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Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

I

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

Melia looks out the window of the bus as it rumbles into the heart of the city. One earphone in, she loses herself in the melodies of her playlist—mostly songs from various musicals, especially tracks from "EPIC." The choice is fitting; today's school trip is to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where they're going to look at ancient Greek and Roman artefacts. The music thrums along with her heartbeat, filling her with anticipation for what the day might bring. She always feels a sense of connection to anything that comes from that era—a connection that runs deeper than she can explain, a feeling that is almost instinctual, like a distant memory trying to resurface.

The journey passes smoothly for Melia and Grover, who sits next to her. She notices Grover glancing nervously at Nancy Bobofit, who is already causing trouble for the students around her. Nancy's sharp, nasal voice carries over the hum of the bus, her taunts directed at a kid sitting two rows ahead. Early in the year, Nancy had tried to do the same with Melia, but she'd quickly learned not to mess with her. The result of that particular encounter had landed them both in detention—and Nancy with a black eye. Since then, Nancy mostly leaves Melia alone, though she occasionally tries to provoke her when Melia can’t retaliate without getting in trouble with the teachers. Melia can feel Nancy’s eyes on her from time to time, the malice barely hidden, but she ignores it, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

Melia sighs, glancing towards the front of the bus. Ever since Mrs. Dodds transferred in halfway through the year, she seems to have it out for her. Mrs. Dodds always appears at just the right moment, whenever trouble happens, her beady eyes narrowing in on Melia as if she already knows whom to blame. Melia always ends up in trouble for things that are either blown out of proportion or entirely not her fault. It is the same at every school. Even if she tries to avoid trouble, it finds her. The headmaster has even threatened suspension if anything else happens, though Melia has the sinking feeling it wouldn’t just be suspension—it would be expulsion, and another school that wouldn't want her back the following year. She has only herself to blame for a few things—like the time she ended up in the shark tank on a field trip after hitting the wrong button. She still considers the outcome worth it; the sharks had nuzzled her like affectionate dogs, while the rest of the class had screamed in panic.

The memory makes her smile a little. There had been something about the sharks, their calm, sleek presence in the water, that had made her feel at ease, even as the teachers lost their minds trying to get her out. It was like they had recognized her, understood her in some inexplicable way. She shakes her head, letting the music drown out her thoughts again, losing herself in the rise and fall of the melodies.

A gentle tap on her shoulder brings her back to the present. Grover is looking at her expectantly. The bus has stopped, and everyone else is already shuffling out. Melia smiles at Grover in thanks, taking out her earphone and slipping her phone into her backpack before following the others off the bus. They join the class as Mr. Brunner, seated in his wheelchair, leads them toward the museum entrance, speaking animatedly about some of the artefacts they are about to see. Melia admires the various statues and pottery they pass—each piece exuding an air of mystery and timelessness. She feels a pull towards them, a curiosity that goes beyond academic interest, as if each artefact has a story it is trying to tell her, something just out of reach.

The class gathers around a four-meter-tall stone column topped by a sphinx. Mr. Brunner launches into his lecture, pointing out the carvings along the sides and explaining that it is a grave marker, a stele. Melia tries to focus, fascinated by the ancient artistry, but the constant whispering and giggles from her classmates are breaking her concentration. Nancy, in particular, snickers at something etched into the stone, and Melia’s patience finally snaps. She spins around, her frustration bubbling over.

“Will you shut up?” Melia hisses, trying to keep her voice down, but it carries, louder than intended.

“Ms. Jackson, did you have a comment?” Mr. Brunner’s voice cuts through, halting his lecture.

Melia feels her face grow hot, embarrassment spreading. She hates disappointing Mr. Brunner. He is one of the few teachers who seems to genuinely like her and take the time to help her understand what is being taught. “No, sir,” she manages, trying to keep her voice even.

Mr. Brunner nods, his expression calm but expectant. “Then perhaps you’ll tell us what this picture represents?” He gestures to one of the carvings on the stele, his gaze steady.

Melia turns to face the stone, her eyes locking onto the image. An involuntary shiver runs down her spine. She swallows hard. “That’s Kronos… Kronos eating his children,” she says, her voice catching slightly as she speaks the titan’s name.

“Correct. And he did this because…?” Mr. Brunner prompts, encouraging her to continue.

Melia takes a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. “He did it because, when he overthrew his father, he was warned that his own children would do the same to him. So, instead of letting them live and risking his rule, he chose to eat them.” She pauses, her eyes tracing the lines of the carving. “But his wife, Rhea, tricked him. She switched their youngest, Zeus, with a rock. Zeus grew up in secret, and when he was ready, he freed his siblings from Kronos’ stomach. They waged war against the Titans and overthrew them, casting their father into the depths of Tartarus.” Her voice grows stronger as she speaks, the myths always making her feel strangely alive, connected. They are stories her mum had told her as a child, tales that replaced fairy tales and bedtime stories—ones that had always felt like more than just myths.

Nancy mumbles something under her breath, something snide and dismissive. “Like we’re ever going to use this in real life.”

Mr. Brunner’s eyes narrow slightly, his head turning in Nancy’s direction. “And why, Ms. Jackson, to paraphrase Ms. Bobofit’s excellent question, does this matter in real life?” His tone is sharp, his eyes once again locking on Melia.

Grover whispers something to Melia, but she tunes him out, her mind working over the question. Finally, she speaks. “It’s… it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Kronos was so terrified of losing power that he acted out of fear and chose what seemed like the quickest way to keep his power—but by doing so, he guaranteed his own downfall. Sometimes, in real life, the easiest way isn’t the best. The hardest path might be the only way to avoid disaster. It’s about… not letting fear control you.” She looks up at Mr. Brunner, her eyes meeting his.

For a moment, a strange expression crosses Mr. Brunner’s face—something between approval and something else, something deeper. He nods slowly. “Full credit, Ms. Jackson,” he says, his voice quieter. “Now, on that note, let us break for lunch. Mrs. Dodds, if you would lead the way outside?” He gestures toward the exit, and the class begins to shuffle away, their footsteps echoing faintly against the stone floors.

Melia lingers for a moment, her gaze lingering on another stele before her. Something about it calls to her, tugging at the edge of her consciousness. She glances up, her eyes catching sight of the owl statue perched atop it—a symbol of wisdom, of Athena. There is a strange sensation pressing at the back of her mind, a familiarity that she can’t place.

“Ms. Jackson,” Mr. Brunner says, rolling his wheelchair to a stop beside her. He looks up at the stele, his eyes filled with something akin to recognition. “This is an interesting one. It’s dedicated to someone overlooked by many accounts—despite her relation to…”

“Odysseus,” Melia finishes, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes trace the carvings along the stone. “The stele of Lysianassa. His daughter. She died before he made it home.” She pauses, swallowing hard. “Some stories say it was because of Poseidon's rage at the blinding of Polyphemus—either directly, or by someone trying to gain his favor.” The stories of Lysianassa have always felt different to her—closer, somehow, than the others.

Mr. Brunner looks at her, his gaze probing, as if trying to see something within her. “Not many know her story,” he says quietly.

Melia hesitates, then speaks, her voice soft. “My middle name is Lysianassa. My mum named me after her because, even with her tragic fate, she had freedom in her life. More than most.” She looks up at the stele, her eyes filled with a mix of reverence and sadness.

Mr. Brunner studies her for a moment longer before nodding. “Your grasp of my class is impressive, Ms. Jackson. But remember, I will accept nothing less than your best. It is vitally important—more important than you may yet understand.” His voice carries a weight that makes Melia pause, the words sinking into her.

She nods slowly, her gaze shifting from the stele to Mr. Brunner. “I… understand,” she says, though deep down, she feels that there is so much more she is yet to grasp.

As Melia turns to follow the rest of the class, she can still feel that strange pull from the stele, a whisper at the back of her mind, as though it is urging her to remember something she can’t quite reach. She takes one last glance over her shoulder before stepping out into the bright sunlight, a sense of something unfinished settling heavily in her chest.

Melia struggles to hold back the brief surge of emotions at the way Mr. Brunner always pushes her. She knows he means well—he teaches in a way that keeps her focused, makes her care. But sometimes it feels as if he expects her to be more than she can manage. She can memorize the stories and names, recount the myths with detail that impresses most teachers, but the spelling? The proper grammar? It is like there is a fog in her mind that she just can't clear, no matter how hard she tries.

For a moment, there is silence, just the distant hum of students leaving the gallery. Then Mr. Brunner waves her off, signaling for her to join the rest of the class for lunch. As Melia steps away, she glances back over her shoulder. Mr. Brunner is staring up at the stele, his expression a mix of lingering sorrow and something else—something she can’t quite place, a sadness that seems personal. It makes her stomach twist, and she wonders what it is that weighs on him so heavily.

The class is gathered on the museum's front steps, a buzz of idle chatter against the backdrop of the bustling city. Overhead, dark clouds have begun to swirl, an ominous storm brewing, and there is an odd tension in the air—something electric that makes the fine hairs on Melia's arms stand on end. She ignores the strange weather, even though it has been bizarre for weeks now—snowstorms in early spring, wildfires sparked by lightning strikes out of nowhere. It is like the world has gone wrong. But it isn't anything she can fix, so she pushes it aside, choosing to sit by Grover on the edge of the fountain, away from the rest of the class.

She sighs, hoping that if she puts enough distance between herself and the others, no one will think to lump her in with the group pelting bits of crackers at pigeons, laughing as they startle and fly off in panic. Melia hates those kinds of games—the pointless cruelty for the sake of a laugh. She doesn’t want to be associated with it, and she certainly doesn’t want anyone thinking she belongs to the same school as those kids.

"You okay?" Grover asks beside her, his voice gentle, concerned. His eyes are wide, looking up at her in that way that makes her feel like he is always seeing more than just her face—like he is trying to read something deeper.

Melia goes to nod, to brush it off, but then something in her breaks. She feels the tears slowly slipping down her cheeks, surprising her. Quickly, she wipes them away with the sleeve of her bomber jacket, swallowing the lump that forms in her throat. “Yeah,” she says, her voice thick. “I’m okay. I was just… I was looking at another stele, and I don’t know. It just got to me.” She shrugs, trying to make light of it. “I guess I grew up hearing stories about her, and seeing it here, it just…” She trails off, not quite finding the words.

They sit there in silence, the sound of the traffic and the distant laughter of her classmates echoing around them. Grover seems lost in thought, and after a moment, he looks at her lunch and then back at her. “Can I have your apple?” he asks, almost sheepishly.

Melia rolls her eyes but smiles faintly as she hands it over. She isn’t hungry anyway—not after everything. Her gaze drifts, focusing on the steady stream of yellow cabs speeding down Fifth Avenue, and she thinks of her mum's apartment. It isn't far from where she sits, maybe a ten-minute drive at most. She hasn’t been home since Christmas, and part of her longs to just jump into a cab, show up at her mum’s doorstep. She knows her mum would be glad to see her, but she can already picture the look of disappointment on her face when she inevitably has to send Melia back to Yancy Academy. It is a look Melia hates—a look she sees even in her dreams, though in those dreams, it belongs to faces she doesn’t recognize, people she has never met in places she has never been.

She is about to unwrap her sandwich when Nancy Bobofit appears, her group of friends trailing behind like a pack of mean-spirited hyenas. Nancy, apparently bored of bothering tourists or trying to steal from their bags, turns her attention to Melia and Grover. She eyes them with a sneer before dumping what is left of her half-eaten sandwich straight into Grover’s lap.

“Oops,” Nancy says, her voice dripping with mock sweetness as she grins at Melia, waiting, daring her to react.

Melia feels a familiar heat rising in her chest, her emotions surging from the stele, from Mr. Brunner's words, from everything that has been festering beneath the surface all day. She tries to picture a calm sea—one of the few mental exercises that usually helps when her anger threatens to boil over. But this time, it isn't working. A roaring fills her ears, drowning out her thoughts, and the next thing she knows, Nancy is sitting in the fountain, sputtering in shock, her friends staring wide-eyed.

“Melia pushed me!” Nancy screams, her voice cracking with indignation as she flails in the water, drawing the attention of everyone around.

Mrs. Dodds materializes beside them almost instantly, her dark eyes narrowing as they fix on Melia. She seems to relish the situation, like she’s been waiting all year for Melia to slip up. “Now, honey,” she says, her voice dripping with false sweetness, “come with me.”

“Wait! It was me. I pushed her!” Grover yelps, his voice trembling. He stands up, his face pale, a desperate look in his eyes.

Melia stares at him, stunned. She knows how terrified Grover is of Mrs. Dodds, and she can’t believe he is actually trying to take the blame for her. They aren’t that close. Not close enough for this, she doesn't think.

Mrs. Dodds barely spares Grover a glance. “I don’t think so, Mr. Underwood,” she says sharply. She turns back to Melia, her eyes glinting with something like triumph. Without another word, she starts up the museum steps, pulling Melia along behind her.

Melia glances back over her shoulder as they ascend the stairs, her heart pounding. She sees Grover standing there, pale as a ghost, his eyes darting back and forth between her and Mr. Brunner, who is still with the rest of the class. Grover looks like he wants to shout for help, but his voice won’t come.

Mrs. Dodds leads Melia deeper into the museum, past the bustling gift shop and into the Greek and Roman exhibit, which is now eerily empty. The silence of the gallery presses down on her, heavy and unsettling, amplifying every creak of the floor beneath their feet.

Mrs. Dodds stops in front of a large marble frieze depicting the Greek gods. She makes a low noise in the back of her throat—a sound that’s almost like a growl. Melia comes to a halt a few steps behind her, her instincts suddenly screaming that something is very wrong. The noise Mrs. Dodds makes reminds her of the strange, guttural sounds she makes underwater—sounds that no human should be able to produce.

“You have been giving us problems, honey,” Mrs. Dodds says, her voice dripping with menace.

Melia swallows hard, her body tensing. “Yes, ma’am,” she says, trying to keep her voice neutral. She doesn’t know what Mrs. Dodds is talking about, but she has a feeling that playing it safe is her best option.

Mrs. Dodds turns to face her, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Did you really think you would get away with it?” she says, her voice dropping to a low hiss. She tugs at the cuffs of her leather jacket, her fingers twitching slightly. “We are not fools, Melia Jackson. It was only a matter of time before we found you out. Confess, and you will suffer less pain.”

A strange tingling sensation crawls up Melia’s spine, an instinctual warning that screams danger. Her muscles tighten, her feet shifting into a defensive stance she learned in martial arts classes—a stance that allows her to push off quickly, her rear foot angled for leverage. It’s something ingrained in her, a skill her mother encouraged her to learn, and now it feels like second nature.

“Your time is up,” Mrs. Dodds hisses. Her eyes glow like red-hot coals, her pupils narrowing to slits as her face twists in fury. Her fingers elongate into talons, her leather jacket melting away, transforming into large, leathery wings. It’s like something out of a nightmare.

Melia's heart hammers in her chest. Her body tenses, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Just when she thinks things couldn’t possibly get stranger, Mr. Brunner wheels into the gallery doorway, a determined look on his face. He raises his arm, and in his hand is—a pen.

“What ho, Melia!” he shouts, tossing the pen across the room.

Without thinking, Melia rolls under Mrs. Dodds’s outstretched arm, her talons slicing through the air where her head had just been. She lands on her feet, her eyes locking onto the pen as it sails towards her. She catches it mid-air, and as soon as her fingers close around it, it shifts, expanding in weight and length. It’s not a pen anymore—it’s a leaf-bladed xiphos, a weapon she’s seen Mr. Brunner use in class demonstrations, though she never imagined holding it herself.

Melia shifts into a ready stance, her feet planted, the blade held in front of her. Her left hand hovers above the hilt, ready to push or strike. Mrs. Dodds spins around, her eyes blazing with murderous intent. With a snarl, she lunges at Melia, wings flaring behind her. Melia brings the sword down in a sharp arc, and the blade bites into Mrs. Dodds’s right shoulder as Melia twists to the side, dodging her attack. They rotate, both keeping their eyes locked on each other.

Golden dust leaks from the wound, and Mrs. Dodds’s fury only seems to intensify. She charges again, and this time Melia ducks into the lunge, her left hand striking out to push Mrs. Dodds’s arm away while she drives the blade up into her chest. The sword pierces through, and for a heartbeat, Mrs. Dodds freezes, her eyes wide with shock and rage.

Then, she dissolves. She bursts into golden dust that swirls around Melia before scattering into the air, leaving behind only the acrid scent of sulfur, a fading screech, and a lingering chill that makes Melia shiver.

Melia takes a deep breath, her chest heaving. She looks around the now-empty gallery, her gaze catching on her reflection in a nearby display case. Her eyes—for just a moment—glow faintly before fading back to their usual color. She blinks, her heart still racing, and looks down at her hands. The sword is gone, replaced by the pen once more. She stares at it, trying to comprehend what just happened. Part of her wonders if she imagined it, but deep down, she knows she didn’t. Strange things have always happened around her, but nothing like this.

Rain drizzles down as Melia walks out of the museum, the sky a dark, swirling mass overhead. Grover is still sitting by the fountain, a flimsy museum map tented over his head, shielding him from the rain.

Nancy stands nearby, dripping wet and glaring at Melia, her face flushed red with anger. “I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your butt,” she sneers, her voice full of malice.

Melia blinks, the name catching her off guard. She turns away from Nancy, her mind racing. Mrs. Kerr? Who is Mrs. Kerr? She looks at Grover, a question forming on her lips. “Where’s Mrs. Dodds?” she asks, her voice hushed.

Grover’s eyes dart to hers before quickly looking away. He swallows hard. “Who?” he says after a noticeable pause, refusing to meet her gaze.

