Chapter Text
Chapter 1- So it Begins
Alaska, a.k.a. The Land Beyond the Gods, USA
The night was still, and the air was cold. In the forest's darkness, a clearing held a lone cottage whose proportions were nearly cartoonish. It faced a frozen lake, where a young woman stood near the edge. She had pale skin and tied up dark hair that soaked in the darkness. She wore a silky nightgown despite it being the middle of December. She was singing what sounded like an old Slavic lullaby, her voice echoing in the dark forest.
She stopped singing when she heard a noise coming from the trees. She didn’t bother to turn around because she didn’t need to.
A young man walked into the clearing wearing a red jacket that contrasted with the white snow, black fingerless gloves, black cargo pants, and combat boots. He had a quiver that was carried at his back, while a celestial bronze sword and two daggers hung from his belt. He had tan skin, auburn hair tied in a braid, golden eyes that nearly resembled those of a predator hunting its prey, and, lastly, a beautiful face, like Adonis reborn. He stopped approaching and stood a few meters away from the lone woman.
”Nice tune, it's been a while since I heard it last,” the mysterious stranger said.
“The people have forgotten it,” the woman said as she finally turned around to face him and circle him.
”They have other things on their minds,” the stranger said as the woman circled him, his hand on the pommel of his sword.
”Things like me?” She said as she started to undo the knots that kept her nightgown up.
The stranger stared at her once the piece of fabric had dropped as he watched the naked form of the woman stand there in the cold night.
”You know I’m here to kill you, right?” He said bluntly as he unsheathed his sword.
The woman smiled wider—too wide. The corners of her lips stretched unnaturally as her eyes darkened into pitch black voids. Her hair fell forward, veiling most of her face as it began to warp and wrinkle, her body twitching and contorting in sharp, unnatural jerks.
“What hope do you possibly have against me, to think you can kill me?” she hissed, her voice splitting into something monstrous. “BABA YAGA!”
Her laughter tore through the air, wild and jagged. Then she paused, sniffing. Something shifted in her expression.
“What’s this?” she murmured. “Your scent… you reek of the gods.” Her grin returned, feral and eager. “HAHAHA—A demigod! And a Greek demigod no less. I will feast tonight!”
The stranger didn’t react. He simply adjusted his stance, blade angled in a guarded position, calm and unmoving.
“Tell me, poor half-blood,” Baba Yaga crooned, circling closer, “what is your name, so I may remember the one who fed me so generously?”
“Tristan Theron,” he said. “Monster hunter.”
A brief pause.
“But I’m not the one dying tonight.”
Baba Yaga tilted her head, amused. “Oh? And why is that?”
Tristan’s grip tightened on his sword, his expression sharpening.
“Because I’ve already seen how this ends.” And then she lunged, fast enough to blur, with her claws outstretched, the night itself seeming to tear with her speed.
Tristan ducked just in time, dropping low as Baba Yaga’s claws tore through the air where his head had been. He rolled past her, boots scraping against the frost as he tried to regain his footing.
He barely had a moment.
Baba Yaga spun with a snarl and drove a brutal roundhouse kick into the side of his head. The impact sent him flying, his body skidding hard across the frozen lake. Pain flared through his skull as he groaned and forced himself back up, vision swimming.
She was already charging. Her claws came in a flurry. Tristan raised his sword and managed to parry the first strike, then the second, steel ringing sharply against her talons. But her speed overwhelmed him. A third slash slipped past his guard and carved across his face. Before he could react, another tore into his abdomen, forcing a sharp gasp from his lungs.
He staggered. That was all she needed.
With a savage grin, Baba Yaga seized him and yanked him off his feet. She slammed him down onto the ice. Again. Again. And again.
Each impact rattled his bones, cracks splintering outward beneath them. The frozen surface groaned under the abuse, fractures spreading like veins across the lake.
On the final slam, the ice gave way slightly with a sharp crack.
Baba Yaga dropped to her knees, forcing him down. Her hand clamped around his head and shoved his face beneath the freezing water.
The cold hit like a shock to the soul.
Tristan thrashed, lungs burning as the icy lake flooded his senses. Just as his chest began to seize, she dragged him back up, only to force him under again. And again.
”Poor, poor half-blood… perhaps you saw the future wrong. But first! Let me have a taste!”
Her teeth sank into his neck.
Tristan tensed, a strained sound escaping him as she drank, her grip tightening as she pulled him closer. For a brief moment, her expression turned almost blissful.
Then it changed. Baba Yaga froze. Her eyes widened.
