundred.
Grover cleared his throat, the sound small and tentative in the cramped elevator. “So,” he said, voice cracking slightly as if the word had snagged on his nerves. “Once we—once we give Zeus the bolt, we can, uh. We can leave. Right?”
Percy nodded immediately, a sharp, decisive motion that would’ve looked confident if it hadn’t been too fast, too eager. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the deal.”
Annabeth’s eyes flicked to Percy’s face, quick as a dart, then away again, her expression tightening. “The gods like ceremonies,” she said, careful with every syllable. “There might be some formalities.”
Formalities. Percy pictured Zeus rising from his throne with a storm crowning his head like a halo, demanding speeches and vows and gratitude. Admittedly, Percy was picturing Zeus a little more potbellied than he was likely to be. Percy could see him in his mind’s eye, demanding respect just like Gabe, his ugly, awful stepfather. He was probably loud and insistent, assuming that whatever power he had made him automatically right. Percy could already feel the itch of impatience under his skin, the instinct to cut through the drama and get to the only part that mattered.
His mom.
Percy flexed his fingers inside his pockets until the tendons in his wrists pulled tight. He’d carried the bolt across the country. He’d fought Ares, a god, for it. He’d stood in front of Hades and made a trade with his mother’s life hanging in the balance. The idea that Zeus might want an additional performance out of him for fixing a mess that wasn’t even his fault in the first place made Percy’s jaw ache from clenching.
The elevator lights hummed overhead, steady and bright, and the air smelled faintly metallic with a sharp bite of ozone that reminded Percy of storms rolling in over the ocean—the second before the first thunderclap, when the hairs on your arms rose as if your body was bracing for impact. His backpack felt heavier by the second.
He rocked forward on his toes and back again, a small restless motion that kept his legs from locking. The mirrors caught the movement and exaggerated it, turning him into a restless, contained animal in a cage of polished metal.
“Hey,” Annabeth said quietly, her voice sliding in beside him. “You’re pacing.”
“Captain obvious over here,” he shot back a little harsher than he meant. He gave her a small, apologetic look. “Sorry. But I’m just fidgeting.”
“You’re basically vibrating.”
Grover nodded solemnly, as if diagnosing a serious illness. “You are a little vibratey.”
Percy forced himself to stop moving and focused on holding his body still, which took more effort than it should have. “I just want to get this over with,” he said, again with the harshness. He took another long, calming breath. The words weren’t really for Annabeth or Grover—they were for his own mind, which kept trying to sprint ahead into worst-case scenarios.
The elevator slowed.
Percy’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. The numbers above the door ticked upward one last time and then froze. Six hundred. The hum of the elevator shifted, the mechanical sound easing down into silence, and in the sudden stillness, Percy became acutely aware of his own breathing, as shallow as it was.
The elevator chimed.
The doors slid open.
Light poured in, bright enough to sting Percy’s eyes, so clean and sharp it made the gold-and-glass luxury of the Empire State Building feel dingy by comparison. White marble stretched beyond the threshold, flawless and gleaming, columns rising into a sky that had no business being there—a vast open blue broken by slow-drifting clouds that looked painted rather than weathered.
Olympus.
The elevator doors slid shut behind them with a final, decisive sound that made Percy’s shoulders tense, the closing cut off like the metal jaws of a trap snapping into place.
Olympus was beautiful.
The marble walkway stretched out in a seamless, blinding expanse, pale enough to force a squint. Gold ran through the stone in delicate veins, catching the light and tossing it back upward so the brightness came at Percy from every angle.
The floors were polished so thoroughly it reflected the sky above and the three of them below, doubling the world until Percy felt momentarily disoriented. Annabeth steadied him with an unimpressed look, and Percy leaned away from her, blushing.
They walked between columns that rose impossibly high, carved with scenes that made Percy’s stomach tighten the longer he looked: beautiful depictions of the Olympians, Zeus crushing Kronos beneath his boot, Aphrodite rising from the sea foam. The mortals and demigods beneath them were reduced to background detail, limbs twisted in the aftermath of divine warfare, carved with the same care as decorative vines.
Percy recognized pieces of the stories from the myths Chiron had taught them and from his mother’s bedtime tales, but, seeing them like this, they felt so real. Percy kept his shoulders squared and his gaze forward, his pace quickening under the statue’s accusing eyes.
At the far end of the hall, the thrones waited.