Melia frowns, confusion and suspicion churning inside her. She pockets the pen, her fingers curling around it protectively. She knows something is off—terribly off. But if direct questions won’t get her answers, then she’ll find another way. She’ll figure this out. Whatever is happening, whatever she just saw, she knows one thing for certain: the world she thought she knew is just the beginning, and there’s so much more beneath the surface. As they head back to Yancy, her mind is already racing, determined to uncover the truth.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

II

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

Melia was used to strange experiences, but they were usually over quickly, unlike the ongoing apparent lack of Mrs Dodds' existence, which kept going even after the field trip. The new teacher, Mrs Kerr, a blonde woman Melia had never seen before, has been their maths teacher since Christmas.

Melia often springs a Mrs Dodds reference on Grover, the only one that slips up when she is mentioned, a slight hesitation before claiming he has no idea who she is. Something had attacked her at the museum, but even with that certainty, she didn’t have much time to think about it during the day between classes and then her clubs. At night, visions of Mrs Dodds linger in her dreams, and different creatures emerge from a fierce storm, causing her to wake up in a cold sweat.

The strange weather continued, which didn’t help Melia’s mood. One night, a thunderstorm blew out the windows in her dorm room; a few days later, the biggest tornado ever spotted in the Hudson Valley touched down only fifty miles from Yancy Academy. Melia was feeling irritable most of the time, feeling like a pressure was weighing down on her mind, causing her grades to slip along with getting into more fights with Nancy and her friends. It wasn’t strange for Melia to end up being sent out of class to stand in the hallway; the breaking for her temper was her English teacher, Mr Nicoll, asking again and again why she was too lazy to study for spelling tests, causing her to snap. The same day, the headmaster sent a letter to her mum, making it official that she would not be invited back next year.

Melia’s frustrations continued in the lead-up to exam week; as much as she was homesick and wanted to be home with her mum in their apartment, there were things she would miss at Yancy. The view of the woods out her dorm window, the Hudson River in the distance, the smell of pine trees that carried her into her dorm when the wind was right, and Grover, he was a good friend even with whatever was going on with Mrs Dodds. The evening before the final for Latin, one of the few exams she has studied at length for, she can’t help but throw the book she was studying across the room and onto her bed with a groan of frustration. The words had started swimming off the page, and her eyes hurt when trying to read English, but Latin and ancient Greek always seemed fine to her compared to English, to the point that a good portion of her notes is actually in ancient Greek.

With a groan, Melia pushes herself away from the desk to pace her room, twirling the pen that was a sword across her knuckles. She hasn’t tried writing with it yet; the thought did come to her, though, when she was looking at it after the museum, taking in its rather fancy design, looking like one of the fountain pens often seen given as a gift. The main body of the pen was bronze but with a leather wrap around the body of it. Melia stops her pacing as she stares at the Greek mythology book on her bed for a moment before taking a deep breath, picking it up, and pocketing the pen; as she exits her dorm, deciding to go and at least speak to Mr Brunner and possibly apologise for the horrible mark she is about to get.

Melia walks through the hallways and down to the faculty offices. Most of them are dark and empty, but Mr Brunner’s door is ajar, and light from his window extends across the hallway floor. She is a few steps from the door when voices from inside reach her. Mr Brunner is talking to someone that she recognises as Grover’s voice.

“…worried about Melia, sir,” Grover says.

Melia ducks down to hide and listen. She may not normally eavesdrop, but she is curious by nature, and with everything strange that has been going on, she hopes for answers while inching closer.

“…alone this summer. I mean, a Kindly One in the school! Now that we know for sure, and they know too…” Grover trails off.

“We would only make matters worse by rushing her. We need the girl to mature more,” Mr Brunner says.

“But she may not have time. The summer solstice deadline…” Grover says, clearly stressed by his tone.

“Will have to be resolved without her, Grover. Let her enjoy her ignorance while she still can,” Mr Brunner says, trying to soothe Grover.

“Sir, she saw her! And the mist isn’t working, and she kept the sword! She knows something is going on at least, and she realises that no one else seems to remember Mrs Dodds,” Grover says, his voice choked with emotion. I…I can’t fail in my duties again; you know what that would mean.”

“You haven’t failed, Grover. I should have seen her for what she was. Now let’s just worry about keeping Melia alive until next autumn…” Mr Brunner says before cutting off as the mythology book Melia was holding slips out of her hands and lands on the floor with a thud.

Melia picks up the book and slips back down the hall, slipping into a darkened room as she spots a shadow much larger than either Grover or Mr Brunner should cast, holding something that looks far too much like an archer’s bow to be anything else. A moment later, a slow clop-clop-clop is audible as a large dark shape pauses in front of the door Melia hides behind before moving on.

“Nothing, my nerves haven’t been right since the winter solstice,” Mt Brunner says, “Head back to the dorms. Got a long day of exams tomorrow.”

“Mine neither, but I could have sworn…and don’t remind me,” Grover says as the lights go out in Mr Brunner’s office.

Melia waits for what feels like forever before sneaking back to her dorm room, collapsing onto her bed with a sigh of relief. She thinks back to what she overheard, which gives her more questions than she got answers; the only thing that makes sense to her is whatever was done after Mrs Dodds was done by Grover and Mr Brunner to hide it. Along with whatever Mrs Dodds could be referred to as a Kindly One, that thought lingered in her head before she turns to her mythology book, flipping through it until she finds what she is looking for to confirm what she already expects; Mrs Dodds was a Fury.

The next afternoon, as Melia was leaving the three-hour Latin exam, her head pounding from all the writing, Mr Brunner called her back inside. For a moment, a spike of fear ran through her at the thought that he had figured out she was outside his office last night.

“Melia, don’t be discouraged about leaving Yancy. It’s…it’s for the best,” Mr Brunner says, his tone kind, but that doesn’t lessen the sting in his words that Melia feels as the nearby kids are clearly listening in.

Melia looks at him momentarily as he builds up to say something. The frustration she has been feeling with his words on top of it pushes her to the edge as she fights her temper. Her eyes take on a slight glow as they seem to swirl with power. Melia quickly spins on her heels, striding out of the room with an air of power around her that leaves Mr Brunner stunned and worried in her wake.

Soon, the final day of term arrived; the other students were bragging about all the other different things they had planned, while Melia knew anything like that was far beyond what she and her mum would be doing. But at the same time, as long as there was water nearby, she was always happy wherever they went, though having the difference shoved in her face did sting; they were all from rich and powerful families, unlike her, who was from a family of nobody. The only person Melia dreaded saying goodbye to was Grover; even with his weird behaviour since the trip and his hiding something from her, he was still the only real friend she had made at Yancy, but suspiciously, it turned out that he was fetting the Greyhound that she was.

During the whole bus ride, Grover keeps glancing nervously down the aisle, acting like he is expecting something to happen. Melia frowns slightly into her reflection, tucking strands of her long raven black hair behind an ear and staring at her Mediterranean features while thinking about how Grover always seemed jumpy whenever they left Yancy.

With a soft groan, Melia turns to look at him, “Looking for Kindly ones?” she asks.

“Wha…what do you mean?” Grover says, stumbling over his words as he nearly jumps out of his seat at the sudden question.

Melia shrugs slightly with a smirk, “You tell me, you were the one talking about her to Mr Brunner before the exam,” she says.

“How much did you hear?” Grover says, his eye twitching slightly in frustration.

“Oh, not too much. So what’s the solstice deadline?” Melia asks, still smirking at his frustration.

“Look, Melia…I was just worried for you, see? I mean, hallucinating about demon maths teachers, and I was telling Mr Brunner that maybe you were overstressed or something,” Grover says, trying to explain as he winces at his own lie.

Melia’s smirk vanished, leaving her with a deceptively calm expression, but her eyes were stormy. Grover quickly learned at Yancy that Melia’s eyes are the easiest way to tell how she feels, as her facial expressions don’t give much away.

“Grover, you’re a terrible liar,” Melia says after a moment.

Grover sighs softly as he pulls a card from his shirt pocket and hands it over. “Just take this, OK? In case you need me this summer,” he says.

Melia glances at the card before almost recoiling at how offensive the fancy script is to her eyes, just making out a phone number for a Half-Blood Hill, “What’s Half,” she starts to ask.

“Don’t say it aloud! That’s my…summer address,” Grover yelps, interrupting Melia.

Melia looks between Grover and the card for a moment before pocketing it, “I will keep it in mind,” she says slowly.

“Look, Melia, the truth is, I…I kind of have to protect you,” Grover says with a furious blush.

Melia quirks and raises her eyebrow at that. All year long, she has gotten into fights, keeping the bullies away from him, but she feels that his protection is less from bullies and whatever he and Mr Brunner are trying to hide from her.

“What exactly are you protecting me from?” Melia asks just as a loud grinding noise rattles the bus.

Black smoke starts pouring out from the dashboard, filling the bus with a burning sulphur-like smell. The driver curses loudly while guiding the Greyhound to the side of the highway and getting all the passengers off the bus. Melia glances at the stretch of country road they are on, with nothing of note around them but the maple trees and litter from passing cars. An old-fashioned fruit stand was on the other side across four lanes of asphalt shimmering with afternoon heat. The stuff on sale looked appealing to Melia, especially with the heat; looking from the fruit to the people at the stall only to see three old ladies sitting in rocking chairs in the shade of a tree, knitting a massive blanket or such. All three women look ancient momentarily before the air shatters around them, leaving one looking the same as the other, noticeably younger. Their clothes have shifted into chitons as they stare directly at Melia.

Melia glances at Grover, whose face has gone pale, and his whole body is shaking. “Grover?” she asks softly.

His head snaps around to face her, “We are getting back on the bus, come on!” Grover says suddenly, prying the doors back open and climbing into it.

Melia lingers, her curiosity getting the better of her and feeling that she should linger momentarily as she looks across the road, where the middle lady has taken a large pair of gold and silver shear-like scissors. There is a momentary pause before she cuts the electric-blue thread she is holding, the sound of the snip reaching Melia even across the four lanes of traffic. As the three of them start bundling up the knitting, the driver cries out in success as he pulls something out of the engine, causing the bus to shudder back to life with a roar of the engine and quickly getting everyone back on the bus.

As the bus drives along, Melia tries to fight off the slightly feverish feeling that is hitting her. “Grover? What are you not telling me?” she asks bluntly.

“Melia, what did you see back at the fruit stand?” Grover asks, deflecting the question slightly.

“I…I saw the three cut the thread,” Melia says softly with pretty reasonable suspicion of what it was.

Grover makes a gesture with his fingers. Something about the gesture feels ancient yet familiar to Melia. “This is not happening. I don’t want this to be like last time,” Grover mumbles.

“What last time?” Melia asks, her gaze focused on Grover, who is still slightly lost in his own world.

“Let me walk you home from the bus station, please,” Grover says suddenly.

Melia shrugs at the strange request, thinking momentarily about what she knows of Greek mythology and what the three ladies represent. None of them are necessarily good when they appear in a manner like they appeared.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

III

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

Grover keeps mumbling the rest of the bus ride while glancing at Melia like she is already dead. The moment Grover steps away for a moment, Melia is already moving and flagging down a taxi. She feels bad for Grover as she throws her suitcase into the cab, but at the same time, he has been freaking out the entire time.

Melia leans into the taxi’s seat as it drives uptown, a small smile on her face. She is looking forward to being home and seeing her mum after months apart. It doesn’t take her long to reach their apartment. She looks up at the outside of the building for a moment before lugging her suitcase inside with her and climbing the stairs up to the apartment.

“I’m home!” Melia calls out as she steps inside, leaning her suitcase against the wall. Her mum steps out into the hall, arms wide, for a hug, which Melia eagerly leans into.

Sally holds Melia tight momentarily before pulling back to look at her as Melia looks up at her warm smile, “Oh, Melia. I can’t believe it, you’ve grown since Christmas!” she says with a slight smirk, knowing that Melia’s short height is often something she grumbles about.

Melia pouts slightly before rolling her eyes as Sally leads her to the couch and fires off questions about how Yancy had been and anything she hadn’t included in their messages, not mentioning her getting expelled. Melia can’t help but smile as it makes her time at Yancy sound better than it was, and she wasn’t too down about the expulsion, considering it was her sixth in six years. It wasn’t until talking about the trip to the museum that her voice caught in her throat, the memory of Mrs Dodds's burning eyes screaming in her mind combined with the imagined feeling of claws cutting through her skin that she had felt in some of her worst nightmares.

Sally pulls Melia against her, humming softly while rubbing her back. She is helping Melia centre herself and slowly recover from the sudden panic. “Did something happen?” Sally asks softly, and once Melia nods, she is okay.

“Yeah…got attacked by a Kindly One that was pretending to be a teacher since Christmas,” Melia says into her mum's shoulder, her words slipping into Greek as her emotions are still all over the place.

Sally tenses in shock at her daughter's words before hugging her closer. “I…I guess it is time. We've got the cabin booked at Montauk. I will explain more once we get there. Go grab your bag, and we can be off,” she says.

Melia nods, wiping the few tears from her cheeks before hurrying into her room to repack her suitcase. When she steps into her room, it is the same as she left it. The walls are painted a light blue, with a few postures and pictures of different sea creatures. The shelves are filled with various books in various languages, along with smaller pictures of Melia and her mum, often at the beach or in the water.

Melia quickly flips open her suitcase, removing the clothes she won’t need and packing it again, throwing a few items she didn’t want to take to Yancy, including a sizeable cuddly shark. With her case packed, she grabs a small backpack throwing a few items into it, some books along with more of the cream her mum gives her for her scales if they start to feel dry, part of the reason she was thankful for the single room she ended up with in Yancy, was able to keep her scales from drying out. It only takes around half an hour for her to pack her bags before placing them into the back of the car and sliding into the passenger seat. 

They drive in a peaceful quiet, with the music playing occasionally, one or both singing along to the words softly. Sally smiles as Melia sings, knowing that part of the reason Melia took up singing was her own habit of singing around the house or playing music, though she can feel the power behind it and knows that part of the talent is in her blood. They reached the cabin just as the sun was setting, and the two of them went about their usual routine of opening the windows and cleaning before just walking along the beach. Sally might not be as drawn to the sea as Melia is, but even she feels more at peace when near it; they spend the rest of the evening just enjoying the moment of peace, neither wanting to bring up the conversation they had started in the apartment to ruin the mood.

“I…I worry I have been selfish keeping you so close,” Sally says softly as the two of them sit on a log and look into the fire in front of them. I wanted to keep you safe, but I knew eventually you would need to go.”

“Go where?” Melia asks softly as Sally pauses.

“There is a summer camp for those like you. Your father told me about it before he left, but he warned me it could be dangerous and that I might not get to see you again if they thought it would be better to keep you year long,” Sally says, holding back her tears as she pulls Melia into a side-on hug. Even with everything strange that happened, you never seemed to be in danger; they never seemed to get close.”

Melia nods slightly, remembering all the monsters she saw from time to time but always staying away before her focus snaps to her mum's words again. “They couldn’t keep me away for long if they tried,” she says with a slightly feral grin bearing her sharp shark-life teeth. The weight of the conversation and her relaxation with just her mum near the sea means she lets go of her tight control of holding back her animalistic features and nature.

Sally nods, smiling at Melia as her hand gently runs across the scales on Melia’s arms, “I know, and so did your father, which is why he warned me about it. He knows it will be safe, but your blood will resist being bound there. I think we will spend the day together tomorrow before you have to go,” she says sadly.

Melia leans into her mum's touch before the two of them get up and head for the cabin and their rooms. “At least we will have a full day, and I will be back after the summer. If it is dangerous, I would be willing to fight any monster. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe,” she says, her eyes swirling with power as a strange feeling of deja vu hits like a long-forgotten promise.

Sally looks at Melia with pure love in her eyes, her thumb rubbing Melia’s cheek. “I know you would, but you shouldn’t have to. You should get to just be a child and live your life with people who understand you,” she says softly, kissing Melia’s head. Now sleep. We can talk more in the morning if you want or go swimming.”

Melia leans into Sally’s hand before dropping into bed, letting her exhaustion take her into a dream. 

She is used to strange dreams of varying kinds, but this one has a weight behind it the others never have had. Two warriors bathed in golden blood with swords pressed dangerously close to flesh, legs scratched with sand as the waves lapped at the ground behind them. Melia wipes the rain from her eyes as the figures seem to flicker between the forms too quickly to make out. Melia pushes against the shifting sands, crying out for them to stop, but is unable to be heard over the storm.

Melia is pulled from her dreams by the boom of thunder, the entire cabin shaking while rain rattles off the glass. Sally sits up, eyes wide at the sound of the storm rattling around them. Even without the fear in her mum's eyes, Melia can almost feel the power of the storm wrapping around the cabin to tell it is not a normal storm.

Sally leaps out of bed as something pounds on the door, yelling through it, but the words are lost to the storm before she throws it open. It reveals a drenched Grover, but with a significant difference from how she last saw him: now without his crutches and his legs covered in shaggy brown fur.

“We need to go! He is right behind me!” Grover cries out, looking between Sally and Melia.

Sally turns to Melia with a heartbroken look in her eyes. “We need to go. Get your things to the car!” she says before grabbing her own bags, which neither of them had unpacked.

Melia nods, shaken out of her shock and the lingering effects of the dream. She grabs her bag and quickly lugs it to the car, throwing them in before leaping into the back with Grover as Sally slams the throttle down.

“I had hoped we would have more time, baby. I am sorry,” Sally says softly, not taking her eyes off the road.

Melia nods slightly, not trusting her voice to not come out as a growl. She has almost got it under control again, fighting with her animalistic features to stay hidden from Grover.

Grover looks at Melia almost like he is expecting questions. “You don’t seem surprised. How are you so calm?” he asks, almost in frustration.

“I have known about this for years; it's rather hard to hide certain things. But the existence of camp, mum only just told me about it and that, and well Mrs Dodds was still a shock only seen things that can’t be explained at a distance before,” Melia says with a shrug.

“Well, at the moment, you have the Lord of the Dead after you, whoever he sent. And what is hard to hide?” Grover asks, clearly trying to distract himself from whatever is chasing them.