She pulled back sharply, coughing. A wet, choking sound tore from her throat as she stumbled away, releasing him entirely. Dark blood spilled from her lips as she gagged, her body convulsing.
”What—what was that? Your blood tasted like clay *cough**cough* What have you done to me, you foolish half-blood?!” Baba Yaga demanded as she coughed up blood.
Tristan pushed himself to his feet, every movement heavy with pain. His hand went to his wrist, to the simple bracelet wrapped tight around his arm. He hooked a finger under the cord and pulled.
The bracelet unraveled in a flash of light.
In its place, a beautifully ornate wooden hunting bow formed in his grip, its limbs etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift with a faint glow. The air around it hummed softly, as if the weapon itself were alive.
He reached back and drew an arrow from his quiver.
The moment his fingers closed around it, the shaft began to vibrate, pulsing with a low, contained energy that traveled up his arm. Tristan steadied his breathing, ignoring the ache in his body, and drew the string back.
Baba Yaga was still recovering, hunched and coughing.
She looked up too late.
Tristan let loose the arrow. It tore through the air with a sharp crack and struck her square in the chest. A burst of force followed on impact, blasting her off her feet and sending her hurtling backward. She slammed into the crooked doors of her cottage with enough force to rattle the entire structure.
Tristan dropped to his knees, a groan escaping him as the adrenaline faded and his injuries caught up all at once. His hands trembled as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial filled with nectar.
He uncorked it and drank. Warmth spread through him instantly, seeping into his wounds, knitting torn flesh and easing the burning pain in his chest and side. His breathing steadied as strength slowly returned.
After a moment, he pushed himself back to his feet.
He took a single step forward. The ground trembled.
At first, it was subtle. Then it grew stronger, a deep, rumbling vibration that shook the frozen earth beneath him. Tristan frowned and looked up just as the cottage began to move.
The entire structure lurched upward, rising onto a pair of massive, scaly chicken legs that unfolded beneath it with a sickening creak of wood and bone.
Tristan blinked.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The cottage let out a deafening, shrill screech, something between a roar and a tortured cry, and turned toward him. Its warped windows glowed like furious eyes as it took its first heavy step in his direction.
“Behold! Your DOOM!”
Baba Yaga’s voice split the frozen forest like a thunderclap, wild and triumphant as she stood atop her monstrous cottage. The structure lurched forward on its chicken legs, each step shaking the earth. Timber groaned, shingles rattled, and the crooked chimney belched smoke as if the house itself were alive, because it was.
Tristan skidded across the frozen lake, boots barely finding purchase on the slick ground. He cursed under his breath, fingers tightening around his bow.
A roar of flame snapped him back to the moment. The cottage twisted unnaturally, its front windows flaring like eyes as a fireball erupted from within. Tristan dove, the blast scorching past him, heat licking at his back even in the freezing air. Ice hissed into steam where it struck.
“Hold still, little demigod!” Baba Yaga shrieked, her grin feral, her hair whipping wildly.
“I’d rather not!” Tristan shot back, rolling to his feet just as the cottage slammed one of its massive legs into the ground. The impact sent a chunk of frozen earth hurtling toward him. He leapt aside, the slab shattering where he had stood, ice cracking outward in jagged veins.
He saw it then, the frozen expanse he stood upon, its surface already spiderwebbed with fractures from the cottage’s assault.
An idea sparked. A risky, stupid, and possibly suicidal idea… Perfect.
Tristan nocked an arrow and fired, not at Baba Yaga, but at the house itself. The arrow struck the wood with a sharp thunk. Then another. And another. Rapid, deliberate.
“Hey!” he shouted, backing toward the lake. “Over here, you oversized chicken coop!”
The cottage reacted instantly. Its windows flared brighter, its legs digging into the ground with furious intent. It lunged after him, each step heavier, more reckless.
“YES! RUN!” Baba Yaga cackled, utterly delighted. “Run until your legs—”
Her words faltered. Her sharp eyes narrowed.
“No… wait.”
The frozen lake creaked under his weight, but held.
He loosed another arrow, striking the house square in its warped doorway, then took another step back. The ice groaned louder now, cracks widening beneath him.
“Come on,” he muttered.
Behind him, the cottage charged.
Baba Yaga’s expression twisted as realization hit her. “No, you fool! He’s gonna—”
Too late. The cottage’s massive leg crashed onto the lake.
A thunderous CRACK split the air.
The ice gave way.
For a single suspended moment, the entire monstrous structure teetered, then plunged. Water exploded upward in a violent spray as the cottage broke through, its limbs thrashing wildly as it sank. The lake swallowed it greedily, dark water churning as the enchanted house fought against gravity and depth.