Twelve seats arranged in a shallow arc, each one crafted to broadcast authority so clearly that Percy felt it in his posture before he reached them. He fought back the urge to shrink. Zeus’s throne dominated the space, marble carved into stormcloud shapes and wreathed with faint arcs of lightning that crawled along its surface and snapped quietly, leaving thin scorch marks in spiderweb patterns across the stone beneath it. Hera sat rigidly beside him, expression sharp and cutting, while Athena leaned against her spear with a kind of relaxed confidence that made Percy’s skin prickle. That was not a friendly stare.
Poseidon stood as Percy approached. Percy’s attention was drawn to the movement, looking to his father for guidance. The god had tanned skin with the same green eyes as Percy’s. There were crinkles around the edges, like he smiled frequently. For a brief second, Percy saw a flicker in Poseidon’s face—something human-adjacent, an emotion trying to break through the divine mask—and then Poseidon’s expression smoothed back into careful distance, as if the impulse had been a mistake.
Zeus spoke before Percy could.
“Percy Jackson,” Zeus’s voice boomed, filling the hall and reverberating off stone and sky, “you have returned what was stolen.”
Percy stopped a few paces short of the thrones and shrugged his backpack off his shoulders. It hit the marble floor with a dull, echoing thud that sounded small in a place built for storms. He unzipped it slowly, fingers steady by sheer force of will, and reached inside until his hand closed around the divine shape of the lightning bolt.
It vibrated faintly in his grip as he pulled it free, alive with restrained power. Percy could feel the heat of it through his skin, a deep humming that made his molars ache. Carefully, he walked forward and placed it at the foot of Zeus’s throne, setting it down with deliberate precision.
“There,” Percy said, straightening, his voice steady because he’d decided it would be steady.
“My son,” Poseidon spoke then, his voice a deep rumble that Percy recognized from the depths of his memory. “Perseus.”
“You still claim him then?” Zeus asked menacingly, looking to his brother. “You claim this child whom you sired against our sacred oath?”
“I have admitted my wrongdoing,’ Poseidon said. “Now I reserve the right to speak with him.”
Wrongdoing. Was that all Percy was to his father?
Nevertheless, Percy had bigger things on his mind. He shifted from foot to foot, anxious anticipation coursing through his bones. “Please, sir. Er—my Lord? I have to go.”
Zeus blinked once, slowly, clearly taken aback by Percy’s lack of reverence. “You would interrupt your Lord Father? Your King?” Zeus asked, and the lightning around his throne flared a fraction brighter, a silent reminder of what he could do with a flick of his wrist.
“My mom’s waiting,” Percy said, and the sentence came too fast. Here, standing in front of the Gods of Olympus, his mom felt like the only tether he had to his real life. His mom was waiting for him. “I need to go make sure she’s alright.”
Silence spread through the hall, thick and heavy. Percy swallowed, thrown off balance. Had he really said something that wrong? His mind whirred as he thought back through their conversation so far. Percy scanned the gods’ faces one by one, trying to find the crack where the truth would leak out. His gaze snagged on Athena’s faint smile, cold and biting as she gripped her spear.
Poseidon looked away, guilty.
Percy felt his stomach drop, slow and sickening. “What?” he demanded, his voice rougher now. “What’s wrong?”
Silence.
“I did what you asked,” Percy said, words piling up because he needed them to build a bridge across whatever was opening beneath him. “I returned the bolt. Hades promised-”
“This is what I wished to speak to you about, my son.” Poseidon interrupted. “Sally Jackson…” the god paused again, clearly picking his words with deliberate caution, “has not returned to the world of the living.”
The sentence didn’t compute in Percy’s brain at first. He waited for the rest, for Posideon to continue talking, to make it all make sense.
“And?” Percy said, his mouth running even as his thoughts stalled. “So where is she?”
Poseidon’s mouth opened, then closed again, the hesitation visible and unbearable.
No one else stepped in.
The realization settled over Percy in layers, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on his chest until it hurt to breathe. His panting came out sharp and disbelieving, the sound echoing off the marble and making him feel briefly detached from his own body, like he was watching himself crack from the outside.
“Where is my mom? Where is my mom? Hades told me-” he said, voice low and raw. “You all let me think-”
Athena tilted her head, her grey, familiar eyes bright with dissection that made Percy’s skin crawl. “Did you truly expect mercy from Hades?” she asked lightly. Athena’s lip curled with disgust and amusement. Despite himself, Percy felt like a bug she’d squished beneath her shoe. “Haven’t you read the myths, boy? Simply look to poor Orpheus’ tale. Hades is a prideful man.”
Percy turned toward her, vision blurring at the edges, anger rising fast enough to make his hands shake. It was almost like the ground was vibrating beneath his feet. Except, maybe the ground was shaking. Dust, hidden deep within the cracks of the marble ceiling, began to float to the floor. Percy paid it no mind.