Melia looks between Grover and Sally, who nods in support of whatever she decides, “I, well…always been a bit too different to hide the strange from me,” she says softly, hoping their friendship at Yancy was real and not just a job for him as she relaxes her control.

Melia looks at Grover as scales shimmer into appearance down her arms, up her neck, and on the sides of her face. Her teeth grow longer and sharper, while her nails extend into claws a few inches long and black in colour. 

Grover doesn’t flinch back but is clearly surprised, “Yeah, I can see why that would be hard to explain away,” he says just before the car swerves to avoid a large dark shape in the middle of the road before getting back on the road.

“What was that!” Melia exclaims as she peers out the rear window, trying to see through the rain-filled darkness.

Melia only has a moment of feeling a tingling across her scales before there is a blinding flash, a bone-rattling boom as the car explodes. She only just processes the feeling of being weightless while almost feeling like she is being fried until the car slams into a ditch. Slowing, peeling herself off the back of her chair, trying to shake off the daze while taking in the car's damage that didn’t actually explode, but the roof had been cracked open, letting the rain pour in.

Melia bites back a curse at the obvious person to blame for being hit by a bolt of lightning as she turns to check on Grover. She can hear her mum starting to move, and he groans softly as Melia shakes him, reassured that he is alive.

“Baby, you need to get out,” Sally says, looking at Melia while kicking at her door, trying to get it open, but it was wedged into the mud of the road. She has tears in her eyes.

Melia shakes her head as she twists herself around to slam her feet into her door, causing it to swing violently outwards, straining its hinges. This allows her to pull Grover out onto the grass with her before she runs around to yank the driver's door open, getting her mum out. “We go together, help me with Grover.” 

Sally nods as she gets on one side of Grover and Melia on the other, the two of them fighting their way through the storm and towards the lone pine tree when a roar bellows behind them. Melia glances over her shoulder to see a figure lumbering after them that was easy to recognise due to its size and bull-like horns.

“Melia, he doesn’t turn very well. Jump out at the last minute if he charges, okay?” Sally says, her voice tight with stress.

Melia nods as she glances between her mum and the Minotaur before her expression hardens. She pulls the bronze pen out of her pocket. “Keep going,” she says before flicking the cap of the pen off as she separates from them, drawing the Minotaurs’ attention after her.

The Minotaur lumbers its way towards her, slowly building up speed until it is in a full charge. Melia holds her ground, tensing and relaxing her grip on the leather grip of her sword until the last possible moment. She slides out of the way of the horns while slashing her sword up the monster's side, opening a gash. It bellows in rage from the pain, but instead of turning after her, it turns to Sally and Grover struggling up the hill, starting to charge at them.

“Mum!” Melia screams in warning.

Sally hears the scream over the storm, her eyes widening in fear as the Minotaur bears down on her. She all but throws Grover to the side and tries to dodge herself, but the Minotaur snaps an arm out, grabbing Sally and lifting her off the ground as she struggles in its grip. 

Sally turns to look at Melia struggling up the muddy slope, “Go!” she manages to cry out before the first around her throat squeezes as she melts into shimmering light, vanishing in flakes of gold.

Melia pauses in shock and rage as she looks where her mum was before letting out a roar that vibrates the rain, with the earth under her feet shaking with tremors. Her anger swirls around her like a violent storm as she charges up the hill, her feet managing to find a good grip to allow her the speed even with the mud, she can feel a lingering sound in the back of her throat that is not designed to be produced above water. The Minotaur turns to meet Melia’s charge, its hands out to grab at her, but before it can, Melia leaps straight upwards and uses the beast's head like a springboard as she turns around in mid-air, her training for diving tricks coming in handy. Melia lands on the Minotaur's back, driving her sword downwards with momentum as it bellows in pain.

With one hand still holding onto the sword as her anchor, she claws at the back of its head, cutting through its fur, leaving gashes leaking golden dust. The Minotaur charges forward into the pine tree, launching Melia forward as she loses grip of the sword, her claws making it hard to hold before she grabs onto one of the Minotaur's horns as it pulls away from the tree, trying to shake her loose. Melia yanks hard on the horn with a roar of anger, matching the Minotaur's roar of pain until, with a resounding crack, it separates from its base, sending her rolling through the mud.

For a moment, the two of them stare at each other, both panting for breath and injured, with Melia ignoring the sting of rain and blood running down her face and into her eyes. The moment is broken with a bellow of rage from both of them; Melia sprints forward before dropping into a knee slide through the mud and under the Minotaur’s arms, driving the horn like a knife up and under its ribcage, causing it to break apart into golden dust just behind her.

Melia drops forward onto her hands and knees, panting for breath until she hears Grover’s moans of pain and gets herself moving again. Picking up her sword, turning it back into a pen, and pocketing it, she hefts Grover up, starting to drag him. She has only gone a few steps when suddenly a younger girl has run through the storm and is helping with Grover’s other side. Melia almost bears her teeth at the girl, still running on her instincts until she spots the faint shimmer of scales coming out like wings from the girl's eyes. 

They struggle their way down the hill to a large red farmhouse, stumbling up the stairs with Melia, feeling her energy running out as the adrenaline starts leaving her. At the same time, the girl bangs on the door, shouting for help as Melia feels herself slipping into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

IV

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

Melia’s dreams are conflicted, with various scenes of monsters chasing her between the few times she thinks she woke up for moments and the feeling of a soft bed under her. A girl with curly blonde hair was leaning over her one time when her eyes drifted open.

“What will happen at the summer solstice?” the girl asks suddenly.

“What?” Melia croaks, her throat sore from her screaming during the battle.

“What’s going on? What was stolen? We only have a few weeks!” the girl says quickly, glancing towards the door.

“I don’t…” Melia says faintly as she slips back into unconsciousness.

When she finally woke up for good, the girl was gone, and for some reason, she was now sitting in a deck chair on a huge porch, looking across a meadow towards green hills in the distance. The breeze smells faintly like strawberries with a faint hint of the ocean that she doubts anyone would pick up on. Melia coughs, feeling her dry throat and tongue as she wets her lips, trying not to feel so dried out, as she notices a glass on the table next to her, filled with what looks like chilled apple juice.

Her hand shakes slightly as she reaches out to it, slowly wrapping around it before she brings it up and takes a small sip from the straw. Her tongue immediately hits with the taste of her mum's homemade cookies, which causes her to recoil in surprise from the drink.

“Careful”, Grover says as he approaches, a shoe box held in his hands, wearing a bright orange t-shirt that had Camp Half-Blood printed around the image of a pegasus inside a circle made up of a repeated line pattern, “You saved my life. I…well, the least I could do. I went back to the hill. I thought you might want this.”

Melia looked into the open shoebox as Grover placed it in her lap. Inside was a black-and-white bull’s horn, the base jagged from being broken off.

“The bull,” Melia growls as she stares at the horn.

“You have been out for a day. How much do you remember?” Grover asks, shifting from hoof to hoof uncomfortably.

“My mum. Is she really?” Melia asks, her eyes closed as she holds back her tears, already knowing the answer. Not wanting to look at the beautiful sight in front of her as she is left an orphan for all intents and purposes.

“I’m sorry, I’m the worst satyr in the world,” Grover sniffs, wiping his eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault, and no, don’t say anything. You might have had to protect me, but I should have been able to protect her,” Melia says, her tone sharp with anger directed at herself before she drains the rest of the glass in her hand. Feeling the energy infusing her body, similar to how she feels when she steps into the ocean.

“Careful! You shouldn’t have drunk that much!” Grover says suddenly, looking between the glass and Melia as she stands up.

“I feel fine,” Melia shrugs, stretching her arms and legs.

“If you are sure,” Grover says, clearly unconvinced, “Either way, Mr D and Chiron want to talk to you.”

Melia nods as she follows Grover around the porch. The scent of vinegar and wine and somehow madness lingers around one of the two figures sitting at a table. He turns to look at her, the hints of madness clear in his eyes as she stares into them before he turns back to his cards. “Well, she awakes then,” he says.

“That’s Mr D, the camp director. The girl, that’s Annabeth Chase, a camper,” Grover says, pointing from the god to the girl leaning against the porch, “And you already know Chiron.”

Melia turns from looking at Mr D. She knew who he was the moment she scented him, and some part of her was almost screaming to be careful with her interactions with the gods, memories of the myths she had read about their wrath in her thoughts. She raises an eyebrow slightly at Chiron as she looks at his familiar wheelchair. “Mr Brunner,” she says, the tone of her voice clear with her accusation.

“Hello again, Melia. It’s good to see you awake,” Chiron says before turning to the blonde girl. Annabeth, why don’t you go check on Melia's bunk? We’ll be putting her in cabin eleven for now.”

“Sure, Chiron,” the girl, Annabeth, says as she turns to look at Melia. She stood taller than her despite looking similar in age and was clearly athletic, similar to Melia, but with a clearly different focus compared to Melia’s more swimmer-like build. Her grey storm-like eyes took in Melia for a moment, something about the eyes stirring up a sense of familiarity. As soon as the moment starts, it is over, with her turning and jogging down the lawn.

“So I take it Chiron is your real name? What were you doing at Yancy?” Melia asks as her attention turns back to no-longer-Mr Brunner

“Correct, and I must say, Melia, I am glad to see you alive. It’s been a long time since I’ve made a house call to a potential camper. I’d hate to think I’ve wasted my time,” Chiron says.

Melia feels herself twitch slightly at his comment, a growl only just held back as her scales creep up from the collar of her shirt, “House call?” she manages to bite out.

“My year at Yancy. We have satyrs at most schools, but Grover alerted me when he met you. He sensed you were something special, so I made the trip upstate,” Chiron says while looking at his cards, not noticing Melia’s strained tone.

“You came to Yancy just to teach me?” Melia says, her calm expression hiding how she feels, though she can’t control the anger and frustration in her eyes.

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure about you at first. We contacted your mother and let her know we were keeping an eye on you in case you were ready for camp. But you still had so much to learn despite your knowledge of the myths and stories. Nevertheless, you made it here alive, and that’s always the first test,” Chiron says, not seeming to react to the horrifying way he has just ended that sentence.

“What do you mean that is the first test! That can not be good enough! How many children ‘fail’ your test just because they are thrust into a world they aren’t prepared for!” Melia shouts in frustration, slipping into Greek as she lets her frustration out, her eyes glowing slightly with scales running up her face and down to her claws.

Chiron looks taken aback by her outburst while Mr D just looks amused, “Well, you see…Melia, you know your friend Grover is a satyr. You know you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, but do you know why you’re here?” he asks, trying to deflect and defuse Melia’s frustration.

“My father was a god. My mum made sure I knew about the world, if not this camp and the specifics; only really had the myths as a point of learning,” Melia says sharply, glaring at Chiron as she clenches and unclenches her claws.

“That is good, always good when the mortal parent tells you,” Chiron says, momentarily turning back to the cards as he plays out just after Mr D, refuting his chance at victory.

Mr D looks at the cards for a moment before standing. “Grover, come along. We must talk about your performance on this assignment,” the god says before looking at Melia for a moment. “Cabin eleven, Melia Jackson. And mind your manners.”

Melia watches the two of them enter the farmhouse before turning back to Chiron, “So now?” she asks, fighting to control her temper, especially if a god warns her to mind her manners.

“Now, we get you settled into cabin eleven,” Chiron says as he pushes himself out of his wheelchair until she stands before a full-on centaur.

Melia follows Chiron as he walks, her temper simmering just below the surface as she gets control of her animalistic features to let them fade as they pass by a few groups of staring campers. Amongst the groups are a few satyrs, noticeably taller with visible horns compared to Grover. Melia glances over her shoulder at the farmhouse as they walk, realising it is slightly larger than she expected. There are at least four stories when something catches her eye from the attic window, just the hint of movement.

“What’s up there?” she asks as she turns to look at Chiron.

“Just the attic,” Chiron says as his smile fades slightly at the question.

Melia looks at him with a raised eyebrow, not wanting to get into it with him about his rather poor deflection as he resumes pointing out places as they pass them towards the cabins when a thought hits her.

“Chiron, as much as it is real in the myths…is the underworld an actual place we can go?” she asks.

“It is a place spirits go after death, yes. But for now, until we know more, I would urge you to put that out of your mind,” Chiron says, his expression strange, a mix of hesitation and worry.

“What do you mean, until we know more?” Melia asks, trying to get him to explain, but for the rest of the tour, he either provides non-answers or deflects the question.

Melia feels her frustration at the whole situation boiling under her skin as they pass the arena used for sword and spear fights, especially once she is told they are ‘usually not lethal’. Her hands curl into fists, and her claws prick at her palms as she goes through the few exercises she was taught by her mum and her swim coach to keep herself calm and focused.

Finally, they reach the cabins, twelve nestled in the woods by the lake, arranged in a U, with two at the base and five on either side. None of them look alike, from smokestacks rising from number nine to vines crawling up the outside of number four. In the centre of the field was a huge stone-lined fire pit; the hearth smoulders even though it was a warm afternoon. A girl about nine years was sat by the fire, tending it, poking the coals with a stick.

As they pass the fire, the scent that hits her brings up memories of a comforting fire on a cold night with a blanket around her shoulders. Melia pauses mid-step, looking at the girl for a moment before she offers a small smile and waves that the goddess returns with a soft smile, a bit of surprise on her face.

Chiron was still explaining the different cabins, not seeming to notice Melia pausing. She bows slightly to the goddess before catching up, with Chiron feeling slightly more in control of her emotions.

“Chiron…are you really the Chiron from all the stories?” Melia asks once Chiron finishes explaining the cabin they are passing, realising she probably should have asked a lot earlier.

“Yes, Melia, I am. Oh look, Annabeth is waiting for us,” Chiron says before Melia can ask any follow-up questions about that.

Annabeth glances up from the book she is reading. Pictures of various temples and statues are visible on the back as she pulls it close to her chest when she spots Melia looking at it.

“Annabeth, I have a master’s archery class at noon. Would you take Melia from here?” Chiron asks, barely waiting for Annabeth to acknowledge the request before he trots off.

Melia turns to glance from Annabeth to the cabin they are in front of, taking in the peeling paint across the outside; the only real sign it was tied to a god was the caduceus above the doorway. She goes to ask about the state of the cabin before she is ushered inside, just managing to avoid tripping on the door as she takes in the lack of enough beds, sleeping bags all over the floor without any space, and hammocks hanging in the available air space.

Quite a few of the kids shared similar features: sharp noses, upturned eyebrows, and mischievous smiles—the type of kids that teachers would peg as troublemakers at a glance. But even more, looked nothing like. Some seemed to share similar features, with one or two around them, but that was it.

“Melia Jackson, meet cabin eleven,” Annabeth says as she steps in beside Melia.

“Regular or undetermined?” someone asks from one of the hammocks.

“Undetermined,” Annabeth answers before Melia can figure out what he is asking.

The majority of people let out groans at that, but a small group in the back seems to just glare daggers at their cabin mates. One of them offers a wave when Melia looks their way, and she recognises the girl as the one who helped her and Grover.

One of the older guys steps forward. “Calm down. We can make room,” he says, looking at Melia with a charming smile. The rest of the cabin turns to him, clearly trusting him with how quickly they listen. “You have a spot by the back.”

Melia follows his arm to the space he was pointing at near the girl who had waved. Now that the crowd is dispersing slightly, she can appreciate that the tips of her black hair are dyed a vibrant red. She looks at the tiny space, feeling her rage coming back at the fact that they expected children to live like this.

Before she could say anything, Annabeth is dragging her out of the cabin, only waiting until they are a few feet away before she whirls around, “Jackson, you have to do better than that.”

“What did I do?” Melia asks, glancing between the cabin and Annabeth. The sudden shift of topic catches her off guard and cuts through her frustration.

“I can’t believe I thought you were the one,” Annabeth mutters under her breath with a roll of her eyes.

“What is your problem?” Melia snaps her focus full, turning to Annabeth, “All I know is I just arrived here and apparently…”

“Don’t talk like that! You know how many kids at this camp wish they’d had your chance?” Annabeth snaps back.

“To what? Get killed?” Melia growls.

“To fight the Minotaur! What do you think we train?” Annabeth exclaims, throwing her arms up in the air.

Melia bares her shark teeth with a snarl, “You want the chance to watch your mum get murdered? Good for you! I didn’t!” she snarls.

Annabeth flinches backwards at that, her puffed-up shoulders dropping a little, “I’m sorry about your mum; I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…” she trails off awkwardly, shuffling her feet.

Melia takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She does not want to take all her frustration out on Annabeth, as it is not her fault. “Why do I have to stay in cabin eleven, anyway? Why is everybody so crowded together?” she asks.

“You don’t choose a cabin, Melia. It depends on who your parent is,” Annabeth says in a manner that makes it clear she thinks explains it.

“What does that have to do with why the cabins are overcrowded? I know about the gods and…” Melia says before suddenly getting cut off.

“Well! A newbie!” a husky voice cuts in. Melia turns to face the four older girls coming their way, who have a good few inches on her and are drawing a growl of frustration from being short. 

“Melia Jackson, meet Clarisse, Daughter of Ares,” Annabeth introduces, trying to warn Melia with just her introduction.

Clarisse comes to a stop in front of Melia, looking down at her and into her eyes. The two of them stare at each other for a moment before she smirks.

“I will see you in the arena,” she says before striding away.

Annabeth looks between the back of Clarisse and Melia for a moment in shock, “I…I have never seen her act like that with a new camper before…” she trails off, clearly lost in thought for a moment, “I want you on my team for capture the flag,” she says after a moment, a determined glint in her eyes.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

V

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

After the tense encounter with Clarisse, Annabeth resumes the tour, leading Melia to the final stop at the canoe lake. The air here feels different—calmer, more tranquil. The sound of lapping waves against the shore fills the silence between them, accompanied by the distant laughter of campers and the rhythmic creaking of paddles on water. Melia feels the surface ripple in response to her presence, her emotions seeping into the lake as if her connection with the water is a shared secret. Beneath the gentle waves, she senses a presence—something, or someone, watching. It’s not unsettling, though. It’s curious, almost playful.