Baba Yaga screamed, her voice no longer triumphant but furious. “YOU INSIGNIFICANT—!”
The water closed over her, cutting her off.
Silence rushed in, broken only by the groaning of shifting ice and the distant echo of bubbles rising from below.
Moments later, Baba Yaga clawed her way out of the freezing water, dragging herself onto the shattered edge of the lake. She gasped for air, each breath ragged and furious, her soaked hair clinging to her face like writhing snakes.
Tristan didn’t hesitate. He drew and loosed in one smooth motion. The first arrow struck her back. The second buried itself deep into her thigh.
Baba Yaga shrieked with a high, sharp, and a voice full of venom as she twisted toward him. “You—!” She lunged, but the fractured ice betrayed her. It cracked and shifted under her weight, forcing her into an uneven, stumbling advance.
Tristan fired again.
The arrow punched through her arm, snapping her momentum. She cried out as her balance gave way, her foot slipping between two jagged plates of ice. With a splash, she crashed back into the freezing water.
But Tristan was already moving.
He stepped forward, ignoring the dangerous creak beneath his boots, and seized a fistful of her tangled hair. With a sharp pull, he yanked her head above the surface. Water streamed from her face as she thrashed and kicked, her hands clawing at his arm, her fury now edged with something else, panic.
“Let me go!” she rasped, her voice breaking.
Tristan leaned in slightly, his expression cold, steady.
“Behold…” he said quietly, “…your doom.”
Her eyes widened.
The blade sliced cleanly through her neck.
Tristan released her, letting the lake reclaim what remained. Ripples spread across the broken ice as the dark water swallowed her once more, this time without resistance.
Hours later
Yakima river, Washington, USA
Tristan drove back to his home state with Baba Yaga’s head secured in a sack beside him.
Dawn had just broken, the first light spilling over the horizon in soft gold. He glanced toward the rising sun for a moment, letting himself breathe a little easier. Another night survived. Another hunt completed.
He turned off the main road, tires crunching over gravel as he followed the familiar path through the trees. Soon, the landscape opened into a wide, quiet field near the Yakima River, where his home sat alone beneath the morning sky.
He parked just outside the house and stepped out, slinging the sack over his shoulder before walking inside.
The house was warm and lived-in, a stark contrast to the place he had just left. Mounted animal heads lined the walls, their glassy eyes watching over the room. An antler chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting soft shadows over a Persian rug that stretched across the wooden floor. A worn green couch sat near a stone fireplace, still faintly warm from the night before.
Bookshelves filled one wall, packed with worn volumes, almanacs, and maps marked with handwritten notes. Across from them stood a heavy cabinet reinforced with locks and wards, filled with weapons and gear for monster hunting.
Tristan set the sack down near the cabinet, rolling his shoulder as he exhaled slowly. He unclipped his sword and daggers, letting them fall to the floor with dull thuds, then slid the quiver from his back and leaned it carefully against the side of the weapons cabinet.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Then he crossed the room and collapsed onto the couch, letting the cushions swallow him whole. His muscles finally loosened, tension draining out of him as the quiet of his home settled over everything. It lasted exactly long enough for him to start relaxing.
Then came the knock.
Tristan froze.
He turned his head slightly toward the grandfather clock beside the weapons cabinet. The hands read a quarter to seven in the morning.
He let out a long, tired groan and dragged a hand down his face.
“Are you serious…” he muttered.
Another knock followed, sharper this time.
He stayed on the couch for a second longer, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer him an explanation for why the world refused to leave him alone. Who could possibly be here this early?
He approached the door with an annoyed expression, but as he drew closer, he felt a familiar warmth wash over him.
It was the kind of feeling that lifted the weight off your chest. Like the sun breaking through after days of gray skies. Like a quiet push to create, to move, to be honest with yourself and everyone around you.
Tristan stopped just short of the handle.
Oh, for the love of Aphrodite… not him.
He opened the door, already dreading the answer.
“Hello, Apollo,” Tristan said flatly.
The god of the sun looked different than the last time Tristan had seen him. Back then, he had shoulder-length blonde hair, sun-kissed skin, a lean build, and that blinding, effortless smile, dressed like he had just walked off a beach. Now, he stood there with curly brown hair, freckles scattered across his face, an average build, and a worn Led Zeppelin t-shirt.
But the eyes were the same. Bright blue. Impossible to mistake.
“Morning, Tris!” Apollo said, far too cheerful for the hour. He looked genuinely happy to see him. A little too happy.