“This isn’t a myth,” he spat back at Athena. Each word felt dragged out of him, raw and heavy with insistence. “She’s my mother.”
Zeus rose from his throne.
Lightning surged brighter, and the pressure in the air spiked so sharply that Percy’s ears rang. He tried to suck in another ragged breath, but it was like the air was choking him.
“You forget yourself,” Zeus thundered, his voice rolling through Olympus with effortless dominance.
“No,” Percy shouted back, the word ripping out of him. “You forget yourself. You forgot her. Give me back my mom!”
Annabeth grabbed Percy’s arm, fingers digging into his sleeve hard enough that he’d have bruises later, and Grover stumbled forward with a terrified bleat that he tried to choke back. Annabeth’s face had gone pale, her eyes wide, not with fear of Percy but with fear for him—she knew Zeus didn’t need much of an excuse, and Percy had just handed him one.
“Percy,” Annabeth hissed, voice urgent and shaking at the edges. “Stop.”
Percy’s throat burned. He couldn’t stop. “You lied,” he said, voice shaking now. He was blind with grief. Nothing else mattered right now, least of all his own safety. “You used me. You let me believe- I did your stupid quest. By the way, it was Ares who stole your stupid bolt, not me.”
“You were a means to an end,” Hera said coolly, ignoring his accusation. “You are a mortal in the presence of immortals. I suggest you hold your tongue, Perseus.”
Zeus stepped forward, power rolling off him in waves that made Percy’s skin prickle and his stomach churn, and for one awful moment Percy imagined lightning tearing through him, imagined Annabeth and Grover screaming. With his mom gone, who would mourn him? How quickly would Grover and Annabeth forget him?
Distantly, Percy remembered Luke’s words from earlier that summer: Luke was the first and only demigod to return alive from a quest in living memory. Percy wondered if he would be counted among the rest — the ones who returned to camp in body bags.
Just as Percy was about to take another step forward, uncaring of his imminent demise, Annabeth and Grover pulled him back, their bodies angled protectively. “Please, my lords, forgive Percy’s insolence,” Annabeth implored. “He isn’t thinking.”
Zeus’ stormy eyes stared down at Annabeth, and she bowed her head in deference. There was a long moment of silence. And then, Zeus lifted one impossibly large hand and swatted the air. “Leave my sight. All of you. Your quest has been completed.”
Annabeth and Grover acted quickly, dragging Percy away from the thrones. After a few seconds of struggle, Percy surrendered, slumping into the grip of his friends. Utter despair began to encroach on him, swallowing up every other emotion until it was all he could feel. His mom. His mom.
Percy looked back once as they moved.
Poseidon met his gaze.
Regret flickered there, faint and late and useless. Nevertheless, Percy felt a sharp, humiliating urge to grab at it anyway, like a drowning person grabbing a rope. Then, he remembered that this was all the gods’ fault. This was Posideon’s fault, for ever involving himself with Percy’s mom in the first place. She could’ve been alive somewhere if it weren’t for him, married to a nice man and pursuing her dream to be a writer. Alive, like she should be right now.
Percy felt like an idiot — something used and then discarded, like a piece of trash. The truth was clear now: the gods had never intended to save his mother.
They had intended to save themselves.
Unbidden, a sob tore itself from Percy’s raw throat. He bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood, a desperate attempt to stifle the rest. It didn’t work.
When the three of them finally stumbled out of the Empire State Building and onto the streets of Manhattan, Percy was crying in earnest. Thick globs of tears poured down his cheeks as his lips trembled, the salty water doing nothing to distract him from his godly heritage. He could feel each one as they fell, his blood singing with his power.
Grover and Annabeth said nothing as they watched. Hesitantly, Grover reached out, rubbing tentative circles on Percy’s back. Without a word, Percy stood straighter and raised his hand, catching the attention of the first taxi he saw.
To his apartment.
—
Percy stared up at the nondescript building, frozen to the ground.
The apartment building looked exactly the same. The sameness scraped at him, rubbing his heart raw in a way he couldn’t explain without sounding insane. The bricks wore the same tired brown. The front steps bore the same streaks of gum and city grime. The entryway held the same sour blend of trash and bleach and old cooking smells that never fully left, no matter how many times they super-swiffered the floor. A collection of battered mailboxes leaned slightly to one side by the street. A pigeon strutted along the fire escape, cooing mockingly down at him. A curtain on the second floor hung half open, just like Percy had left it almost a month ago.
Percy’s eyes zeroed in on that window.