“I’ve got training to do. Dinner’s at seven-thirty. Meet at your cabin by seven-fifteen,” Annabeth says, her voice distracted. She seems lost in her thoughts, her eyes lingering on Melia in a way that makes her feel like a puzzle Annabeth can’t quite solve. “And, you need to talk to the Oracle.”

“What?” Melia blinks, startled by the sudden statement. The words come out of nowhere, like a slap across her thoughts.

“Exactly. The Oracle,” Annabeth repeats, nodding to herself, her focus seemingly elsewhere. “I’ll talk to Chiron.”

Melia just rolls her eyes in response, a half-smile tugging at her lips as she shifts her attention back to the lake. She raises her hand, waving towards the surface. Two naiads rise gracefully, their eyes gleaming in the sunlight as they return her greeting with bright smiles, their hair floating around them like rippling strands of kelp.

“They’ll flirt with you if you let them. They’re terrible about it,” Annabeth comments, her voice edged with irritation, her glare aimed at the naiads. Her eyes narrow as though the naiads have broken some unspoken rule.

Melia arches an eyebrow, glancing at Annabeth. She knows a few naiads outside of camp—ones who have never acted the way Annabeth implies. She decides to let it go; after all, the day has been exhausting, and pressing the point won’t help anything. Instead, she turns back to Annabeth. “So, until someone figures out which god my dad is, I’m stuck in the Hermes cabin?” Melia asks, her voice holding a note of unease. “How long is that going to take?”

Annabeth turns, and her glare shifts from the naiads to Melia, a different kind of intensity in her grey eyes. “Some kids never get claimed,” she says bluntly. “The gods are busy. They have a lot of kids, and they don’t always care. They ignore us, I guess.” Annabeth’s voice grows more brittle, the words laced with a bitterness Melia hadn’t expected. “Or, if you do something really impressive, they’ll deem you worthy enough.”

Melia bites her lip, the concept stinging more than she cares to admit. The idea of parents ignoring their children—of abandoning them, making them prove themselves worthy of love—feels wrong, deeply so. Something inside her recoils at it, some internal current that churns angrily at the thought. She takes a breath, trying to keep her voice steady. “My mum knew who he was, but she never told me,” she says. It’s not entirely untrue; Sally had always hinted but never outright confirmed anything. “Back in the sick room, you asked me something about the summer solstice?”

Annabeth's head snaps up, her shoulders tensing. Her eyes are sharp, studying Melia as if she’s weighing her every word. “So, you do know something?” she asks, her head cocked slightly to the side in a way that reminds Melia of an owl—cautious, observant.

Melia shakes her head, deciding to be honest. She explains what she overheard between Chiron and Grover back at Yancy—the whispers about the winter solstice, the urgency in their voices. “They mentioned the winter solstice too,” she says. “Like that’s when everything changed.”

Annabeth's expression shifts, her eyes narrowing as she listens. She taps her fingers against the railing, the rhythm matching the beat of her thoughts. “Some of us year-rounders took a field trip to Olympus then,” she says slowly. “That’s when the gods have one of their two big councils every year. Nothing seemed wrong at the time, but a few days later… it felt like something had shifted. The best I can figure is that something important was stolen. And if it isn’t returned by the summer solstice, there’s going to be trouble.” She pauses, and her eyes drift back to Melia. “When you showed up, I hoped… Athena can get along with almost anyone, except Ares. And then there’s her rivalry with Poseidon, of course. But aside from that, I thought maybe we could work together. I thought you might know something.”

Melia frowns, the words tugging at something in her chest—an instinct that tells her that Annabeth’s wrong. “Why would my parentage mean we couldn’t work together?” she asks, a genuine confusion in her voice. There’s something about the idea that feels inherently wrong to her, like a math equation that refuses to add up no matter how many times she recalculates.

Annabeth shrugs, though her face is tense, as if she’s fighting to maintain her nonchalance. “We just aren’t supposed to,” she says, her voice quieter. The two stand there in silence, the wind carrying the scent of lake water between them, heavy with untold stories and half-truths. For a moment, Melia thinks Annabeth might say more, might explain the reason behind that tension.

But instead, Annabeth straightens, her expression slipping back into its usual guarded look. “I’ll catch you later,” she says. “I need to talk to Chiron before dinner.” She turns, her feet crunching against the gravel as she walks away, leaving Melia alone by the lake.

Melia watches her go, a dozen questions swirling in her mind, none of which she has the answers to. The lake ripples again, and Melia turns her attention back to the water. The naiads have disappeared, leaving only the gentle movement of the waves behind. She sighs, letting her eyes wander across the surface, wondering what she’s supposed to do next. Her fingers brush against the edge of the railing, and a part of her feels like diving into the water, like letting it envelop her, giving her answers only it seems to understand.

Someone leans against the railing beside her. Melia glances up to see an older girl with shoulder-length brown hair and bright blue eyes. The scent of the sea clings to her, as if she’s just emerged from the ocean.

“Melia, right? I’m Lucia,” the older girl says with an easy smile. She looks to be about the same age as Luke. “Come meet the others. Since you’ll be joining us, it’s time you got to know our little corner of the cabin.”

Melia returns her smile, a bit of her tension easing, and follows Lucia down towards the beach. Five other people hang out near the water's edge, some dipping their feet in while others wade further out. As Melia approaches, she notices it—the unmistakable scent of saltwater mingling with each of them, like a subtle signature. But each has their own distinct version of it—fresh, turbulent, or calming.

“Everyone, this is Melia,” Lucia announces, bringing her closer to the group. “You’ve met Ellie already. She’s the one who helped you when you first got here. And then we have Eve and Ryan,” Lucia says, motioning towards a group of three around Melia’s age. Melia’s eyes are immediately drawn to their slightly aquatic features—webbed toes, the shimmer of scales on their feet as the water laps at them.

Eve, with purple hair tied back into a ponytail, reaches out first. Her smile is bright, her grip powerful as she takes Melia’s hand. “Nice to meet you properly, Melia,” she says, her eyes twinkling. There’s a warmth to her presence, like a tide full of energy.

Ryan, with his short auburn hair, is quieter. He offers Melia his hand, and the moment they touch, Melia feels a strange sense of calm rush over her. She blinks, the tension easing out of her shoulders.

Ryan chuckles softly at her surprise. “I’m a son of Galene,” he explains. “Calm seas—that's what you’re feeling. It’s not as strong on those who aren’t connected to the water, but for you? That feeling… confirms a lot.”

Melia’s mind races, questions bouncing around her thoughts. She looks towards the two younger children hiding behind Eve, their curious eyes peeking around her. She can see their hesitance—their need to be reassured.

“And these two are Mylo and Chloe,” Lucia says, her voice softening as she reaches over to ruffle their hair affectionately.

Mylo gives a small wave from behind Eve, his eyes wide with curiosity. Chloe, a girl with shoulder-length black hair and sea-green eyes, steps forward, her expression hopeful but shy. Melia crouches in the sand so she’s at eye level, offering Chloe a reassuring smile. She can’t help but notice the scales running along Chloe’s cheeks, catching the sunlight like tiny mirrors.

“Hey there,” Melia says gently.

“Hi… Are you going to be staying in our area? Does that mean you’re family?” Chloe asks, her voice small but tinged with desperation, as if she’s holding her breath for the answer.

Melia’s heart tightens at the question. She nods, her voice warm. “Yeah, I’m staying with you all. I might not be claimed yet, but even after we are, we’re still family. Children of the sea stick together, right?” She lets her own scales shimmer into view across her skin, rippling in the light.

Chloe’s eyes brighten, and she gives Melia a quick, fierce hug before pulling away, her shyness returning as she looks down. The others smile at the interaction—a silent understanding passing between them. Eve gently takes Chloe and Mylo’s hands, leading them back towards the beach to continue playing.

Lucia offers Melia a hand, her smile a mix of understanding and solidarity. “Come on. Let’s talk under the water, where we don’t have to worry about the kids overhearing anything,” she says.

Melia follows Lucia, Ryan, and Ellie into the water, letting the lake embrace her as she sinks beneath the surface. The tension she’s been carrying slips away as the water surrounds her. She feels the gills on her neck and sides of her ribs open, allowing her to breathe easily. She smiles, following the others deeper until they settle on a small ledge in the lake.

They sit there, surrounded by the cool blue expanse. Melia takes a moment to observe her cabinmates, noticing the differences in their scales—the various shades and patterns. Lucia’s scales are a deep, rich blue, almost blending into the shadows of the water, while Ellie’s are a lighter, silvery hue that catches the light with every movement. Ryan’s scales are somewhere in between, a calm, balanced teal.

Melia looks at them, her emotions bubbling up, the overwhelming nature of the day catching up to her. A choked sob escapes her—a sound that comes out like a strangled whine underwater. Lucia is immediately there, wrapping her arms around Melia, holding her tightly. The warmth of the embrace grounds Melia, and she clings to Lucia, letting out the tears she’s been holding back.

Ryan extends his calming influence, and the gentle waves of tranquillity soothe her as she slowly pulls herself back together. She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. “Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. “Sorry about that… it’s just… everything hit me all at once. I’ve never been able to share this with anyone before.” She gestures around them, indicating the water and their shared traits.

Ellie nods, bumping her shoulder against Melia’s playfully. “It’s okay. I was the same last year when I got here. It’s a lot to take in.”

Lucia smiles, her eyes soft with understanding. “Yeah, it’s incredible to share this. When I first got here, there was only one other sea child. He left a while ago, so it was just me for a few years until Eve showed up. It means a lot to have people who understand.” She pauses, her expression turning serious. “And thanks for what you said to Chloe. It meant a lot to her.”

Melia shrugs, her eyes glancing down at the sandy lakebed. “I just did what anyone would do. We’re family, no matter what. Getting claimed doesn’t change that.” Her voice is firm, her conviction clear. From the moment she met them, her instincts told her they were family.

Lucia’s eyes soften. “Doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate it. Chloe… she’s been through a lot. She arrived here just a few months ago, alone. She’s been desperate for a real family ever since.” Lucia’s expression darkens briefly, a flash of anger and sadness crossing her face—a hint at the kind of pain that drives Chloe’s longing.

Ryan shifts closer, extending the calm once more, his presence gentle. He turns his gaze to Melia, his eyes curious. “You already know who your parent is, don’t you?” he asks, his tone not accusatory but full of interest.

Melia meets his gaze, her lips curving into a small, knowing smirk. “I have an idea,” she admits. “My mum never said it outright, but… I think I know.” She clicks her claws together, the sound sharp in the quiet water. Her eyes drift down to her hands, covered in more scales than any of the others.

Lucia takes Melia’s hands gently, her own claws lightly tracing the scales. Her eyes widen, and she glances around cautiously, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You mean…”

Melia nods, her face serious. She doesn’t say the name. There’s something about keeping it unspoken, a habit passed down from her mother—a kind of protection, maybe.

Before they can continue, a trill echoes through the water, followed by the muffled sound of a conch shell being blown from above.

“Dinnertime,” Lucia says, her expression easing back into a smile. She kicks off from the ledge, gesturing for them to follow. “Come on, let’s not keep the others waiting.”

Melia watches her for a moment before pushing off the ledge as well, following them to the surface. The weight in her chest has lifted a little..

The seven of them hurry from the beach back to the mess hall pavilion, catching the tail end of the Hermes cabin as it makes its way in. Satyrs join them from the meadows, Naiads drift in from the lake, and wood nymphs emerge from the shadows of the trees. There must be around two hundred campers, along with a few dozen satyrs, wood nymphs, and naiads altogether. The atmosphere buzzes with a mix of excitement, chatter, and the warmth of gathering at the end of the day.

In the pavilion, torches blaze around the marble columns, casting long flickering shadows, while a central fire burns steadily in a bronze brazier the size of a bathtub. Each cabin has its own table covered in a pristine white cloth trimmed in purple. Four of the tables stand empty, but the Hermes table is overflowing, campers squeezed together shoulder to shoulder. Melia notices Lucia and Eve lingering near the back, making sure Chloe and Mylo have space before the two older girls squeeze in themselves, balancing precariously on the edge of the bench, their legs hanging off.

Melia stands there for a moment, taking in the scene. Even among the laughter and warmth, there is a kind of division, an unspoken understanding of where everyone belongs and where they don't. She follows Lucia's lead, settling in next to her, feeling the small cluster of sea children form a protective, quiet presence amid the chaos.

Once everyone is seated, Chiron pounds his hoof against the marble floor, and the pavilion falls silent. The attention of every camper turns towards him, the expectant hush echoing through the space. He raises his goblet high. “To the gods!” he calls out.

“To the gods!” everyone repeats, and the sound is a mix of reverence and a few lazy tones from the overcrowded Hermes table. Melia notices the different inflexions—some campers are serious, others playful, and a few, particularly from the Hermes group, sound almost sarcastic. There is an energy here that feels like both devotion and rebellion, all mixed together in one strange toast.

After the toast, wood nymphs begin to weave through the tables, their steps light as they carry large platters of food. Lucia nudges Melia with her elbow. “Say whatever you want to drink to your cup,” she says, pointing at Melia’s empty glass, a smile tugging at her lips. “Non-alcoholic, of course.”

Melia nods, mumbling her thanks before she takes a moment to focus on the cup. “Coke,” she says, watching as the glass fills instantly, fizzing gently. She lifts it slightly in her hand, a silent toast to her mum. 'I promise I’ll get you back, even if I have to go to the Underworld myself,' she thinks, her resolve hardening as she takes a sip.

She fills her plate with different foods—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and some fresh fruit. But before she eats, she catches Lucia’s eye. Without a word, both of them slide out from the table, making their way to the central brazier. Melia follows Lucia's lead, scraping a few choice pieces of her meal into the fire.

She closes her eyes and prays silently, feeling the warmth of the fire on her face. 'Father. Lord of the Dead, please take care of my mother. Lady of the Hearth, thank you.' The flames leap up as if in response, and the smoke that rises is sweet, the smell pleasant rather than the acrid scent of burning food. Melia takes comfort in it, as though her words had truly reached someone.

Once they’ve all made their offerings, they return to their end of the Hermes table. Dinner passes quietly there—their small group sharing soft words while the rest of the Hermes cabin carries on with loud conversations, laughter, and jokes. The feeling of being ignored doesn’t go unnoticed, but it’s less painful with her group surrounding her. She feels like she’s found a small pocket of belonging within the larger crowd.

When the food is cleared away, Chiron signals again, and the crowd turns its attention towards the front. Mr. D rises, looking as bored as ever. He gives a terse, disinterested welcome speech, barely concealing his disdain for being there. “Capture the flag, Friday night,” he says, waving his hand dismissively, and then, “Off you go. Campfire.”

The campfire is chaotic, but in the best possible way. The flames leap high, changing colours as campers sing off-key and shout over one another. Even the Apollo kids, who have actual talent, seem to join in the dissonance on purpose, creating a wild, jubilant noise that fills the night air. Campers jostle each other playfully, arms around shoulders, voices lifted in songs that range from camp classics to ridiculous, made-up chants.

Melia sings quietly, her voice barely audible over the roar of the others, but it’s enough. The sea children sit close, and she can feel their presence like a comforting weight. Eve nudges her side gently, offering a smile, and Melia returns it, the warmth of the fire reflected in their eyes.

By the time the campfire winds down, exhaustion settles over Melia like a heavy blanket. The adrenaline that carried her through the day ebbs, leaving her feeling drained. She follows her new cabinmates to their sleeping area, nestled in a far corner of the Hermes cabin. Their small section is laid out thoughtfully, with Chloe and Mylo getting the most space despite their smaller sizes, ensuring they’re as comfortable as possible on the floor.

Melia collapses onto her sleeping bag, adjusting herself slightly until she finds a comfortable spot. She glances around, noticing the way their little group is positioned. The youngest—Chloe and Mylo—are furthest from the rest of the Hermes cabin, shielded by the older campers. The realization tugs at something deep within her. There’s a protective instinct here, a fierce loyalty that binds them even though they aren’t technically family—at least, not yet. The way the rest of the cabin had ignored them earlier only strengthens her resolve. She doesn’t care if the rest of the cabin pays attention to them or not; she has her small group, and that’s enough.

As she lies down, her eyes flutter closed, and the last thing she hears is the gentle, rhythmic breathing of the others.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

VI

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

Over the next few days, Melia settles into a routine that feels almost normal, a rhythm of camp life that is refreshing and unexpectedly enjoyable. For once, she isn’t constantly on edge about hiding her less-human traits, though she still keeps some of the more monstrous ones—like her claws and sharp teeth—hidden when she’s with anyone other than the other children of the sea. She’s starting to feel a connection to them, something that makes her feel she finally belongs.

Her mornings begin with lessons in Ancient Greek and the myths. The language lessons are easy for her—too easy, actually—since she’s already fluent. The myths, however, can be more challenging, given how there are often multiple versions of each tale, some completely contradictory to others. Melia finds herself fascinated by how much even these stories—the foundational ones—are shaped by interpretation and point of view.

Once the lessons are over, she spends the rest of the day cycling through different activities with the older campers watching her, trying to figure out which water deity is her parent. Lucia had explained that this was common for new campers, especially unclaimed ones. The older campers and counselors are usually eager to solve the mystery, to prove that they could recognise the markers of divine parentage. But Melia quickly learns that it’s not as easy as they think—especially for children of water deities, who share traits and affinities that often overlap. Unless there’s something especially distinctive, it’s just a guessing game.