“Just so you know, I only just got back and I have not slept yet,” Tristan replied, his tone dry.
“I know, I know, but I really needed to see you after so long,” Apollo said. There was something different in his voice this time. Softer. Almost … apologetic.
Tristan narrowed his eyes. That was new.
“And pray tell,” Tristan continued, folding his arms, “how long has it been?”
Apollo hesitated. “Eight years.”
Tristan let that sit for a second.
“And how old am I, Apollo?”
“…Sixteen?”
“Correct.” Tristan nodded once. “I am sixteen years old. Which means you have visited me twice in my entire life. Once when I was a toddler, and once when I was eight.”
Apollo’s expression faltered. His gaze dropped to the floor. Tristan exhaled slowly, studying him. Oh gods. He actually looked sorry.
“Look Tris, I… I haven't been the best—I should have been there when *exhale* look what I'm trying to say is that I'm trying to do better!” Apollo shouted, Tristan took a step back. He was serious.
“Where is this coming from, Apollo?” Tristan asked.
“I had an interpersonal journey not too long ago”
“I see…”
“So, where are your parents, Tris? I haven't seen them yet, ” Apollo asked as he looked inside the house.
“They’re dead, Apollo,” Apollo's eyes went wide like saucers as Tristan said it.
“H–how long?” He asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“Mom died when I turned twelve, and dad died just a month ago” Apollo closed his eyes, he really should have been there for Tristan.
“I'm–I'm sorry” Apollo apologized.
“Their graves are out in the back if you want to pay respects,” Tristan offered and he gestured Apollo into the house, Apollo nodded and walked through the house and into the back where there were 2 graves with crosses on it, on the crosses were writings:
HERE LIES CHARLES THERON
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” – 2 Timothy 4:7–8
HERE LIES ELIZABETH THERON
“The lazy do not roast any game, but the diligent feed on the riches of the hunt.” – Proverbs 12:27
Apollo conjured two flowers in his hand and placed each on the bottom of each cross. He gave out a little prayer as he hoped both of them reached Elysium.
Tristan, his arms still folded, looked at Apollo as he paid his respects to his parents.
Apollo stood up and approached Tristan and said, “For all it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Tristan said nothing. He just watched as Apollo brushed past him and vanished in a flash of light to gods know where. The air felt colder after he left.
Tristan stepped forward and stopped in front of the graves.
For a while, he said nothing. The wind moved softly through the field, brushing past the wooden crosses. He stared at the names carved into them, his jaw tightening just a little.
“Hey, Mom… Dad,” he muttered under his breath. His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing against something small and worn. He pulled it out for a moment. An old arrowhead, chipped at the edge. He turned it between his fingers, then closed his hand around it again.
A memory flickered. A woman’s voice correcting his stance. Firm. Patient. A man’s voice followed after, explaining why it worked. Tristan exhaled slowly.
“You’d hate the mess inside,” he added quietly. “Still haven’t fixed the shelf.”
His eyes drifted to the ground for a second, then back to the crosses.
There had never been much mystery in how they raised him. Train hard. Think harder. Survive. Everything else… came later. A faint crease formed between his brows.
“Got a visit today,” he said. “Apollo. Yeah. That one.”
He let out a dry breath that almost passed for a laugh.
Silence settled again.
He shifted his weight, glancing out toward the tree line. For a brief second, his posture changed, sharper, more alert. Then it faded just as quickly.
“I’m still working,” he went on. “Same as always.”
His gaze flicked toward the house behind him, then back to the graves.
“Guy you mentioned… the ‘family friend.’ Still sends jobs. Still pays.” He paused. “Never seen his face.”
Another quiet moment passed. Tristan crouched down and brushed a bit of dirt away from the base of one of the crosses. It was a small, absent gesture, like he had done it a hundred times before.
“I’m fine,” he said, a little more firmly this time. The words hung there. Not entirely true or false.
He stood back up after a moment and looked at them one last time.
“…Yeah. I’ll fix the shelf.”
With that, he turned and walked back toward the house.
Inside, the sack still sat where he had left it. Tristan dragged a box out from the cabinet and set it on the table. He opened the sack without ceremony and placed the head inside, sealing it up with practiced efficiency. No hesitation. No second thought. He scribbled an address onto the label. Roger Gimlin. He would send it out in the morning. For now, he closed the box, set it aside, and ran a hand through his hair. Sleep sounded like a better idea.
Meanwhile
Sequoia National Park, California, USA
Deep within the forest, reside the legendary Hunters of Artemis, sworn servants of the goddess of the moon and the hunt, Artemis.