The glass reflected the afternoon sky at first, a washed-out blue, diluted even further by the pale glare of the window pane. But then, movement inside cut through the reflection, and Percy’s breath caught in his throat.
Gabe moved through the living room with unhurried entitlement, lifted his shirt, and scratched at his hairy gut. The television blared, the flicker of the screen painting the walls in harsh, shifting colors. Gabe disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a beer, popping the top with a practiced motion. He brought it to his lips to take a sip before pausing to shout at the TV. Then, he dropped onto the couch with his legs spread, remote glued to his hand like an extension of his will.
Percy stared.
His hand curled inside his pocket around Riptide until his fingernails dug crescents into his palms, the sting grounding him in the present. His mind kept trying to jump backward and forward at once—Olympus and its marble and its thrones; his mother’s face in the rearview mirror of his memory; the smell of blue candy melting under summer heat; the faces of the people at camp who were awaiting their return.
Inside the apartment, his God-Awful stepfather was alive, completely uncaring and ignorant of the misfortune that had befallen his wife.
And Percy’s mother—Sally Jackson, who had built Percy’s entire childhood out of an endless supply of stubborn love, who had taken every blow the world aimed at Percy and tried to turn it upside down—was nowhere in that room, nowhere in that light, nowhere in any corner Percy could see.
The injustice of it pressed against Percy’s ribs until it made him dizzy.
She has not returned to the world of the living.
Poseidon’s words echoed with brutal simplicity, and Percy’s mind kept trying to reshape them into an alternative: She’ll come later. They’ll fix it. This is a test. Each thought dissolved the moment it formed. Percy had watched Olympus hesitate, had watched Athena smile, and he’d heard the dismissive tone of Hera’s voice.
The only one with the power to release his mother was Hades, and he had made his choice. The King of the Underworld’s pride was worth more than the life of Sally Jackson.
He closed his eyes. He knew that if he kept staring, he was going to start doing something stupid—he was going to run across the street, pound on the door, drag Gabe out by his greasy hair and scream at him until the neighbors called the cops, until Percy got hauled away like he was the problem. His breath came shallow, sharp, the same way it did before a fight, but there was no one here he could swing at.
“Percy.”
Annabeth’s voice came from a few feet away, steadier than Percy felt. He opened his eyes and saw her by the mailbox, shoulders tense, the toe of her sneaker nudging a brown cardboard box like she didn’t trust it not to bite.
“Look,” she said again.
Percy’s gaze dropped.
The package was leaned up against Percy’s old mailbox, its plain brown cardboard softened from weeks of being ignored. If Percy hadn’t known what it was, it could have been anything: a cheap blender, a vacuum, some stupid “as seen on TV” gadget his mom would have rolled her eyes at.
But Percy knew exactly what it was. Clearly, Hermes had made a return on Percy’s delivery. Percy hoped the gods had at least been shocked when they’d received the package.
Medusa’s head.
Percy stared at the tape, at the crease where it buckled, at the way the cardboard bowed slightly under its own weight, and his stomach rolled with the sudden, brutal thought that if his mother had lived, she would have opened the door and seen this. She would have stepped around it, or nudged it with her foot, or called Percy over in that tone that meant explain yourself, and Percy would have tried to make a joke because jokes were how he handled fear, and she would have sighed and told him to be careful and then—because she was Sally Jackson—she would have found a way to make it all feel okay.
But now she was gone.
The city surged around them: a car whooshed by, close enough to kick wind against Percy’s shins; a horn blared, somebody laughed as they passed on the sidewalk.
Annabeth hovered half a step to Percy’s left, close enough that Percy could feel the warmth of her presence when the wind shifted, far enough that she wasn’t touching him. She glanced up at the window, then down at the box, then back to Percy’s face, clearly trying to calculate the next best thing to say. Anything to make this situation less horrible than it already was.
“You don’t have to go in,” she said quietly.
Percy’s gaze drifted back to the window. “I know.”
“We can talk to Chiron,” Annabeth said, voice careful. “He’ll know what to do.”
Percy’s mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “Maybe,” he replied, and the bitterness in his voice surprised even him.
“The gods…” Annabeth started, then swallowed. “I’m sorry, Percy.”
Percy nodded once, stiffly. Nodding was easier than speaking, and Percy didn’t want to say anything that might have him putting his foot in his mouth. He didn’t want to say what had been clawing at him since Poseidon opened his mouth: the gods didn’t bring people back to life, and neither, unfortunately, did apologies.
Grover made a small, whimpering noise beside him. Percy turned his head a fraction and saw Grover’s face—eyes glossy, ears drooping, lips trembling like he was physically holding himself together. Percy wanted to reach out to his friend in comfort, but he couldn’t find reassurance anywhere inside his own ribs.