Despite the judging eyes and the need to adapt to her new surroundings, Melia likes Camp Half-Blood. The simple fact that she can openly be herself makes her feel lighter, like she’s shed a weight she didn’t realise she’d been carrying. Still, there are things that bother her. The rest of Cabin Eleven—the Hermes cabin—tends to exclude the sea kids. The seven of them often function independently within the cabin, sharing activities but otherwise keeping to themselves. It’s an odd dynamic, and Melia can’t help but feel a prick of resentment toward the gods as a whole. Their children sleep on the floor, overcrowded, not even knowing who their parents are. How hard could it be for a god to make a quick appearance—a sign, a simple acknowledgement?

On Thursday afternoon, three days since her arrival, Melia finds herself entering the arena for her first combat lesson. Cabin Eleven is gathered, breaking off into several groups with more experienced campers taking charge of each. Melia is assigned to the beginner group under Luke’s instruction. The lesson begins with basic stabbing and slashing moves, using practice swords against straw dummies dressed in Greek armour. To her surprise, the movements come easily. Riptide—the pen that transforms into a leaf-bladed xiphos—feels natural in her hand, an extension of her body. Luke notices and seems impressed, deciding to break their group into pairs for duelling practice.

When he chooses to partner with Melia, she notices a few other campers exchange amused looks, some even smirking as they watch. On the sidelines, Lucia frowns, leaning on her spear as she observes the two of them. Melia can tell that Luke isn’t planning to go easy on her, even if it’s her first week at camp.

Luke leads her through thrusts, parries, and shield blocks—the hard way. He doesn’t hold back, and each strike comes at her with real force. Melia takes the hits, her muscles straining as she tries to block and counter. She quickly realises that no matter how naturally the movements come to her, she’s no match for Luke’s years of experience. Each swing leaves her a little more battered and bruised, her body aching as she tries to keep up.

By the time Luke calls for a break, Melia’s drenched in sweat, her arm muscles burning. She moves to the drink cooler, filling a cup and sipping the water gratefully.

“You’re holding your own, which is impressive for one of his lessons,” Lucia says, approaching with a small smile as she fills her own cup from a different bottle.

“Thanks,” Melia says, shrugging slightly. “Though I feel more like a punching bag than anything else.”

Lucia studies her for a moment, then smirks. “True. Let’s see how it goes after this.” Without warning, Lucia tips her cup, pouring the water over Melia’s head.

The effect is immediate. Melia feels energy surge through her body, her exhaustion melting away. Her muscles, once sore and strained, are suddenly refreshed, her senses sharpened. She blinks in surprise, staring at Lucia, who just grins.

“Come on,” Lucia says, gesturing towards the others gathering around Luke.

“Okay, everybody, circle up!” Luke calls, motioning for everyone to form a wide circle around him and Melia. “If Melia doesn’t mind, I’d like to give you all a little demo.”

Melia groans inwardly as the other campers eagerly close in. She can see the looks on their faces—some curious, others entertained. They’re all waiting to see how this plays out, most of them probably happy that it’s her in the circle and not them.

“This is a difficult move,” Luke says, his voice carrying easily over the group. “I’ve had it used against me, and it’s one that takes years to master. No laughing at Melia if she struggles.” He flashes her a quick smile, then demonstrates the disarming technique in slow motion. Sure enough, the sword clatters from her hand to the sandy ground.

“Now, real-time,” Luke says as Melia picks up Riptide, resetting her stance. “We keep sparring until one of us pulls it off. Ready?”

Melia nods, and Luke lunges at her. They begin exchanging strikes, the clash of their swords ringing out across the arena. Melia blocks, dodges, and counters, trying to stay focused. She uses her smaller size to her advantage, slipping away from his strikes and evading his attempts to get at her hilt.

She starts to feel the pull of energy leaving her, her muscles tiring again. But then something shifts. The air around her shimmers, the world seeming to overlay with a second image—the campers vanish, the arena is replaced by something grander, older. Marble columns loom around her, and Luke’s face blurs, his features indistinct. She lets her body move instinctively, a strange pull guiding her actions. Her stance shifts, her grip on Riptide changing.

Luke comes at her with a powerful strike, and Melia feints, stepping to his right before pivoting quickly. Her blade circles around his, catching at the base, and with a twist, she forces his sword from his hand. It clatters to the ground, and she finds herself standing with the tip of her sword pointed at his chest.

For a moment, there is complete silence. The campers around them stare, wide-eyed. Melia blinks, the shimmering overlay disappearing, the arena returning to its usual state. The exhaustion hits her all at once, the energy drain leaving her feeling like she’s been hollowed out.

Luke breaks the silence, grinning widely. “That was amazing!” he says, clearly impressed. “Let’s try that again.”

Melia wants to refuse, her body aching from the sudden crash, but before she can protest, they’re already back at it. Luke pulls off the disarming move with ease this time, sending her weapon flying from her grasp.

“Beginner’s luck?” one of the campers suggests, smirking.

“Maybe,” Luke replies, wiping the sweat from his brow. He looks at Melia, a calculating glint in his eyes. “We’ll have to see next time.”

Lucia steps over as the group disperses, her eyes full of pride as she hands Melia another cup of water. “That was incredible,” she says. “Whatever that was, it was something else.”

Melia takes the cup, sipping gratefully as she tries to catch her breath. She doesn’t know what came over her in those moments—the strange shimmer, the overlay of the ancient world—but a part of her knows it was different than anything to do with just being a child of the sea.

That evening, Melia sits on the edge of the pier, her feet dangling in the cool water, with Lucia and Ellie beside her. The others are either swimming in the lake or playing in the sand nearby, their laughter carrying over the stillness of the night air. The sky is a canvas of deep oranges and purples, the sun having almost dipped below the horizon. There's a comfortable silence between the three of them, broken only by the quiet splash of water and the rustle of the wind through the trees.

“So, can any water give us a boost like that did in the arena?” Melia finally gets around to asking Lucia, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Lucia smiles, her blue eyes glinting as she looks down at the water, absentmindedly swirling her fingers through it. “It varies. Any water gives us a boost, but I think salt water might be stronger for you,” she says, her voice thoughtful. She pauses, watching the ripples spread out from her touch. “We have a lot of similar abilities, but they also vary depending on our parents. Like Ellie here—she’s as fast as some of the Hermes campers, if not faster. And that’s not even counting how swift she is in the water.”

Ellie’s cheeks flush pink at the praise, her freckles darkening slightly in the fading light. “I might be fast,” she murmurs, “but you and Eve are so strong. I’ve seen you flip an Ares camper in hand-to-hand combat, Lucia. You’re amazing.”

Lucia waves off the compliment with a casual flick of her wrist, her grin widening. “Oh, please. That guy had terrible form—feet too close together, center of gravity all wrong. It was an easy flip.” She gives a playful shrug. “Strength is important, but technique is what really matters. Plus, strength comes in different forms. Sometimes it’s about being able to get back up, not just how much you can lift.”