After a long month of tracking monsters across wilderness and shadow, the Hunters have taken respite beneath the trees. Their camp hums with quiet life. Some of the younger Hunters laugh and play small games, their energy not yet worn down by years of the hunt. Others practice with bow and blade, repeating movements until they become instinct. The older Hunters keep the camp steady. A few tend the fire, cooking for the entire group. Others sit nearby, carving arrow shafts and fletching them with practiced hands. At the edges of the camp, silent figures patrol the perimeter, eyes sharp for anything that dares approach.
But among them, one stands apart. Inside the second-largest tent lies the famed and fearsome Thalia Grace, daughter of Zeus and lieutenant of Artemis.
And she is drooling.
It is a deep, peaceful sleep, the kind that rarely comes to warriors. Her face is relaxed, her grip loose around the blanket, completely unaware of the world outside.
That peace does not last.
The flap of the tent shifts open, and Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano slips inside. The Daughter of Bellona. Former Praetor of New Rome and Camp Jupiter. Now a Hunter of Artemis.
In her hands, she carefully holds a bucket filled to the brim with cold water. Outside the tent, a few younger Hunters peek in, barely containing their excitement.
“Reyna, are you sure this is a good idea?” one whispers.
Reyna does not hesitate. “We tried everything to wake her. Calling her, shouting, shaking the bed. Nothing worked. Besides…” A small smirk tugs at her lips. “She hates getting wet.”
Soft giggles ripple through the group. Reyna steps closer, measuring the distance. For a moment, everything is still. Then she throws the water. It crashes over Thalia in one clean splash. For half a second, there is silence.
Then—
“WHAT THE HADES?!”
Thalia bolts upright, soaked and furious, water dripping from her hair and clothes. Her eyes blaze as laughter erupts from the tent entrance. She does not even need to look.
“REYNAAAAA!” she roars. “I AM GOING TO SHOVE MY SPEAR UP YOUR ASS SO HARD YOU WILL REGRET THIS!”
The younger Hunters scatter instantly.
Fueled by pure rage, Thalia snatches her spear from the ground and charges out of the tent, lightning flickering across her skin in sharp, restless arcs. Reyna is already moving. She darts through the camp, light on her feet, putting distance between them as the Hunters leap aside to clear her path. Behind her, Thalia barrels forward like a storm.
Reyna almost makes it past the outer ring of trees.
Then Thalia stops. She plants her foot, draws her arm back, and throws.
The spear whistles through the air. It does not strike Reyna. Instead, it catches the edge of her hood and slams into the trunk of a tree behind her, pinning the fabric in place. Reyna is yanked back short, trapped. The forest falls quiet again, save for the crackle of distant firelight.
Thalia approaches, her expression shifting from fury to something far more amused. Lightning still dances faintly across her skin as she closes the distance. She places one hand against the tree, boxing Reyna in, forcing her to lean back against the bark.
“So,” Thalia says, her voice low, a dangerous edge beneath the calm, “how are we doing this?”
Reyna freezes for a moment. Then, slowly, she looks away and blushes.
That was when Thalia was ordered to stop by a voice she knew very well.
“That’s enough, sister.”
Artemis stood at the edge of the clearing, her presence quiet but absolute. Her Auburn red hair tied in a braid and her silvery-golden eyes looking directly at Thalia
“Yes, Lady Artemis,” Thalia replied at once. She stepped back and pulled her spear free from the tree, the wood creaking as it came loose.
Artemis gave a small nod, then turned and walked toward her tent, the largest in the camp, marked by a silver crescent moon above its entrance.
Thalia exhaled and glanced at Reyna. “Sorry, Reyna.”
Reyna chuckled and gave her a light pat on the back. “It’s fine, Thals. Honestly, I probably deserved that.”
She paused, her expression turning more serious. “Lady Artemis wants to see you. She said it’s something private. Important.”
Thalia raised an eyebrow. “That important?”
Reyna nodded once. “That important.”
A short while later, Thalia returned to her tent to dry off.
The interior reflected her in every way. On the left side, extra clothes hung from makeshift lines, and a growing pile of laundry sat nearby, clearly ignored for far too long. On the right side, a cluster of photographs covered the canvas wall. Images of her with Percy Jackson, Annabeth Chase, Grover Underwood, and L—others she refused to linger on for too long.
Her bed rested beneath them.
At the center pole stood her weapons. Aegis, her shield, leaned securely against the wood. Her celestial bronze daggers and bow hung neatly beside it, while a mirror had been nailed just above. A quiver of arrows rested at the base. She placed her spear back in its spot with practiced ease.