“We should go,” Grover said eventually. “We should go back to camp.”
Percy’s gaze drifted back to the window.
Gabe was laughing now, head tipped back, mouth open wide. Percy couldn’t hear the sound through the glass, but he could imagine it with perfect accuracy: that ugly, wheezing laugh that always came after Gabe said something cruel and wanted to pretend it was a joke. Clearly, nothing about losing his beautiful wife was bothering him much.
Percy’s vision narrowed until the window was a frame around Gabe’s body and nothing else.
The city noise dulled. His pulse became loud in his ears. He could feel blood moving through his fingers, through his wrists, as if his body had switched fully into fight mode and couldn’t find the proper target. The box on the floor pulled at his attention like gravity, heavy and patient.
His hands slid out of his pockets without him deciding to move.
He took one slow step forward, then another, and the motion felt inevitable. He stopped beside the box and stared down at it.
His throat worked as he swallowed. He blinked once, twice, trying to clear his eyes.
A tear slipped down his cheek anyway, hot and silent. Percy wiped it away roughly with the back of his hand, leaving a red streak across his skin.
“Percy,” Annabeth said softly, voice careful like she was approaching a wild animal. “We can go.”
Percy didn’t look at her, his eyes staying on the tape across the box. His fingers caught the edge of it and pulled.
The tape came away with a dry, tearing sound that seemed too loud in the street noise. Percy’s hands moved with a strange calm, the way they did in combat when his brain narrowed down to the next step, the next motion. He folded the flaps back. The smell hit him—stale cardboard, a faint sharpness beneath it like old pennies, and his stomach tightened.
He reached in and found the cloth bundle.
The head was heavier than he remembered, or maybe he was just weaker now. The fabric was damp in places, as if it had been sweating inside the box. Percy’s fingers tightened until his knuckles went pale.
Above him, Gabe shifted on the couch, laughing again, the TV flickering over his face.
Percy thought of his mother’s hands—warm, callused from work, always gentle when they touched his hair or his cheek, always steady, always there. He thought of her voice saying you’re not broken, Percy, like she could talk him into believing it. He thought of the way she’d stood between him and Gabe’s worst moods, pretending she didn’t mind, pretending it didn’t hurt, because Percy mattered more.
Percy’s breath came out in one slow, controlled exhale, and he began to climb the fire escape.
Annabeth’s footsteps followed immediately, quick and alarmed, but she didn’t grab him—she matched his pace, staying close. Grover hurried on Percy’s other side, his hooves clacking too loudly on the rickety metal of the stairs.
When he reached the balcony, his reflection stared back at him in the glass: a kid with salt-dried hair, red-rimmed eyes, and a disturbing snarl decorating his mouth. He lifted a hand and pried the window.
The apartment smell hit him like a slap—stale beer, greasy takeout, that permanent sourness that clung to Gabe’s life the way smoke clung to curtains. What his mother had used to keep the monsters away. The TV noise flooded out, loud and mindless. Gabe’s voice followed, barking some complaint at the screen.
Then Gabe saw Percy.
“Well, look who-” Gabe started, pushing himself up from the couch with exaggerated effort. His eyes flicked to Annabeth and Grover and then back to Percy, irritation tightening his face. “Where’s my wife?”
The word wife made Percy’s fingers flex around the cloth bundle.
Percy swung himself through the window and stepped forward until he was in the center of the living room. The carpet squished faintly under his shoes, sticky in spots. He kept his eyes on Gabe, standing tall and imposing. He wasn’t afraid of Gabe, not anymore.
“Say her name,” Percy said, voice low.
Gabe blinked, confused by the request as if it were a foreign language. “Huh?”
Percy’s grip tightened. His eyes didn’t move from Gabe’s face. “Sally,” he said. The name scraped his throat. He forced it out anyway. “My mom.”
Gabe snorted, a dismissive sound, and Percy watched the sneer settle onto his face. “Yeah, yeah. Sally. So where is she? She run off again? Because I gotta tell you-”
Percy’s hands lifted the cloth bundle.
Annabeth’s breath caught behind him, and Grover’s echoed after her.
Percy didn’t turn. He didn’t need to see their faces to know what they were thinking. Percy knew exactly what he was doing.
In one certain movement, Percy ripped the cloth back, exposing Medusa’s eyes.
Gabe’s mouth opened to form another insult, but the sound died in his throat. His body froze mid-motion, hands half lifted as if he’d been about to gesture. His face was locked in shock, fury, and the beginning of fear. Grey spread across his skin in a slow, creeping tide.