Melia smiles, feeling a warmth bloom in her chest. She loves how comfortable this feels, being here with people like her, people who understand what it’s like to be different in the ways that matter most. She doesn’t have to hide the shimmering scales on her arms or the sharp points of her teeth. For the rest of the evening, the three of them talk and laugh together, enjoying the freedom of the moment, until the conch shell sounds, signalling curfew.

~~~~

The following day, Melia finds some time to hang out with Grover. The two of them sit together on the pier, their legs hanging over the edge, their eyes watching the naiads moving gracefully beneath the water’s surface. The air is still, the lake reflecting the bright blue of the sky above. Melia takes a deep breath, then glances at Grover, her brow furrowed with concern.

“Did you get into trouble because of me?” she asks, her voice hesitant.

Grover sighs deeply, shaking his head. “Nah. I was unconscious when we crossed the border, and, honestly, I didn’t do much to help you,” he admits, his voice tinged with frustration.

Melia frowns, her gaze shifting from Grover to the water. “Will they really not give you another chance?” she asks, her fingers tracing the patterns in the wood of the pier. She watches as the ripples of water dance at her command, Lucia’s lessons fresh in her mind.

Grover hesitates, his eyes dropping to his lap. “Mr. D suspended judgment,” he says, his voice quieter. “He said I hadn’t failed or succeeded yet. So, basically, our fates are tied together. If you get a quest, and I go with you to protect you, and we both come back alive, then maybe… maybe he’d consider the job done.”

Melia’s eyes widen slightly, her heart giving a little jolt. “Then when I get a quest, you’re coming with me,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Grover blinks, then laughs nervously—a sound that turns into an almost bleat. “Blaaa-ha-ha. Why would you want me to come with you? I’d just be dead weight,” he says, trying to make light of it, but there’s an undercurrent of doubt in his voice.

Melia frowns, shaking her head. “You’re my friend, Grover. That’s reason enough,” she says, her voice firm, her eyes locking onto his. She knows he might not have the physical prowess of some of the other campers, but that doesn’t matter to her. He’s her friend, and he’s brave, even if he doesn’t see it himself.

The tension between them softens, and she glances back at the water, trying to think of a way to shift the conversation away from Grover’s insecurities. “Is it true that the cabins are treated like temples, essentially?” she asks, her curiosity piqued.

Grover nods, his eyes following the naiads beneath the water. “Yeah, they are. The cabin counsellor is kind of like the head priest. But we don’t really follow those old traditions anymore. It’s more about keeping things organised within the cabin now, less about ceremonies and rituals.”

Melia’s expression grows more contemplative, her voice lowering slightly. “Why doesn’t the Lord of the Underworld have a cabin here?” she asks.

Grover’s shoulders tense, and he looks at her with an uneasy expression. “No, he doesn’t have a throne on Olympus, either. He’s always done his own thing down there in the Underworld. If he had a cabin here…” Grover shudders, “It wouldn’t be pleasant. Let’s leave it at that.”

Melia feels something twist sharply inside her—a sense of wrongness, a feeling that something about the way Hades is treated is fundamentally unjust. It’s a feeling she’s had before, but this time, it’s stronger, more visceral, like an invisible hand twisting her insides. The waves begin to lap higher at the pier, responding to her emotions, and she clenches her jaw, forcing herself to take a slow, deep breath.

Grover glances nervously at the water, then at her, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “Hey, you okay?” he asks softly.

Melia blinks, closing her eyes as she wills herself to calm down, her breath steadying. Slowly, the water settles, the lake smoothing out once more. “Yeah,” she says, her voice a little strained. “I’m fine.” The feeling of wrongness lingers, though, gnawing at the edges of her mind—a sense that something is deeply, inherently unfair about the way the Lord of the Underworld is treated.

They fall into a companionable silence, the only sounds around them the distant voices of the other campers and the gentle splashing of the water. They sit together like that until the conch shell sounds, calling everyone to dinner. Melia stands, offering her hand to Grover, who takes it with a small, grateful smile. Together, they head back toward the mess hall, Melia’s thoughts still churning with questions and an unshakable sense that there’s so much more she needs to understand.

After dinner, it's capture the flag. The sun sets as the moon rises, and the camp darkens—not so much that no one can see, given that it’s still summer, but enough that under the trees, there’s plenty of concealment for those who know how to use it. Eve is helping Melia adjust the chest plate she’s been given while Lucia makes sure Chloe and Mylo are settled with those not taking part—the younger campers or those recovering from injuries.

“You’ll be on border patrol. All you have to do is make sure the red team stays on their side,” Eve says as she tightens the straps.

Melia smiles, flashing her shark-like teeth, which Eve returns. “Sounds like fun!” Melia says.

“It will be. Just be careful; the Ares campers like targeting the weak link, which is often the new kid. Watch for Clarisse’s spear and stay close to the water. They might be stupid enough to fall for it. Ellie will be close by if you run into trouble,” Eve advises as they follow the blue team into the woods.

Melia breaks off from the main group, hurrying to the creek to take her position as the conch horn blows, signalling the start of the game. She fidgets with the large shield on her arm—its weight pulls her slightly off balance until she finds a grip that’s at least manageable, even if it still feels oversized and cumbersome.

She just finishes adjusting her hold when a low canine growl reaches her ears, sending a chill up her spine. She tries to catch any scent on the wind, but there are too many people running about, and too many monsters used for training in the woods, making it impossible to identify what the growl could belong to. Anything that should make that kind of noise shouldn’t be in the camp. Her attention is abruptly pulled away from the growl as a couple of Ares campers rush out of the underbrush towards her.

Clarisse leads the charge, brandishing a five-foot-long spear, its barbed metal tip flickering with a dangerous red light. Her siblings follow, armed with standard bronze swords. The three of them spread out, the two swordsmen flanking Clarisse as Melia takes a slow step back, feeling the water lap around her ankles.

The camper on Melia’s right moves first, his swing sloppy and overconfident. He clearly thinks the new kid won’t put up much of a fight. Melia steps into his swing, pinning his arm between her body and shield before yanking him forward and driving her knee into his chest. Even through his armor, the blow drives the breath out of him, and he collapses into the creek, gasping. Melia turns to the second camper, intercepting his sword with her shield. The impact rattles her arm, but she uses the momentum to strike the side of his helmet with the flat of her sword, sending him sprawling.

Now it’s just her and Clarisse. The two stare at each other for a beat, then Clarisse lunges, using the extra reach of her spear to try and keep Melia out of striking range—and to draw her out of the water, away from her strength. Melia allows herself to be herded, knowing neither of them will gain anything if they stay locked in a standoff. Still, she’s wary of why Eve warned her about that spear.

Clarisse thrusts again, and this time the spear makes contact with Melia’s shield. A jolt runs up her arm, leaving her fingers numb for a moment. She glances from the spear to her arm, then at the water realising how bad it could have been if Clarisse decided to use the spear in the water.

“I’m not an idiot,” Clarisse snaps, her eyes flashing. “I can control when it jolts. I wouldn’t shock you while you’re in the water.” There’s a defensive edge to her words, and for a moment, Melia thinks she almost sounds offended.

“Didn’t think you would,” Melia admits, shrugging. “I was just wondering if a stalemate would be acceptable.” She can’t help the truth in her words—she knows enough to see that Clarisse doesn’t fit the stereotype brute of her cabin as easily as others do.

Clarisse blinks, surprised, before nodding. “Should’ve expected that from you lot,” she says, pushing forward again, her spear sliding off Melia’s shield.

Melia grins, focusing on the fight. She moves with careful precision, using her smaller frame to her advantage, staying light on her feet and weaving around Clarisse’s attacks. Each time Clarisse thrusts, Melia steps just out of reach or intercepts the spear behind its head, pushing it aside before it can find a target. The two of them battle back and forth across the creek’s edge until a sudden shout draws their attention.

Luke and a group of Hermes campers burst through the underbrush, the red team’s flag waving in Luke’s hand. Clarisse spits out a curse, lowering her spear in frustration as the cheers from the blue team fill the forest.

“Good fight,” Clarisse says with a nod, moving to help her downed siblings. “And, Melia, be careful around those who’d throw you out as bait.”

“Good fight indeed,” Melia responds, twirling her sword to ease the tension in her wrist. “And I am. Don’t worry.”

“You knew?” Annabeth suddenly appears next to Melia, her Yankees cap in hand, her expression unreadable.

“Of course I knew,” Melia replies, looking at her without a trace of humour. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. Plus, Lucia warned me. Playing with people without telling them the plan? That’s how you lose trust.”

Annabeth stiffens slightly, her gaze dropping to the ground. “It wasn’t about trust,” she mutters. “It was about strategy.”

“Well, maybe you should remember that some of us aren’t pawns,” Melia says, her voice softer but pointed. She can see that Annabeth is smart—really smart—but sometimes that sharp mind doesn’t account for people’s feelings.

With that, Melia steps closer to the creek, her senses heightened, straining to catch a glimpse of whatever growled earlier. The sound echoes again, much closer this time, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of blood and decay that sends a chill down her spine.

“Stand ready! My bow!” Chiron's voice cuts through the night, commanding and urgent, ringing out in Ancient Greek from behind Melia.

Melia shifts her stance, her senses on high alert. Her eyes widen as she spots the source of the noise—a massive black hound, its hulking form the size of a rhino. Its eyes glow like molten lava, a fiery red that pierces through the darkness, and its fangs glint like jagged daggers. The Hellhound fixes its gaze on her, its lips curling back in a guttural snarl.

Clarisse charges towards Melia from where she’d been helping her cabinmate, abandoning him in the sand. There’s no time for second thoughts as the Hellhound leaps, its claws outstretched, ready to tear her apart. Melia thrusts her sword upwards in desperation, the blade driving deep into the beast’s stomach. She barely registers the arrows whizzing past her, finding their mark. Everything fades into a haze as pain explodes in her side, a searing flash that turns to an icy numbness as one of the Hellhound’s claws rakes across her body, the armour barely softening the blow.

With a roar, Clarisse drives her electrified spear into the Hellhound’s flank, the beast dissolving into a swirl of shadows, leaving behind nothing but an ominous mist and a fading stench of sulfur. “Fuck, they’re not supposed to…” Clarisse drops to her knees beside Melia, her eyes scanning for the injuries beneath her torn armour.

Chiron arrives, his bow still in his hand, his face grave. “Someone summoned it,” he says, his voice carrying across the clearing, “Someone inside the camp.”

Clarisse doesn’t waste time. She pulls Melia’s arm over her shoulder, half lifting her. “Come on, get up,” she growls, her voice lacking its usual sharpness, replaced by concern. Melia’s vision blurs slightly, and her limbs feel leaden and slow.

Ellie bursts through the gathering crowd, her face pale, her eyes wide with worry. She moves to Melia’s other side, slipping under her arm to help carry her. “We need to get her in the water,” Ellie insists, urgency lacing her voice. “It’ll help until we can get a healer.”

Melia nods weakly, her head swimming. They half-drag her to the creek, and the moment her feet touch the water, she feels its cool touch rushing up her legs, a soothing balm that begins to push back against the numbness and pain. Her scales, usually hidden beneath her skin, shimmer into visibility, rippling across her body, lending her extra protection that the Hellhound’s claws had torn through. Clarisse releases her grip as soon as Melia finds her footing, an instinctive wariness pulling her away from the water’s edge.

Ellie steps back as well, though she keeps close, her eyes never leaving Melia. Once free of anyone’s touch, the water seems to respond to Melia, swirling upward in a mesmerising spiral, wrapping around her, obscuring her from view. For a heartbeat, she is lost in the vortex of water, and then it falls away, cascading back into the creek with a splash.

Gasps echo around the gathered campers. Melia stands there, transformed. Her previously battered and torn armour is gone, replaced by a fitted set that seems to mimic the shimmer and texture of scales, each piece sculpted to resemble the intricate overlapping of a fish's protective coat. The armour’s bluish-green hues catch the moonlight, shifting subtly with each movement as though the scales are alive, rippling like the surface of the ocean itself. Vambraces and greaves wrap around her arms and legs, decorated with engraved waves that seem to shift under the moon's glow, giving the impression of flowing water. The armour moves with her effortlessly, perfectly contoured to her body, and radiates an aura of ancient power. Atop her head rests a delicate silver circlet, intricately carved to resemble curling ocean waves. The central pearl glistens, large and luminous, with a subtle bluish glow that seems to pulse in time with Melia's heartbeat. Flanking the pearl are two finely wrought silver crab claws, curving elegantly from the circlet like protective wings, adding an ethereal but fierce touch to the design.

Chiron’s voice breaks the stunned silence. “It is determined,” he announces, his tone reverent as he lowers himself onto one knee, bowing his head. The other campers quickly follow suit, kneeling before Melia.

Above her head, radiant and unmistakable, floats a glowing blue trident, adorned with two oyster-like shells that flare out like wings from either side. The symbol is bright, almost blinding, casting shimmering reflections across the surface of the creek.

“Poseidon and Amphitrite, rulers of the Seas,” Chiron proclaims, his voice carrying over the assembled campers. “Hail, Melia Jackson, Daughter of the Seas, Princess of Atlantis.”

Melia blinks, her eyes wide, her heart pounding in her chest. The title reverberates in her mind—Princess of Atlantis. She swallows, trying to process what has just happened, the weight of the revelation settling over her. Around her, the campers remain kneeling, their expressions a mix of awe and wonder. 

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

VII

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

Chiron begins arranging for Melia to move into cabin three while she is still being checked over by one of the medics. The boy, probably no older than thirteen, appears intensely focused, his brow furrowed, hands trembling slightly as he inspects Melia's injuries. She gives him an encouraging nod, trying to relax her body to help him. Eventually, he steps back, exhaling with relief, satisfied that the water has healed her completely. Melia offers a soft word of thanks, and the boy blushes before hurrying away, clearly unused to attention.

Melia is escorted by Chiron back to the Hermes cabin to pack her things. She steps into the cabin, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes on her as the Hermes campers pause whatever they were doing to watch. Whispers ripple across the room, curious glances darting her way. She kneels down, beginning to roll up her sleeping bag, collecting the small number of personal items she had scattered around her temporary spot.

Lucia approaches with a grin that’s all mischief. "So, Princess," she teases as she starts helping Melia roll up the sleeping bag, her blue eyes twinkling with humour.

"Yeah, laugh it up," Melia huffs, but her lips twitch with a smile. Her fingers fidget briefly with the delicate circlet still resting on her head, the metal cool against her skin. She shakes her head and straightens up. "Anyway, pack your things as well. Let’s go."

Lucia tilts her head for a second, the smile fading into an expression of curiosity and confusion. Then realization dawns, and her entire face lights up. A soft aquatic trill slips from her throat, excitement colouring her expression. Without another word, she darts off, quickly helping Chloe and Mylo gather their things, her movements brimming with newfound energy.

Melia gives them a reassuring look before making her way to the doorway, where Chiron and Luke stand talking quietly. She pauses beside them, adjusting her hold on her sleeping bag and slinging her bag higher on her shoulder.

“Do you have everything?” Chiron asks, looking at her and then glancing over her shoulder to the rest of the sea kids. “Good, let’s be off.” He begins to turn, expecting her to follow.

“Not yet,” Melia says, standing her ground. Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge of determination to it. “I’m waiting for my cabin mates.”

“Cabin mates?” Luke repeats, raising an eyebrow, his fingers moving to touch the scar along his cheek, his eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.

“Yes,” Melia replies, her eyes locking on Luke's, her tone steady and unwavering, "Where else would my family sleep but in a cabin with me?"

Chiron hesitates, looking between Melia and the other campers. "They haven’t been claimed by Poseidon…" he starts, but the words falter as Melia fixes him with a pointed, firm gaze, the kind that doesn’t accept objections. She draws herself up to her full height, her shoulders squared. Behind her, Lucia steps closer, her presence a silent support as she stands just behind Melia’s shoulder.

“As the cabin counsellor, I can offer shelter to any that request it unless the temple’s patron deity protests,” Melia says, her voice resonating with a strength she hadn’t known she possessed. “And if you think those rules no longer apply, then as a Princess of Atlantis, I refuse to let children of the Sea sleep on the floor while I have the means to provide them shelter.” She takes a step forward, her gaze locked on Chiron's, the power of the ocean rolling off her, the very air around them seeming to hum with her presence. “Will you stand in my way of caring for Atlantis?”

For a moment, Chiron looks at her as though he’s seeing a ghost, something from long ago resurfacing in the depths of his ancient eyes. Then he sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly, a weariness beyond his years showing through. “No,” he says, shaking his head slowly, “I would not stand in the way of ensuring children aren’t left sleeping on the floor, not when I’ve done so little to change that myself.” There is a tiredness to his voice, a hint of a thousand years' worth of frustration and sorrow weighing on him.

Melia nods, her expression softening slightly as she reads the exhaustion in his eyes. She turns back, giving Lucia a small smile before the two follow Chiron out of the Hermes cabin, the other campers’ eyes burning into her back. She can feel Luke’s gaze lingering longer, a calculating weight that she chooses to ignore for now.

When they reach cabin three, Chiron steps aside, nodding in silent approval as Melia pushes the door open, the other six kids trailing behind her. He watches for a moment longer, something thoughtful in his gaze, before turning and trotting away, leaving them alone to explore their new space.

The cabin is spacious, far more so than the Hermes cabin, but still minimal. The few beds are spread across the room, leaving a lot of empty space where the sea children’s belongings pile up haphazardly. For a moment, there’s silence as they all stand just inside the doorway, staring at the empty beds, the polished seashell motifs on the walls catching the moonlight.

The silence is broken by a soft trill of joy from Chloe, who darts forward, wrapping her small arms around Melia's waist in a tight hug before letting go, her excitement carrying her across the cabin as she claims a bed, dropping her bag on it with a happy bounce. Mylo follows, a delighted laugh escaping his lips as he runs to a bed by the window, placing his few items carefully at its foot. The others quickly follow suit, laughter and chatter filling the empty cabin as they claim their places, the previously hollow space now infused with warmth and life.

Melia smiles, her heart swelling with a sense of rightness. She sets her bag down beside one of the beds, her fingers moving to unbuckle the armour still strapped to her chest. She places it on one of the racks in the corner, careful to set the shimmering vambraces and greaves neatly beside it. The circlet is the last thing she removes, holding it in her hands for a moment, its cool metal pressing against her palms before she places it delicately atop the stand.

With a sigh, she collapses onto her bed, her body sinking into the mattress, the exhaustion of the day settling over her like a blanket. She closes her eyes, the sounds of her cabin mates settling in filling the room—the rustle of sleeping bags, the soft whispers shared between Eve and Ryan, the quiet humming from Lucia.

Sleep pulls at her, and she lets herself drift, her last thought one of contentment. For the first time in a long while, Melia feels at peace, surrounded by those she now calls family, safe in the embrace of her new home.

Melia finds herself standing next to a wooden table littered with scrolls, maps that are blurry and unclear, and small carved figures of soldiers, cavalry, and boats. The details are elusive, shifting in and out of focus as if they are on the edge of her memory. She runs her hand across the table, her fingers brushing over an owl carved into the wood, the grooves of the carving familiar, almost comforting. The sensation is vivid, the texture real beneath her touch, but it feels strangely out of place, as if she has been here before but cannot fully recall when or why. Even with her experience of demigod dreams, this one is different—the sensations are muted, like experiencing everything through a layer of thick gloves, yet the emotions that accompany them are sharp and poignant. She knows she is dreaming, but it doesn’t feel like a typical dream; it feels almost like a memory, something distant, distorted, like trying to remember a song long forgotten.

Her gaze is drawn to a doorway framed by smooth stone walls. A tapestry hangs to the side, its fabric rich and heavy, but when she tries to focus on it, the image blurs, the colours bleeding together like wet paint on a canvas. Her vision shifts, drawn inexorably towards the figure approaching her through the doorway. The figure is a man, but his features are indistinct, like trying to remember the details of a face glimpsed long ago. His silhouette seems to shimmer, the edges blurred and shifting, as if he is caught between the present and a memory. There is something about him that tugs at her—an unexplainable familiarity that makes her chest tighten, an emotion so strong it almost overwhelms her. She struggles to see him clearly, to make out his features, but they remain frustratingly blurred, just beyond recognition, as if her mind is deliberately keeping the truth from her.

The man draws closer, his eyes—one brown, one blue—standing out against the blurred haze of his face. The mismatched gaze feels piercing, almost as if it sees straight into her soul, uncovering every secret she doesn’t even know she holds. There is something in his eyes, something powerful, something that speaks to Melia in a way she doesn’t understand but deeply feels. The feeling of recognition, of something important just out of reach, grows stronger, like a word on the tip of her tongue that she cannot quite recall. A sense of urgency builds within her—if she could only remember, if she could only see his face, everything would make sense. But before she can grasp it, before she can remember, the dream slips away like water through her fingers, leaving her with nothing but emptiness.