Near the front of the tent lay a collection of pelts and monster trophies from past hunts. It was cluttered and chaotic, but it was hers. That was enough to make it feel like home.
After drying off, she changed quickly. A black T-shirt with the American Idiot album cover, a silver jacket, fingerless gloves, green camo pants, and black combat boots. Finally, she set her tiara in place, the mark of her rank as lieutenant of the Hunters.
Once ready, she stepped out and made her way to Artemis’ tent.
The moment she entered, the scent of incense and faint smoke greeted her. Even after years as a Hunter, the space still filled her with quiet awe. The tent was lined with pelts from animals sacred to ancient Greece, some from creatures long extinct. They served as rugs, drapes, and even seating. Along the walls hung trophies taken from monsters, each one a testament to the Hunt. Weapons were arranged with care. Spears, daggers, and short swords rested in neat rows, while Artemis’ silver bow sat upon a crescent-shaped stand, gleaming softly in the firelight.
At the center, a fire pit cast a steady, warm glow. Incense burned along the edges, filling the air with a calm, almost sacred stillness.
And at the heart of it all stood Artemis herself.
“Sit, sister. We have much to discuss,” she said.
Thalia obeyed, lowering herself onto one of the pelts and settling into a comfortable position.
“I am sure you are wondering why I called for you at this hour,” Artemis continued.
Thalia nodded, her attention fully focused.
“Recently, we received word that Prometheus has been sighted again. He is not alone. He is traveling with an unknown group.”
Thalia frowned slightly. She had not heard that name since the Titan War. She had assumed someone would have dealt with him by now.
“Where was he last seen, milady?” she asked.
“Near the Columbia River, close to Kennewick, Washington,” Artemis replied.
Thalia considered that, then asked, “Who will be accompanying me, Lady Artemis?”
Artemis met her gaze. “Just you, I’m afraid.”
That caught Thalia off guard.
“I’m sorry, Lady Artemis, but Prometheus is a Titan. And you said he is traveling with others. Why send me alone?”
Artemis’ expression softened slightly. “I would tell you if I could. This order comes from our father, Zeus. He has requested that you complete this task alone. I argued against it, but his will must be honored.”
Thalia looked away for a moment, irritation flickering beneath the surface. Her father had a habit of doing this. Dropping responsibility on her without explanation.
Still, she was his daughter. She could handle it.
“But do not worry sister, I wish you to simply observe them, see what they are up to, and report back when you have gained significant knowledge of their operation.” Artemis reassured.
“…Understood, milady,” Thalia said at last.
Artemis gave a small nod. “Godspeed, sister. May Tyche favor you.”
Thalia returned to her tent and moved with quiet efficiency. She gathered her weapons first, checking each one by habit. Her spear rested easily in her hand before she turned it back into a mace canister. Her shield returned to its bracelet form and rested on her wrist, feeling the cold familiar feeling of her shield. Her daggers were sheathed at her sides, and her bow and quiver were slung into place. Next came a small pack. She filled it with the essentials she always carried: spare clothes, ambrosia, nectar, a whetstone, rope, and a few tools she had learned never to travel without. When she finished, she stepped outside.
The camp had settled into a quieter rhythm now. The fire kept burning, and most of the Hunters returned to their normal activities, though a few still kept watch along the perimeter. Thalia scanned the area, then made her way to the neighboring tent.
She stopped just outside and called out, “Reyna.”
A moment later, Reyna Avila Ramírez-Arellano stepped out, pulling aside the flap.
“Yes, Thalia?”
“Lady Artemis has ordered me to leave tonight,” Thalia said. “While I’m gone, I need you to act as lieutenant.”
Reyna did not hesitate. She nodded once, calm and steady. “Understood.”
For a brief second, neither of them spoke.
Then Reyna gave her a small, knowing smile. “Good luck, Thalia.”
Thalia returned the look with a faint smirk. “Try not to get yourself speared while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” Reyna replied.
Thalia turned and walked away from the camp, not looking back.
The trees swallowed her quickly, shadows closing in as she moved deeper into the forest. The sounds of camp faded behind her, replaced by the quiet hush of the wilderness.
Above, the moon watched. Ahead lay her path. She did not slow. By dawn, she would be miles away, heading toward the Columbia river, and whatever waited for her there.