Percy held the head steady.
Hot angry tears slipped down his cheeks, but Percy ignored them, too focused on the justice he was enacting. His jaw clenched until it ached.
The room went quiet except for the TV, still chattering cheerfully in the background like it had no idea anything important had happened.
Percy’s arms dropped slowly. The Medusa head sagged in his grip. His knees suddenly felt unreliable, like his body had been held together by anger and the anger had finally burned down to embers.
He stared at the statue, waiting for a sense of satisfaction that never came.
Instead, all he felt was hollowed out. Empty. His mother was still gone. Killing Gabe didn’t bring her back.
He could barely see past the moisture in his eyes. Nothing would bring her back, not even Hades himself.
Percy’s chest tightened. He tried to breathe, and it came out in a broken sound. His throat clenched. Suddenly, the tears weren’t silent anymore—his body made a strangled noise that embarrassed him, but he couldn’t stop it. He brought a hand up to his face, smearing wetness across his cheek, and his shoulders shook once, then again, the grief finding a way through the cracks once more.
Annabeth was beside him in an instant. She stepped close and put her hand carefully on Percy’s shoulder, firm enough for it to register through his trembling, gentle enough not to startle him. Percy’s first instinct was to pull away, but his body had run out of fight, and the contact anchored him.
Grover hovered on Percy’s other side, eyes wide and wet, his hands twisting together like he wanted to hug Percy and didn’t know if Percy would shatter. When Percy’s breath hitched again, Grover finally reached out, touching Percy’s arm with trembling fingers.
Medusa’s head dropped from Percy’s fingers, rolling on the carpeted floor.
“You did…” Grover tried, then swallowed hard. He didn’t finish his sentence.
Percy stared at the statue in front of him. At least Gabe was stone now. At least he would never hurt anyone ever again.
This was the only honor Percy could offer Sally Jackson: he couldn’t bring her back, but he could make sure the man who’d stolen pieces of her life didn’t get to keep on stealing.
Annabeth’s hand tightened slightly on his shoulder, her grip steady. “Percy,” she said, voice low. “We should go.”
Grover nodded quickly in agreement. “Camp,” he whispered. “We should go back to camp.”
Percy swallowed hard and nodded. He reached down, wrapping Medusa’s head back up with steady hands. He didn’t look at Gabe again.
Percy turned away from the living room, from the TV noise, from the smell of stale beer, and walked out — the front door, this time — with Annabeth and Grover close beside him, their bodies forming a quiet barrier around him as they stepped back into the bright, indifferent city.
Outside, the sky looked the same.
Inside Percy’s chest, the entire world had collapsed, taking his whole life with it.
—
Percy crossed the boundary line at Camp Half-Blood like a man marching to his own funeral. He couldn’t face the other campers now, not with how excited they’d be to see them return, how eager they’d be to hear their stories.
The pine tree shimmered above him, its branches flickering with that protective power that made the air feel a half-degree warmer, a half-step safer. The magic brushed across his skin in a quick, almost affectionate sweep. Unfortunately, it did nothing to calm the buzzing of his nerves.
The camp sprawled below the hill in its usual afternoon rhythm, perfectly intact, perfectly alive: swords ringing in clean metallic arcs from the arena, laughter tumbling from the dining pavilion, the creek twinkling with sunlight where naiads lounged like bored lifeguards as they watched the world go by. Under normal circumstances, Percy would’ve been glad to be back. Camp Half-Blood was beautiful—the smell of strawberry fields warming under the sun, the sound of sandals slapping grass, the faint, steady hum of a place built to keep monsters out.
Now his attention slid across the scene with detached nothingness. It was like he was watching the camp through thick glass. Someone Percy didn’t know, a skinny, gap-toothed little boy, grinned and pointed at Percy’s trio as they made their way down the hill.
Percy kept walking.
Annabeth followed a few steps behind him, close enough that Percy could feel her in the space at his back without looking, her presence sharp and taut like a drawn bowstring.
Heads turned, and conversations stalled as they passed. Perhaps the melancholic energy following them was palpable enough to make campers hesitate before approaching.
Percy didn’t slow. When he reached the campfire, he turned sharply toward Cabin Three, his stride never breaking. The sea-blue paint of Poseidon’s cabin flashed in the light, bright and cheerful and almost mocking; it looked like a beach house postcard, the kind his mom would’ve laughed at in a gift shop and then bought anyway because it was goofy and it reminded her of Montauk.
“Percy-” Annabeth started, but he ignored her.