She wakes with the memory of those eyes—the mismatched brown and blue—still vivid in her mind, an inexplicable sense of longing lingering in her chest. It’s not just the eyes she remembers; it’s the feeling of knowing him, of missing him, of waiting, though she cannot understand why. The sense of something unfinished hangs heavy in her heart, an echo of a past she can’t quite place, leaving her staring at the ceiling, her thoughts swirling with questions she doesn’t yet know how to ask.

Melia sits up in bed, her eyes wide as she wakes abruptly. Her chest rises and falls with the rapid breaths she takes, trying to calm her racing heart. The dream still lingers, heavy and disorienting, like a shadow at the edge of her consciousness. She swings her legs out of bed, her feet landing softly on the cabin floor as she glances around. Her cabin mates are starting to stir, a couple of sleepy murmurs from Mylo and Chloe already breaking the early morning quiet.

She stands, grabbing her wash stuff from the small chest at the end of her bed. A quick shower before breakfast—maybe that’ll help clear her head. The water runs cool over her skin, washing away the lingering tension from the dream. She focuses on the sound of it, the way it splashes against the tiles, letting herself get lost in the rhythm. After a few minutes, she turns off the tap and closes her eyes, willing herself dry to save time, the water sliding off her skin in a soft wave that drains away. She is just finishing pulling on her Camp Half-Blood t-shirt when Lucia drops down onto the bed next to her with a bounce, startling her.

“So, just a heads up,” Lucia begins, tossing one of her stress balls from hand to hand, her eyes tracking it as she speaks, “the other campers might treat you a bit odd today. Not knowing what to make of you and all.” She pauses, watching Melia for her reaction. “You’re the first Big Three kid who’s been at camp since they all swore not to have any more demigod children. Plus, you got proclaimed a princess, which, well, that’s only something I’ve read about in old stories.” Lucia’s eyes glimmer slightly with curiosity, mixed with something like admiration.

Melia sighs, letting her shoulders sag as she drops face-first across her bed. Her voice comes out muffled from the pillow. “Sounds like a fun time then... Can I convince you to be the cabin counsellor instead?” She turns her head slightly, her cheek pressed into the pillow as she looks up at Lucia.

Lucia laughs, the sound bright and familiar as she stands, grabbing Melia’s arm to pull her upright. She slings an arm across Melia’s shoulders, giving her a light shake. “Nope, not happening. But of course, I’ll help you. Besides, me and leadership? We don’t mix. Apparently, I’ve got an issue with respecting authority or whatever.” Her grin is wicked, and Melia can’t help but smile.

Melia groans dramatically, following Lucia to the door where Chloe stands waiting, her eyes wide and nervous. “Fine, but you’ve done pretty well leading so far,” Melia admits, running her hand affectionately over Chloe’s hair, ruffling it slightly. Chloe scrunches her face up at Melia, trying to straighten her hair back out as Eve snickers behind them. The rest of the cabin starts to fall in line, ready for breakfast.

“Anyway, why didn’t cabin eleven seem to like it when you helped out? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking,” Melia adds, glancing at Lucia.

Lucia shrugs, her expression turning more thoughtful as they walk toward the mess hall. “It’s not a big secret,” she begins, her voice quieter now. “It started a few years ago. I was friends with Luke before he went on his quest, and when he came back... he was different. Angry. I tried to help—I mean, I’ve got plenty of experience with anger—but he didn’t want it. He wanted to be angry at the world without actually doing anything to change it. We ended up having a pretty big falling out, and since then, things have been... tense. Especially after he said I was trying to create my own cabin inside cabin eleven. Guess he thought I was undermining him or something.”

Melia blinks, processing the words as they find their way to their table. She can feel eyes on them, glances from other campers as they settle at the Poseidon table. “That’s... stupid. What’s wrong with finding people who can relate to you?” Melia asks, shaking her head. “Isn’t that kind of the point of the cabins?” She grabs a couple of pieces of fruit, her appetite lighter with everything on her mind.

Lucia gives a nonchalant shrug, taking a long drink from her cup. “Maybe. But don’t let it get in the way of training or anything like that. Luke’s still the best sword fighter camp’s seen in years. You’ve got the instincts, but he’s got experience—so just keep that in mind.”

Melia nods slowly, her mind drifting slightly as she thinks about the upcoming training. She’s drawn out of her thoughts by the excited voices of Chloe and Mylo, who sit across from her, practically vibrating in their seats as they chatter between bites of breakfast. Their excitement is infectious, and Melia can’t help but smile as they talk about how great it is to have their own space—a cabin just for them. When Chloe mentions how good it feels to have an actual bed, her eyes shining with joy, Melia's smile falters for a heartbeat. It nearly breaks her. Something as simple as a bed shouldn’t be something that brings so much excitement. No child should ever have to go without something so basic.

Melia swallows, her gaze softening as she looks at Chloe. “Well, you’ve got a bed now. And you’ll always have one, with all of us here,” she says, her voice gentle, her eyes meeting Chloe's. Chloe beams, and Melia feels a surge of determination. No matter what else happened, she was going to make sure that Chloe, Mylo, and all the others would feel safe, that they would have a place where they belonged.

The next few days pass quickly, with Melia getting accustomed to her new responsibilities as a cabin counsellor. She sets the schedule for her cabin, takes care of the younger campers, and spends extra hours training with Luke—one of the few Hermes cabin members who doesn't shy away from being seen with her. The rest of the camp has gotten the message loud and clear from the Hellhound attack: associating with Melia Jackson could be dangerous.

One night, after the campfire, Melia finds a mortal newspaper, seemingly discarded on the top step of the Poseidon cabin. The placement feels deliberate—not quite inside the temple grounds, but just on the edge, as if to send a message. She picks it up and notices Lucia step up behind her, peering over her shoulder. Together, they begin reading the circled article. As the words sink in, Melia feels her stomach twist into a knot.

The article mentions her and her mother's disappearance, complete with exaggerated tales of Melia's disciplinary issues at her various schools. The sensation of deep cold radiates from Melia, her anger and frustration evident. Lucia clenches her fists beside her, her knuckles turning white, temper flaring just as fiercely.

Ryan steps closer, broadcasting his aura of calm over them. It washes over Melia like a soothing tide, the icy rage receding just enough to keep her in control. Eve darts forward, snatching the paper from Melia’s hands before she can start ripping it apart. Eve glances over the article before quickly folding it up, placing a gentle hand on Melia and Lucia’s shoulders.

Chloe, with her big, worried eyes, slips in beside Melia, wrapping her small arms around Melia’s waist and resting her head against her side. Melia takes a deep breath, the sudden comfort pulling her out of the spiral of anger. She looks down at Chloe, who smiles softly up at her, her eyes filled with a childlike hope. Lucia takes a deep breath herself and nods toward Ryan, who finally allows his aura to fade, relaxing visibly.

“Come on, let’s get inside,” Melia says, her voice softer now, weariness pulling at her every word. They head back inside the cabin, each of them sinking onto their beds in silence, the high spirits from the campfire now a distant memory. Chloe refuses to let go, clinging tightly to Melia. When Melia tries to move Chloe to her own bed, the younger girl just shakes her head fiercely, tightening her grip.

“Fine,” Melia sighs, a small smile playing at her lips. She lies back down, letting Chloe snuggle close, using Melia like a giant cuddly toy. Melia wraps her arm around Chloe, stroking her hair as her eyes drift shut.

But Melia’s sleep is anything but restful. Indistinct dreams plague her—images of stormy seas, muffled voices echoing in an ancient tongue, and the overwhelming sensation of falling. She wakes multiple times throughout the night, her heart racing, sweat clinging to her skin despite the cool breeze that blows through the cabin. But each time, Chloe’s steady breathing beside her lulls her back to sleep, pulling her back from the edge.

Suddenly, she wakes to a sharp crack of thunder. The noise echoes across camp, shaking the window panes as lightning splits the sky. A loud knock sounds on the cabin door, startling everyone awake. Lucia rolls out of bed, landing catlike on her feet, her spear already in hand, its point aimed toward the door. Eve scrambles up, her hand axe clutched in her grip.

Melia pries Chloe off of her, whispering for her to move to Ellie and Ryan’s beds. Ellie pulls Chloe close, and Ryan gives Melia a reassuring nod, while Mylo shifts nervously under his blanket next to them. With her heart pounding, Melia steps toward the door, her body still tense, echoes of the strange dreams making her uneasy. She grips the handle tightly and pulls it open.

Standing on the doorstep is Grover, his eyes wide, his hands up in a gesture of surrender as he comes face-to-face with Lucia's spear tip. Lucia lowers her weapon, letting out a sigh of relief.

“Um… Mr. D wants to see you,” Grover stammers nervously, his eyes darting between the demigods.

“Why?” Melia asks, raising an eyebrow. Her gaze shifts briefly to the storm raging above them, thunderclouds swirling ominously over the camp.

“He wants to… I mean…” Grover glances down at his hooves, shuffling nervously. “It’s probably better if he explains it.”

Melia gives a curt nod, turning back to Lucia. “Hold down the fort,” she says, her voice firm. She glances at Chloe, who is watching anxiously from Ellie’s bed, and gives her a reassuring smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

With that, Melia follows Grover out of the cabin, her worn camp T-shirt clinging to her, her hair still mussed from sleep. The camp is unusually quiet for the early hour, with only a few campers up and about, their eyes on the darkened sky. The tension in the air is palpable, everyone aware that something is wrong, the storm only heightening their unease. The weight of the ocean’s depths seems to radiate off Melia, her presence commanding attention even in her casual, rumpled state.

As they approach the Big House, Grover hesitates, lingering at the edge of the porch. Melia strides past him, her expression hardened, every instinct in her body telling her to prepare for whatever comes next. She stops in front of Mr. D and Chiron, her chin raised, her shoulders back.

“Well, well, our little celebrity,” Mr. D drawls, his eyes not lifting from his deck of cards. The smell of grapes hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic scent of the coming storm.

Melia feels a spark of irritation flare inside her, her jaw clenching. Who does he think he is to not even look at her? She feels a strange, unfamiliar pressure building inside her—a defiant urge she struggles to suppress. The air around them seems to thicken, the tension building until, finally, Mr. D’s gaze flickers up, acknowledging her presence.

“Come closer,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The scent of grapes intensifies, almost making Melia gag. “And don’t expect me to kowtow to you, mortal, just because old Barnacle-Beard is your father and you wear a crown.”

As if to punctuate his statement, a net of lightning flashes across the sky, followed by the deafening crack of thunder that rattles the windows. The storm seems to echo the tension between them, every rumble a reminder of the god’s displeasure.

“Blah, blah, blah,” Mr. D mutters dismissively, waving a hand at the storm outside.

Chiron remains silent, his eyes focused on his cards, though there’s a tightness in his posture that Melia doesn’t miss. Grover stands at the edge of the porch, nervously shuffling from hoof to hoof, clearly uncomfortable with the brewing confrontation.

“If I had my way,” Mr. D continues, his voice laced with irritation, “I’d turn you into a dolphin and send you back to your dear father. You’d find that’s a better option than what the old horse has planned for you.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes at Melia. “But if you’re smart, you’ll let me turn you into an Atlantic bottlenose and send you swimming back to Atlantis.”

Melia meets his glare, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards in a smirk. “My mother’s rather fond of dolphins,” she says, her voice steady, “but I think I’d prefer a shark.” The words come out calmly, her demeanour unflinching, refusing to let his bluster get under her skin. Besides, she reasons internally, if he did turn her into something, the power of Atlantis would ensure she’d be turned back.

Mr. D glares at her for a long moment, the tension between them like the eye of a storm—silent, heavy, and on the edge of breaking. Finally, with a sneer, he stands, flicking his wrist. One of his cards twists between his fingers, morphing into a security pass. He steps closer, his gaze cold, and with a snap of his fingers, the air around him begins to distort, his form becoming translucent.

“Be careful, mortal,” he warns, his voice echoing even as he dissolves into the breeze, leaving behind only the sharp tang of grapes in the air. And then he’s gone, the storm outside seeming to ease ever so slightly with his departure.

Chiron lets out a small sigh, gesturing to the open seats in front of him. “Please, sit.”

Melia crosses her arms, her gaze sharp and unyielding as she stares at him. “I’m going on a quest, aren’t I?” Her tone is more of a statement than a question, her eyes searching Chiron’s face. She takes satisfaction in the flicker of surprise that passes over his features.

“If you’ll accept it,” Chiron replies slowly, settling himself deeper into his wheelchair, his expression pained. “But, well, you see…that’s the hard part. The details.” He grimaces, as if even speaking the words leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Thunder rumbles across the valley, the sound rolling in tandem with the waves as dark storm clouds reach the camp’s edge, casting long shadows across the field.

“They’re fighting over something,” Melia says, her voice cutting through the storm’s din. “Something stolen, right? Something valuable.” Her eyes narrow, flashes of vague, dream-like memories surfacing along with the strange weather of the past weeks.

Chiron straightens slightly, a look of curiosity crossing his features. “How did you know that?” His voice is measured, though there’s a spark of wariness in his eyes.

Melia gives a tired roll of her eyes. “The weather’s been weird since Christmas. The storms…I can feel it in the sea, the tension, the unease. And then Annabeth mentioned something about something being stolen.”

Chiron leans forward, his expression growing more serious. “Yes. The gods are fighting over something stolen. To be precise…a lightning bolt.” His voice drops, the weight of the statement landing with the crack of distant thunder.

Melia blinks, her brow furrowing in confusion. “As in…” She trails off, the realization hitting her.

Chiron nods gravely. “Yes. Zeus’s master bolt. The symbol of his power, from which all other lightning bolts are patterned.”

The air around Melia feels charged, the realization is setting in. She takes a step closer. “And it was stolen by whom?” she asks, slipping into Ancient Greek without even realizing.

“By you,” Chiron says, his eyes watching her reaction.

The accusation makes Melia’s blood boil, her sharp growl barely held back, her eyes darkening with fury. Even as Chiron raises a hand to calm her, she doesn’t fully relent, the tension radiating off her.

“According to Zeus,” Chiron continues cautiously, “You—the daughter of Poseidon—took his bolt. Zeus believes that Poseidon had you steal it, in an effort to dethrone him. And with all that you know—your skills in battle, your powers—many in the council are starting to lean toward believing it.”

Melia clenches her fists, her claws barely digging into her palms as she speaks through gritted teeth. “They think thievery is Poseidon's style? If anything, why would they use a newly claimed Princess? The first one they’ve acknowledged in…” She trails off, struggling to find the words. “Centuries?”

Chiron sighs, a weary look crossing his face. “Most reasonable people would agree, but the gods have never been particularly reasonable where pride is concerned. Zeus has demanded the bolt’s return by the summer solstice—June twenty-first, ten days from now. Poseidon has demanded an apology for the accusation by that same date. If neither happens, there will be war. A full-fledged war amongst the gods.” He pauses, his eyes locking with hers. “Do you know what that would look like, Melia?”

Visions flash in her mind—hazy but visceral memories from her dreams: monstrous hordes, the clash of armies, the glint of bronze in a thousand-strong naval battle. She refuses to speak of them, to give them life by describing them aloud.

Chiron’s voice cuts through her thoughts. “Destruction, carnage, millions dead. And you, Melia Jackson, would be the first to feel Zeus’s wrath.”

The sky splits, and the storm finally breaks, heavy raindrops beginning to patter on the grass. The campers at the volleyball court freeze, staring up at the sky as it darkens. Melia knows this storm is her doing—a reflection of her fury and helplessness. Zeus punishing them all for her mere existence. Her body trembles, her rage almost boiling over.

“What better peace offering,” Chiron’s voice softens, trying to soothe the moment, “than for the daughter of Poseidon to return Zeus's stolen property?”

Melia swallows, her anger barely contained. “Do I even have a choice?” she growls, her tone laced with frustration.

Chiron inclines his head, his gaze sympathetic. “No, you do not. But it is customary that you consult the Oracle before taking on a quest. Go to the attic. When you return, assuming you’re still sane, we shall discuss the next steps.”

Melia doesn’t respond, merely turning on her heel, her footsteps echoing heavily on the creaky stairs as she ascends into the attic. Dust coats the floor, the smell of decay and something faintly metallic thick in the air. She pushes her way through, her eyes locking on the grotesque figure in the centre—a mummy, the Oracle—a vessel that housed something ancient and powerful. The very air seemed to hum with its presence.

As she stands there, the hairs on her arms rising, she hears a voice—a whisper that fills her mind, sliding into her consciousness like a coiled serpent: “I am the spirit of Delphi, speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python. Approach, seeker, and ask.”

Melia steps forward, her heart pounding as she forces her voice to remain steady. “What will happen on my quest?” she asks.

The green mist swirls from the Oracle, rising up and enveloping the room, thickening around Melia. She watches as four figures materialize before her—the familiar faces of her cabinmates. Lucia’s image turns to her first, her face expressionless as her voice rasps: “You shall go west and face the god who has turned.”

Ryan looks up next, his eyes unblinking. “You shall find what was stolen and see it safely returned.”

Ellie’s face follows, her gaze meeting Melia’s without emotion. “You shall be betrayed by one who calls you friend.”

Finally, Chloe’s image shifts, her voice delivering the final blow: “And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end.”

The mist recedes, the figures dissolving like water slipping through her hands. Melia’s heart is heavy, a chill running down her spine. She nods, almost absentmindedly, her head still reeling, before she slowly makes her way back down the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.

On the porch, Chiron waits, his gaze never wavering from her face. He lifts an eyebrow in question. “Well?” he asks, his voice gentle but firm.

Melia grips the railing, staring out across the camp as the storm rages on. “The Oracle gave me a prophecy,” she says. “It said I would retrieve what was stolen and see it returned.”

“That’s great!” Grover shouts, excitement clear on his face as he gnaws on the edge of a tin can.

Chiron’s gaze, however, remains cautious. “The Oracle’s words, exactly?” he prompts, suspicion and worry etched in his features.

Melia hesitates, her voice dropping as she recites all but the last two lines of the prophecy. She can see the tension in Chiron’s face, the sadness in his eyes as he studies her.

“Very well,” he finally says, his voice solemn. “Just remember—the Oracle’s words often have double meanings. Don’t dwell on them. Truth can be elusive, and not always as it seems.”

Melia nods, trying to push the words away, though they linger in the back of her mind. “So where do I go?” she asks, her tone sharper than she intended. “All I got was west. Am I just supposed to wander until I bump into a random god?”

Chiron leans back, his brow furrowing slightly. “Think, Melia. If Zeus and Poseidon weaken each other in a war, who stands to gain?”

Melia frowns, considering his question. “It could be anyone,” she says, her frustration building again. “Titans, monsters, some other god with a grudge…who knows?”

“Yes,” Chiron agrees. “But consider the prophecy: ‘a god who has turned.’ Someone who has long held resentment, whose kingdom would swell with the deaths of millions…someone who might want to see his brothers—both of whom broke their oaths—fall from grace.”

Melia’s jaw clenches, a half-remembered face flashing through her mind—pale skin, violet eyes, a soft smile—an image from her dreams. She shakes her head vehemently. “It’s not him,” she says, her voice hard with conviction. She doesn't know where her certainty comes from, but it’s there, solid as stone.

Chiron’s expression remains unreadable, his voice quiet but insistent. “All signs point to him, Melia. The Fury who came after you, the Hellhound…they were all aiming to confirm your identity and your threat. It must be him.”

Melia breathes deeply, fighting back her anger. “Fine,” she finally says. “Let’s assume it’s him. And assuming the entrance to the underworld is in the west, where exactly do I find it?”

Chiron’s expression shifts, as if surprised she doesn’t already know. “In Los Angeles. Where else?”

Melia holds back an annoyed retort. “So, how am I supposed to get there? I can’t fly, and we obviously can’t drive. And I’m going to need a team for this.”

Chiron nods thoughtfully. “Perhaps a train,” he says, “and two others may accompany you. One has already volunteered. As for a guide…well, I think you already know one.”

Melia turns her head, her gaze meeting Grover’s. She raises an eyebrow. “Want to be my guide?” she asks.

Grover shifts nervously, his hooves shuffling. “You’re sure?” he stammers. “I mean…Satyrs and underground places don’t really mix well. But I’ll do it, if you want me to. I won’t let you down.”

Melia gives him a reassuring nod. “I’m sure. And you did more than enough already, Grover. I trust you.” She turns her gaze back to Chiron. “Now, for the volunteer…”

The air shimmers, and a figure materializes just behind Chiron. Annabeth steps forward, holding her Yankees cap in her hand. “I’ve waited a long time for a quest,” she says, her voice determined but with a hint of something else—an emotion she keeps carefully in check.

Melia studies her for a moment, weighing her options. Finally, she nods. “Fine. You’re in.” She turns slightly, looking towards the cabins. “I’ll ask Ellie, too. We’ll need her with us.”

Chiron gives her an approving nod as lightning flashes across the sky, the rain drenching the camp. “Very well,” he says. “This afternoon, we’ll take you as far as the bus terminal in Manhattan. After that, the fate of the world rests in your hands.”

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

VIII

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

Melia returns to her cabin, the rain cascading off her in sheets, as if the storm itself is reluctant to let her go. Yet, as her boots touch the cabin threshold, she is already dry, the raindrops evaporating before they can cling to her clothes. She steps inside in one continuous movement, her gaze immediately falling on her cabinmates, who are standing around with a noticeable awkwardness, shifting from foot to foot.

“Right, I have been given a quest…” Melia starts, her voice trailing off as her eyes land on a figure standing in front of her armour stand. The woman has her back straight, her fingers tracing Melia’s circlet as though it were an ancient relic.

Melia's gaze flicks from the mysterious woman to Lucia, who gives her a small shrug. "This is…" she begins, but the woman turns, her touch lingering on the circlet, her eyes meeting Melia’s.