Meanwhile
Columbia river, at the border between Washington and Oregon
Alabaster Torrington cursed himself, why, out of all the times he could receive an iris message, was during a fight between him and a bunch of crazy Cynocephali in Boise. Sure, he called them smelly, sure he said they acted like stray dogs, even though they are, sure he said…
“You really are stupid aren’t you,” the ghostly apparition of Dr. Harold Claymore said as Alabaster was walking along the Columbia River towards the coordinates they were given by whoever called them.
“Oh c’mon, you may be dead, but try sleeping next to dog-headed people with an impossibly unavoidable smell,” Alabaster retorted.
“The news report said that you were beating up a bunch of homeless people Al, perhaps you forgot about that” Harold reminded Alabaster. Thanks to the mist, people didn’t see the Cynocephali as they were and were instead seen as homeless people, no thanks to the mist that now everyone in Boise thinks he beat up some homeless people.
Alabaster kept on walking towards the coordinates until he felt a strong presence in the area, a very strong a familiar aura he hasn’t felt in a few years.
“What is it. Al?” Harold asked. Alabaster did not answer right away. He adjusted his path without thinking, stepping off the trail and moving toward a section of the forest where the air seemed to shimmer faintly.
The Mist. It was thick here, layered like a veil.
Most people would walk right past it without noticing anything unusual. To them, it would look like nothing more than dense woodland, maybe a private property line, something unimportant. Alabaster stepped through it. The illusion peeled away. What stood beyond it made him stop. A massive camp stretched out before him, hidden in plain sight. Towering wooden walls surrounded it, reinforced and carefully constructed. They were too high to climb easily and too solid to break through without serious effort. Whoever built this place had not been taking chances. But it was not the walls that caught his attention.
It was the flag. A tall pole rose above the camp, and at its peak fluttered a banner that Alabaster had not seen in years. A field of deep purple. At its center, a golden triangle. Alabaster’s jaw tightened.
“…No way,” he said quietly.
Harold drifted closer, his expression darkening as he looked at the symbol. “You recognize it.” Alabaster nodded once, his gaze fixed on the flag.
“The remnants of the Third Triumvirate.” The name lingered in the air like a warning.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Alabaster let out a slow breath, the hint of a grim smile forming on his face.
“Well,” he said, cracking his knuckles, “this just got a lot more interesting.”
He approached the camp with cautious steps.
Two guards stepped into view before he could reach the gate.
They were an odd mix. Their armor carried the rigid discipline of Roman praetorians, but their gear had been adapted with modern touches. Reinforced plating. Utility belts. Their spears were polished and ready, angled straight at his chest without hesitation. Alabaster stopped.
“Easy,” he said, raising his hands slightly, though his eyes stayed sharp. “I was invited.”
The guards did not lower their weapons. For a moment, nothing moved. Then the gates creaked open. Both guards stepped aside at once. A figure emerged from within the camp, calm and composed, as if the tension around him did not exist. Alabaster felt it immediately. That same presence.
“Lord… Prometheus…” Alabaster breathed. The Titan of Forethought stood before him, his expression measured, his gaze sharp with quiet intelligence. There was no arrogance in his posture, no need to assert dominance. It was simply understood.
“Greetings, son of Hecate,” Prometheus said, his voice deep and steady. “I imagine you have many questions.”
Alabaster swallowed, then gave a short nod.
“I will answer them,” Prometheus continued. “But first, you look like you have a repugnant smell. Let us remedy that.”
There was the faintest hint of amusement in his tone. Alabaster glanced down at himself and grimaced. “You have no idea.”
He stepped through the gates. Inside, the camp was far larger than it had appeared from the outside. Movement filled the space. Soldiers trained in small groups, their discipline precise and controlled. Others moved between structures, carrying supplies, reinforcing defenses, and preparing. Prometheus led him without haste toward the river that ran along the edge of the camp.
“Clean yourself,” the Titan said simply. Alabaster did not argue. Minutes later, he stepped out of the Columbia River, water dripping from his hair and clothes, the stench of Cynocephali finally washed away. The cold bit into his skin, but it cleared his head. By the time he returned, Prometheus was waiting. Alabaster approached, then dropped to one knee out of instinct.
“What is your bidding, Lord Prometheus?”
“Stand,” Prometheus said at once. “There is no need for that.”
Alabaster hesitated, then rose.
“Your service to what remains of our cause is known to me,” Prometheus continued. “That is more than enough to earn my respect.”
Alabaster straightened slightly at that, though he said nothing. Respect from a Titan was not something given lightly. Prometheus turned and began to walk, motioning for him to follow. They moved through the camp together.
“Now,” Prometheus said, “as to why I called you.”
Alabaster focused, listening carefully.