Percy mounted the steps. His hand found the doorknob. The door opened under his palm with a slight creak, wood warm from the sun.
He stepped inside and, with a deep, shaky breath, shut the door behind him.
Not slammed—Percy didn’t slam doors. Percy’s anger had always been the kind that came out in words and fists and reckless action, not petty dramatics, but he still made his point: that’s it, don’t follow me.
—
Annabeth
Annabeth stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at the closed door like she could will it open with just her mind.
Gods, this couldn’t have gone worse, she thought bitterly. Just when she’d assumed the worst of the quest was behind them, the Gods and their pride had to screw everything up.
Beside her, Grover’s shoulders sagged, ears drooping so hard they practically folded over themselves, and he stood there for a long beat. Annabeth just sighed deeply and turned toward Chiron, who was waiting expectantly near the porch of the Big House.
When Annabeth reached him, his face was set into an expression of gentle concern.
“Is Percy all right?”
Annabeth’s eyes flicked toward Cabin Three again, then back to Chiron. Up close, she knew the strain she was carrying was obvious. Her jaw was locked so tightly a muscle ticked in her cheek, her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, and her eyes were too bright. She swallowed once, hard, forcing the words into order.
“We should talk in the Big House,” she said, and her voice mercifully steady. “Not out here.”
Grover nodded immediately, too fast. “Yeah,” he said, voice thin. “Not out here.”
Chiron followed Annabeth’s glance back to the Poseidon cabin, to the closed door and the quiet around it, then inclined his head once.
“The Big House,” he agreed, and the simplicity of it felt like mercy. “Come.”
Just as they turned to head up the stairs, Luke fell into step beside them.
He’d been lingering near the training area with his sword slung across his back, posture loose with practiced ease. Percy’s return had drawn his attention, and Annabeth had noticed him as he’d jogged over to him, his brow furrowed. He made eye contact with Annabeth before glancing meaningfully over at Cabin 3.
“What happened?” Luke asked quietly.
She shook her head, “Just come on.”
Inside the Big House, the air cooled around them, smelling of old wood and lemon polish. The place always felt half like a museum and half like an infirmary—like history lived and bled here in equal measure. Chiron gestured for them to sit, then remained standing behind his desk, one of his hooves tapping the wooden floor anxiously.
Annabeth lowered herself tentatively into a chair before standing abruptly, beginning to pace. Finally, she spoke.
“Hades promised Percy his mom would come back,” she said, her tone rehearsed. “He said if Percy returned the Helm of Darkness, Sally Jackson would be restored to the world of the living.”
“Percy believed him,” Annabeth continued, voice tightening as she fought to contain her indignation. “He returned the helm. He fought Ares, who was the one who stole the bolt in the first place, and, finally, we managed to return the lightning bolt to Zeus. Its like that it was… Kronos was behind the entire situation. He spoke to us from the Pit in the Underworld.”
She paused briefly, letting that sink in. She cleared her throat as she continued.
“Hades lied,” Annabeth said, and then glanced around shiftily to see if she would be punished for her insolence. “He never intended to return Sally Jackson; he just wanted us out of there. I think… I think Mrs. Jackson is really dead for real.”
Chiron closed his eyes briefly, a slow blink that carried exhaustion older than any of them, and when he opened them again, the gentleness in his gaze didn’t soften the fact that he wasn’t surprised.
“Percy didn’t find out until Olympus,” Annabeth finished.
Chiron sighed, shaking his head. “You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a friend,” he said, repeating the line from the prophecy that started this all. “Hades.”
“And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end,” Luke finished, from his place in the doorway. “His mom.”
Annabeth nodded sadly, and her hands tightened at her sides. She kept her chin up as she added, “He won’t go back to Manhattan. He won’t live with Gabe. He said he has nowhere else to go.”
Grover spoke next. “Percy wants to stay here,” he managed. “Year-round.”
Chiron inclined his head once, a motion that held certainty rather than pity. “Then he is welcome,” he said simply. “For as long as he needs. This camp exists for exactly that reason.”
“Okay…” Annabeth nodded. She took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll go tell him.”
Outside, Cabin Three remained shut, holding Percy’s silence like trapping a storm in a sealed jar.
—
Luke
Luke stayed in the Big House after Annabeth and Grover left.
He leaned on the doorway, half in shadow, half in the warm afternoon light slanting through the windows, and let his mind piece through the information he’d just received.
Percy Jackson’s mother was dead.
Luke’s chest panged with empathy for Percy. He hadn’t known Sally Jackson personally, but he knew the shape of loss. Percy had clearly loved her, deeply and desperately. She was a mortal woman who had done everything right by a demigod child and still ended up discarded when the gods decided the cost was acceptable — tossed aside like yesterday’s trash.