“An opportunity has presented itself since the end of the Great Imperial War.” Prometheus glanced at him briefly. “You are aware of my role in the creation of mankind.” Alabaster nodded. “You shaped them from clay.”
“Correct.” Prometheus clasped his hands behind his back as he walked. “The original formula I devised was lost. Destroyed long ago. However… I came close to recreating it.” Alabaster frowned slightly. “Close?”
“Close enough to improve upon it,” Prometheus replied. “Not merely to create mortals, but something more.”
Alabaster’s steps slowed. “…Demigods?” Prometheus inclined his head. Alabaster’s eyes widened. “That’s not possible. You need a god and a mortal for that.”
“You need their essence,” Prometheus corrected. “Hair. Blood. Even a trace of divine residue is sufficient, if one understands the process.”
Alabaster fell silent for a moment, processing. “That would mean…” he began, then stopped. “Yes,” Prometheus said calmly. “The ability to create demigods from scratch."
A slow grin almost formed on Alabaster’s face before he caught himself. “An army,” he said quietly.
They walked a few more steps before the Titan spoke again. “I attempted this once before. I was on the verge of success.” Alabaster clenched his jaw. “What happened?”
“It was destroyed before completion.” Alabaster muttered a curse under his breath. “Figures.”
They could have had everything. Independence. Power. Control.
“…Or so I believed,” Prometheus added.
Alabaster looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
Prometheus stopped walking. For a moment, the sounds of the camp seemed distant. “I have seen something,” the Titan said. “A vision.”
Alabaster waited. “A child formed from my clay dwells in this world.” Alabaster’s breath caught. “That’s… not possible,” he said, though there was less certainty in his voice now.
Prometheus turned his gaze toward the horizon. “And yet, I have seen him.” Silence stretched between them.
“I intend to find this child,” Prometheus said at last. “And with what he carries, I will complete what I started.”
Alabaster’s pulse quickened.
“And then?”
Prometheus’s expression did not change. “Then we will create what Olympus fears most.” Alabaster did not need him to say it. A demigod army.
“I wish to appoint you to find this demigod,” Prometheus said, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
Alabaster straightened. “And when I find him?”
“Bring him to me alive,” Prometheus replied. “Do this, and you may name your reward. Anything within my power.”
For a brief moment, the weight of that offer settled in. Alabaster nodded once. “Understood.” Prometheus gave a small, satisfied nod. “You are dismissed.”
Alabaster turned to leave, but the Titan spoke again just as he reached the tent flap.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
Alabaster paused.
“His name is Tristan Theron,” Prometheus said. “Happy hunting, son of Hecate.”
A guard escorted Alabaster across the camp and into a smaller tent set aside for him. It was simple. A single cot, a small table, and little else. Alabaster stepped inside and let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as the quiet settled around him. A faint shimmer appeared at his side.
“Is it worth it?” Dr. Harold Claymore asked. Alabaster did not answer right away. He moved to the center of the tent and sat down on the cot, elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the ground.
“…Yeah,” he said finally. “It has to be.”
Harold studied him.
“No more suffering under the Olympians,” Alabaster continued, his voice low but steady. “No more being used, discarded, forgotten. And maybe… some justice for the ones who died fighting them.”
Harold’s expression did not soften.
“You know that is not entirely true,” he said. “Life has improved for many since the Olympians regained control. Your siblings. Your mother. They are safer now than they have been in years.”
Alabaster’s jaw tightened.
“And that is enough for you?” Harold pressed. “To take that away from them?”
Alabaster looked up, something sharp and unyielding in his eyes.
“I am not settling for scraps,” he said. “Not from Olympus. Not from anyone.”
His hands clenched slightly.
“And definitely not from that bastard son of Poseidon.”
The words carried weight. History. Resentment that had not faded with time. Harold watched him in silence for a few seconds. Then he sighed, the sound faint, almost lost in the stillness.
“I hope you know what you are doing.” His form began to fade.
Alabaster did not respond. Within moments, Harold was gone, the tent felt emptier without him. Alabaster sat there for a while longer, then slowly stood. He moved to the center of the space and rolled his shoulders, pushing everything else aside.
Focus.
He needed direction. A starting point. He raised his hands slightly and began to chant, his voice low and steady as ancient words slipped past his lips. The air around him stirred, faint threads of magic gathering and twisting. A spell to find someone. A demigod.
Tristan Theron.
The name lingered in his mind as the magic took hold. Then in almost an instant, he found a pulse, and it was not too far from where they were.
“Bingo,” Alabaster said in delight.
And so it begins…