And to be lied to about it, too. Luke couldn’t imagine a larger betrayal.
He closed his eyes. In the darkness, he could picture Percy’s face as he entered camp, raw and broken. Luke had seen too many kids arrive at camp with that look.
The gods manufactured it. They created heroes by breaking down their children until there was nothing left, disguising the abuse by calling it destiny. Luke found it disgusting.
Annabeth’s exhaustion hung in the room even after she’d gone. Luke could imagine her lying awake later, replaying the scene on Olympus in her head, rewinding and fast-forwarding as if the right combination of words might have altered the outcome. Annabeth believed in systems. She always thought that if you did the right thing, played by the right rules, everything would work out in the end. Luke envied her faith.
Luke’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the vial in his trunk—the scorpion venom, his escape plan. Now though… did he even need it?
Percy’s return had changed everything.
Grief like Percy’s didn’t burn itself out in a few days. It sank in, settled deep, rewired the way you understood the world. Luke knew the territory. He’d lived there for years, more than long enough to recognize the signs: the tense line of Percy’s shoulders, the dead look in his eye, the desire for isolation. That kind of silence meant Percy was thinking. It meant he was replaying everything — his deal with Hades, Olympus’s inaction, the feeling of betrayal — and trying to fit it all into a version of the world that still made sense.
Luke swallowed and looked toward the window, toward the cabins beyond it.
Percy wasn’t stupid. That’s what made him so dangerous. Luke had never been one to downplay an opponent.
Luke felt a tight, uncomfortable pull in his chest. If Percy was left alone with these feelings of grief… who knew what could happen?
Maybe… if I’m here to help guide him… Luke’s thoughts trailed off.
Luke shifted his weight against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over his chest, contemplating. Percy had a strong moral compass; a clear, honorable sense of right and wrong. If Luke just marched into his cabin and told him to turn his back on the gods, just as they had turned their backs on him… Percy couldn’t go through with it. But if Luke was the one around when Percy inevitably started asking those questions himself…
Well, in the war that was sure to come, that could mean the difference between victory and defeat.
Luke thought of Thalia then — the way she’d laughed, the way she’d sworn, her choppy hair, and her care for those around her. He thought of how Zeus had desecrated her grave, forcing her into a tool even in death. He thought of all the demigods who’d trained until their hands bled, who’d gone out on quests framed as honors and come back in pieces, if they came back at all.
If Luke had Percy on his side, they could work together to tear down that system.
This wasn’t about revenge. Not really. Luke was tired of revenge. Revenge was childish and brief and ultimately unsatisfying.
This was about justice. This was about the generations of demigods to come.
Percy deserved to understand the world he’d been born into — not the polished myth version Chiron taught, or the heroic lie Olympus preferred, but the reality of it: that demigods were tools, that mortals were collateral, and that the gods didn’t give a shit about any of it.
Luke pushed off the doorway and crossed the room, stopping a respectful distance from Chiron’s desk. The centaur had always been kind to him, even when Luke’s anger made that kindness hard to accept. Luke held no ill will toward him.
“Percy will need time,” Chiron said quietly, as if voicing a thought they were both circling.
Luke nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “He will.”
More than that, Percy would need guidance. Not commands, or a prophecy. Just someone steady to be at his side while his foundations cracked, someone who could help him articulate what Luke was sure he was already beginning to see.
Luke glanced out the window again, toward the Poseidon cabin.
He didn’t want Percy to end up where Luke had once been — alone with the knowledge, furious and directionless, convinced the only escape was a hero’s death. There was another path. A harder one. A slower one. But it was a sacrifice Luke was willing to make.
Kronos believed the old world could be restored without repeating Olympus’s mistakes. Luke didn’t know yet whether that was entirely true. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe any ruler was harmless. But Kronos, at least, was honest in his apathy. He had never involved himself in mortal affairs or forced demigods to do his bidding. Luke could work with that.
And Percy deserved the chance to weigh that difference himself.
Luke straightened, resolve settling into him with quiet certainty. He would stay. As a year-rounder. As a friend. He’d be close enough to notice when Percy started asking questions, and patient enough not to rush the answers.
He would walk beside Percy through his grief, through his anger, through the slow, painful realization that the gods were not what they claimed to be. And when Percy finally voiced the thought Luke knew was coming, the one forming right now in the silence of that closed cabin:
Why should we keep serving gods who refuse to save us?
Luke would be there, an honest guide:
We shouldn’t.
And from there, they could decide what kind of world was worth building instead.