“I am Kymopoleia,” the goddess says, her voice soft and resonant, carrying the whisper of distant thunder. Her hair drifts around her shoulders as if caught in a slow sea current, each strand shimmering with a faint, jellyfish-like glow. The air in the cabin seems to cool, like the deep sea, and a gentle scent of saltwater fills the room.

“Lady Kymo—” Melia starts, instinct pushing her into a bow, but a cool hand gently rests on her shoulder, halting her.

“Please, Kym, or sister is fine. You do not need to bow to family, sister,” Kym says, her lips curving into a smile that speaks of storms held in check. The word "sister" carries warmth, a familial bond that both comforts and unsettles Melia.

Melia takes a breath, looking up into Kym's eyes, trying to hide the wonder there. “I… Kym, I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you here?” she asks, her voice laced with awkwardness. She shifts slightly, feeling both a reverence for the goddess and a deep curiosity. “I need to get ready for my quest,” she adds, almost apologetically.

“And that is precisely why I have come,” Kym replies, her smile widening, a flicker of mischief glinting in her eyes. “Our brother Triton would usually be tasked with such messages, but when I heard of your quest, I decided it was my turn to deliver.” She waves her hand lazily, the air shimmering as if beneath a midday sun, and suddenly, small packages and letters materialise, neatly settling onto each of the occupied beds. “These are from your parents.”

Melia opens her mouth in surprise, but Kym continues, her focus shifting back to the armour stand. “And for you, dear sister, I bring something that belongs to the demigod princess of Atlantis—a blade wielded twice before.” As she speaks, she extends her hand towards the window, drawing in a flowing stream of rainwater that gathers in her palm, swirling, coiling, taking shape.

The water solidifies, transforming into a shimmering silver kopis. The blade catches the dim cabin light, rippling like the surface of the ocean at dusk. Its hilt is wrapped in supple black leather, the single cutting edge gracefully curving before rising to a slight dip at the tip. It exudes both elegance and power—a weapon that has seen the depths of the ocean.

“Her name is Δίνη, Maelstrom,” Kym says, her voice softening with genuine fondness. “Forged as a coming-of-age gift from Amphitrite for a princess of Atlantis—Lysianassa. She carries the oceans within her.” There is an unmistakable note of sadness beneath her words, a weight of history and memory, as she extends the blade to Melia. “When she died, I looked after her, keeping her safe until a princess was born again. And again after that.”

Melia takes the kopis with both hands, her touch careful, reverent. The moment her fingers close around the hilt, she feels a rush, a sensation as if she is plunging into the depths of the ocean, the cold and vast power enveloping her. It feels right, like a part of her that has always been missing now restored. She swings the blade gently, testing its balance, and smiles in astonishment. “I… I don’t know what to say. She feels perfect,” she murmurs, awe shining in her eyes.

Kym's expression softens further. “She should feel perfect. And you needn't say anything, dear one. I merely kept her safe until now. Be careful with her, she is forged from Atlantean Silver, unlike Celestial Bronze, it will harm mortals.” She rests a hand on Melia's shoulder, her presence radiating a calm intensity. “Now, I should go before others come to check on your preparations. Your mother has something else to aid you, and it will reach you when the time is right.”

Without another word, Kym steps back. Her body dissolves into a graceful column of swirling water, cascading to the floor in a quiet splash before vanishing entirely. The cabin is left in an almost ethereal stillness, as though holding its breath.

Melia stares at the place where Kym stood, feeling the weight of the goddess's departure, before her gaze shifts back to her cabinmates. She feels the kopis pulse in her hand, and a moment later, it shimmers and contracts, shifting into a silver ring that wraps snugly around her finger.

“So… what was I saying?” Melia shakes her head, her voice light with disbelief. “Oh yeah. Got a quest. Ellie, want to come with me? Grover is guiding, and Annabeth volunteered too. But I need someone I can trust completely, especially if Annabeth tries any more tricks like she did in Capture the Flag.”

Ellie’s eyes widen, her shock giving way to determination. She steps forward quickly, a smile spreading across her lips. “Of course, I’ll come! No way I’m letting our princess go unguarded,” she says with a playful smirk.

Melia groans, turning to Lucia, “Have you been telling them to call me that?” she demands, her eyes narrowing accusingly.

Lucia grins, unrepentant as she settles back onto her bed, picking up her unopened package. “I might have mentioned your reaction when I called you that the first time. But I never told them to do it.”

Melia rolls her eyes, shaking her head with exasperation as she grabs her bag, packing light. After a moment, she pauses, her expression softening. “You'll look after everyone, right?” she asks, her voice betraying her worry. “Things are going to get worse before they get better. Please, try not to start any fights.”

Lucia looks ready to make a joke, but something in Melia's eyes stops her. She stands and crosses the distance, pulling Melia into a tight hug. “Of course I will,” she says, her voice steady, comforting. “We take care of family.”

Melia leans into the hug, a sense of relief washing over her. Lucia has become the older sister she never had, a source of strength she didn’t realise she needed. Even if she now seems to have immortal older sisters as well, her cabinmates have quickly wormed their way into being true family.

Lucia pulls away, giving her a crooked smile. “Now, let’s make sure you’re ready. You may have two swords, but I think I can hide a few more knives on you.”

She winks, injecting some much-needed humour into the room. Together, they set about packing, Lucia’s experienced hands guiding Melia, while Eve helps Ellie. Despite the daunting prospect of the quest ahead, a sense of camaraderie fills the air, the knowledge that whatever comes, they face it together—family, bound by choice and by fate.

Annabeth’s siblings come to say goodbye to her, along with a few other campers she knows. Hugs are exchanged, and words of encouragement are murmured—though Melia notices the unspoken anxieties in the lingering glances and forced smiles. Grover stands awkwardly halfway between Annabeth and Melia, looking uncertain where to place himself. After a few minutes of this heartfelt goodbye, Melia and the others make their way up Half-Blood Hill, where Chiron waits.

Next to Chiron stands the surfer dude Melia has seen around the camp’s borders. According to Grover, the guy is the camp's head of security and supposedly has eyes all over his body so he can never be surprised. Today, however, he's wearing a chauffeur's uniform, which only shows extra eyes on his hands, face, and neck. He smells weirdly of hay and farm animals, an odd contrast to his role. Melia wrinkles her nose at the scent, trying to place it but finding it almost surreal.

"This is Argus," Chiron tells Melia, his voice carrying a touch of authority. "He will drive you into the city and, er, well, keep an eye on things."

Melia glances at the security chief, trying to fight the smile tugging at her lips at Chiron’s choice of words. Luckily, she is saved from having to respond by the sound of footsteps approaching. Luke comes jogging up the hill, a pair of basketball shoes in hand. The shoes look new, but something about them makes Melia's stomach twist.

“Hey!” he pants, stopping just in front of them, his grin bright despite the slight flush on his cheeks. “Glad I caught you.”

Annabeth blushes the way she always does when Luke is around, and Melia can't help but roll her eyes at it. 

“Just wanted to say good luck,” Luke says, entirely ignoring Annabeth and turning to Melia. “And I thought... maybe you could use these.” He hands her the sneakers, the weight of them unexpectedly unsettling. “Maia!” he says, his voice almost too casual.

White bird wings sprout out of the heels of the shoes, startling Melia enough that she drops them. The shoes flap around on the ground for a moment, wings beating until they finally fold back in, vanishing.

“Awesome!” Grover says, eyes wide as he stares at the enchanted footwear.

Melia glares at the sneakers, her unease only deepening. Luke smiles, making another attempt at trying to get her to take them by giving them a sense of sentimentality. He talks about their origins, mentioning a god, but Melia simply looks at him, her expression unreadable until he shuffles uncomfortably. 

“Listen, Melia...” Luke says, looking uncertain for the first time since arriving. “A lot of hopes are riding on you. So just... kill some monsters for me, okay?”

He pats Grover’s head between his horns, then hugs Annabeth, who looks like she might faint from excitement. When he looks at Melia again, there’s a lingering moment—one that is hard to define—before he turns and runs back down the hill.

Melia watches Luke leave before turning to Annabeth, who looks flustered and flushed. “You’re hyperventilating,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” Annabeth mutters, but there isn’t much anger behind it.

“You let him capture the flag instead of you, didn't you?”

“Oh... why do I want to go anywhere with you, Melia?” Annabeth groans, stomping down the other side of the hill toward the waiting white SUV. Argus follows, jingling his car keys and smirking like he knows something Melia doesn’t.

Melia glares at the sneakers Luke left behind. Something about them feels off—something more than just the magic. She feels it deep in her gut, a warning she can’t ignore. 

“Hey, Grover,” she calls, her gaze shifting to the satyr. “Want a magic item?”

His eyes light up. “Me?”

It doesn’t take long before Grover is lacing the sneakers over his fake feet, excitement clear in his expression. He looks up at her, eyes filled with nervous hope.

“Maia!” he shouts.

He gets off the ground for a moment, wings beating, but then tips sideways, his backpack dragging in the grass as he tries to steady himself. The winged shoes keep bucking up and down like miniature broncos.

“Practice,” Chiron calls after him, his tone as calm as ever. “You just need practice!”

“Aaaaa!” Grover yelps, half flying, half tumbling down the hill like a possessed lawn mower, heading straight for the van.

Melia turns to Ellie, her gaze still lingering on Grover. “Keep an eye on them... I don’t totally trust why he gave us those shoes. Something about them feels strange. Might just be the magic, but better cautious for no reason.”

Ellie nods, her hand fidgeting with the bracelet she wears—the disguised form of her sword, her gift delivered by Kymopoleia from her parent. Melia notices the determination in her eyes, and it settles something in her own heart.

Before they can follow Grover, Chiron tries to catch Melia’s arm, but she pulls away from him. His eyes narrow slightly before he sighs, his expression softening.

“You should have had more training,” he says. “All the great heroes did.” His words make Melia shift uneasily, feeling the weight of his doubt pressing on her shoulders.

“I wish I could give you more, but you already have the blade given to me by your father. I’ve kept it for years, never knowing you were the one I was waiting for. But now, the prophecy is clear. You are the one,” Chiron says, his gaze unwavering.

Melia frowns, suspicion flickering across her face. “You knew who my parents were since the museum, then?” she asks, her voice tense.

“I had a suspicion when Riptide did not return to me. It claimed you as its wielder. The sword has a long and tragic history—one we need not go into,” Chiron says, his expression distant, sadness etched in the lines of his face.

Melia mutters under her breath, her voice barely audible, “Like all the swords I've been handed, it seems.” If Chiron hears her, he makes no comment.

Chiron hums thoughtfully, then leans down slightly, trying to meet her eyes. Melia knows what he’s doing—trying to be wise, trying to instil confidence. “All we can do, child, is follow our destiny.”

“Our destiny... assuming we even know what that is,” Melia replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Relax,” Chiron tells her. “Keep a clear head. And remember, you may be about to prevent the biggest war in human history.”

“Relax?” Melia repeats, incredulous. “I’m very relaxed.” But her sarcasm flies over his head, and he merely waves her down the hill.

The drive into the city feels oddly mundane after all the mythical chaos of camp. Melia finds herself staring out the window, the movement of the van a far cry from watching pegasi fly or naiads glide through the water. It’s such an ordinary, humdrum thing that she almost forgets they’re on their way to face gods and monsters. Thirty minutes pass before Melia turns to Annabeth, unable to stay silent any longer.

“So what’s your actual problem with me?” she asks, blunt as ever. “Why would you volunteer for this if you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you,” Annabeth says defensively, but her eyes drop as she reaches for a book. Melia nearly laughs—of course, Annabeth brought a book. As if it could protect her from this conversation.

“If this is about the rivalry thing…” Melia trails off, watching Annabeth’s reaction.

Annabeth sighs, the tension in her shoulders relaxing slightly. “We just aren't supposed to get along, okay? You know the stories?” She runs through all the reasons she should hate a daughter of Poseidon, her voice shaking just enough for Melia to catch it. “Just forget it.”

Melia frowns, rolling her eyes. “Do you make all your life choices based on your mum? We don’t have to be our parents, you know.”

“We can’t just ignore who our parents are!” Annabeth snaps, her frustration boiling over.

“I’m not saying we should ignore them,” Melia replies, her tone steady, though her emotions are tightly held back. “But that doesn’t mean everything they are is everything we are.”

Annabeth just groans in frustration, turning to look out the window, effectively ending the conversation. In the seat beside Melia, Ellie smirks, the silent witness to the exchange.

By the time they reach the Greyhound Station on the Upper East Side, the sky has opened up, rain pouring down in thick sheets. As they step off the van, Melia notices a soggy flyer taped to a nearby mailbox with her picture on it: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? She rips it down before Annabeth or Grover can see it, her heart heavy.

Argus unloads their bags, making sure they get their bus tickets before driving away, the eye on the back of his hand opening to watch them as he pulls out of the parking lot.

Melia's gaze drifts towards the direction of her mother’s apartment. The longing for home strikes deep—an ache that almost leaves her breathless—but she knows it wouldn’t be home without her mum there. Ellie bumps into her shoulder gently, pulling her from her thoughts. Together, they approach the bus stop, letting the rain soak them to avoid drawing attention. It’s only the beginning of the journey, but Melia knows the storm is only just starting.

Despite being initially confused as to why Annabeth brought a book, it doesn't take long for all of them to get bored waiting for the bus. They decide to play Hacky Sack with one of Grover's apples, taking turns bouncing it around. For three demigods, it’s surprisingly easy to keep it in play, each one using their own unique skills. Ellie, with her naturally agile movements, matches Melia’s kicks and Annabeth's flicks effortlessly. Grover, despite needing his crutches, keeps up much better than Melia expected.

The game ends with an unexpected twist—Melia, intending to pass the apple to Grover, gets a little too close to his mouth. In one mega goat bite, the apple disappears—core, stem, and all.

Grover blushes, waving his hands as he tries to apologize. “I am so sorry.”

The rest of them burst into laughter, too caught up in the ridiculousness of the moment to care about the missing apple. Annabeth doubles over, while Ellie has to steady herself against Melia, who is laughing so hard tears begin to form in her eyes.

Finally, the bus arrives. As they stand in line to board, Melia notices Grover starting to look around, his nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air. He looks a bit silly, his nose twitching like he smells something. Curious, Melia tries to subtly figure out what has caught his attention.

“What is it?” Melia asks, leaning towards him. All she can smell are sweaty socks and the unfortunate scent of a toddler's dirty nappy a few feet away. The poor dad is looking increasingly desperate, trying to figure out a place to change his child before they board. Not wanting to focus on her sense of smell any longer, Melia shifts her attention back to Grover. “Monster?”

Grover shakes his head, but his eyes are still darting around. “It’s nothing, I think.” His voice wavers slightly, making Melia frown. He doesn’t look totally convinced, so she tries to stay on her guard, her hand subtly resting on Riptide in its pen form, not wanting to use Maelstrom just yet, keeping it in reserve.

When they finally get on board, they manage to find seats together at the back of the bus. Annabeth and Grover start to store their backpacks overhead, but Melia shakes her head, keeping her bag close while Ellie follows her lead.

“What if something happens?” she says, her eyes fixed on the front of the bus.

Annabeth slaps her Yankees cap nervously against her thigh. “You’re going to jinx us, Melia. It’ll be fine.” Despite her words, she keeps her bag in her lap, just in case.

As the last of the passengers board, Melia feels her entire back tense. Her head snaps up, her gaze locking on an old lady who has just climbed onto the bus. The woman wears a crumpled velvet dress, lace gloves, and a shapeless orange-knit hat that casts her face in shadow. She carries a big paisley purse. When she tilts her head, her black eyes glitter, and Melia’s heart skips a beat.

“Ellie, Annabeth, Grover.” Melia's voice is low, her fingers fiddling with the pen in her lap. “That’s Mrs. Dodds... and she brought friends.” Her eyes widen as she spots two identical women following Mrs. Dodds, each one wearing the same wrinkled velvet dress. Triplet demon grandmothers.

Grover whimpers, shrinking into his seat, trembling like he used to when called up to the board at Yancy Academy. “What do we do? It’s all three of them!”

“It’s okay,” Annabeth says, though her expression suggests otherwise. “Kindly Ones. The three worst monsters from the Underworld. No problem. No problem.” Her voice cracks slightly. “We'll just slip out the windows.”

“They don’t open,” Grover moans, sounding increasingly desperate.

“A back exit?” Annabeth suggests, glancing around.

“There isn’t one,” Ellie says, her tone flat as she scans the bus, her face tight with tension.

“Who designed this godsdamn bus?!” Annabeth hisses, panic beginning to show.

Even if there were a back exit, Melia knows it wouldn’t help. They were already on Ninth Avenue, heading for the Lincoln Tunnel. The dark tunnel looms ahead of them, and the bus’s lights barely do enough to pierce through the eerie darkness.

“Maybe there’s an emergency exit in the roof?” Annabeth’s voice is hopeful, but the hope seems to fade as they enter the tunnel, the rain noise abruptly ceasing, leaving only the hum of the engine.

Suddenly, Mrs. Dodds stands up, her movement unnaturally fluid. In a flat, almost robotic voice, she announces, “I need to use the restroom.” Her sisters repeat the statement, each one’s voice echoing the other’s, their synchronization unsettling. They begin making their way down the aisle toward the back of the bus.

Melia feels her heartbeat quicken, her eyes darting to Annabeth.

“I’ve got it,” Annabeth whispers, turning to Melia and shoving something into her hands. “Melia, take my hat.”

“What?” Melia tries to argue, but Annabeth’s face is set, and Grover’s wide, frightened eyes plead with her to do as Annabeth says. Against her better judgment, Melia takes the Yankees cap and slips it on, feeling a strange shimmer as her body vanishes from sight.

She doesn’t know how she makes it to the front of the bus, her heart pounding in her ears. She ducks into an empty seat as Mrs. Dodds passes, her backpack almost catching on the armrest. Her breath hitches when she sees how close they are to her, but somehow her luck holds out. They’re nearly through the Lincoln Tunnel when the wailing starts.

Melia turns just in time to see the three Kindly Ones surrounding Grover, Annabeth, and Ellie, fiery whips crackling and sizzling as they lash out. The monsters hiss, their voices like nails on a chalkboard. “Where is it? Where?”

The mortals on the bus see something—maybe not the full terror, but enough. The screaming begins, panicked voices filling the confined space. Annabeth shouts something, her words lost in the chaos, and the Furies raise their whips, barbs glinting ominously.

Annabeth draws her bronze knife, her eyes fierce. Ellie spins her bracelet, transforming it into the gleaming bronze xiphos. Grover clutches a tin can from his snack bag, ready to throw it.

Melia knows what she needs to do, but the mortals will be caught in the crossfire if they stay on the bus. Without thinking, she lunges forward, grabbing the steering wheel from the bus driver.

“What are you doing?” the driver yells, his voice breaking in panic, but Melia ignores him. She yanks the wheel, her knuckles white, her heart pounding in her ears as she plays the most dangerous game of chicken she’s ever known. The bus barrels down the highway, horns blaring around them.

The first exit looms, and Melia takes it, barely noticing the honking cars as she focuses solely on her friends. The second they’re off the highway, the driver slams the brakes, the bus jerking violently, passengers screaming as they’re thrown forward. The only thing that keeps Melia from crashing through the windshield is the steering wheel catching her chest.

The Furies regain their balance, snarling as they corner her friends. Mrs. Dodds lashes out, her whip wrapping around Annabeth’s knife. Grover hurls a tin can, striking one of the Furies in the face, but it barely slows her.

Melia pulls off Annabeth’s cap, shoving it into her pocket, and yells, “Hey!” The word comes out almost like a growl. Her nails extend slightly into claws as she uncaps Riptide, twirling it in one hand as the light reflects off it against her scales that ripple across her body, forming a protective armour, and her eyes darken, turning pitch black.

She grins, her mouth full of sharp, glistening teeth, and she catches Annabeth’s horrified expression as she pulls back, her knife raised defensively. “You want a rematch?” Melia growls, her voice almost unrecognizable as she forces the words.

The Furies turn, baring their yellow fangs at her. Mrs. Dodds stalks towards her, her fiery whip snapping with every step. The other two Furies crawl across the tops of the bus seats, their movements unnervingly reptilian.

“Melia Jackson,” Mrs. Dodds hisses, her voice dripping with venom. “You have offended the gods. You shall die.”

Melia doesn’t answer and instead lunges forward, her focus narrowing to the monsters in front of her. Her blade slashes out as one of the Furies leaps at her, the blade slicing straight across her face. The creature dissolves before it even hits the ground.

Mrs. Dodds wraps her whip around Melia’s right hand, the searing pain barely registering as Melia uses the force to yank Mrs. Dodds forward. They’re face to face, and Melia doesn’t hesitate. She headbutts the Fury, the impact sending her stumbling backward.

Melia lets out a deep growl, thrusting Riptide into Mrs. Dodds’ stomach. The Fury’s scream echoes in her ears as she dissolves into nothingness, the sound almost drowned by the rush of adrenaline.

When Melia looks up, the last Fury is gone—presumably handled by Annabeth and Ellie. Grover is blowing on his hands, wincing from the burns on his palms, while Annabeth stands atop one of the bus seats, her knife still at the ready. Both of them are panting, their bags thankfully still with them. Ellie is standing at the ready in the aisle to help Melia, her own traits not as extreme as Melia's, but Ellie's hands are tipped with claws, and scales reflect the dim lights of the bus the same as Melia's.

Annabeth looks between Melia and Ellie and where the Furies were, her eyes wide with shock. “What... what the fuck—”

Thunder rumbles above them, shaking the bus, the sudden pressure prickling at Melia’s skin.

“No time!” Grover shouts, grabbing Annabeth’s arm and pushing her toward the exit. Ellie grabs their bags from the back before chasing after them, stumbling out of the bus, rain pouring down, the remaining passengers running around in a daze. Some argue with the driver, while others run in circles, shouting in panic. A tourist in a Hawaiian shirt snaps a picture of Melia, and she scowls, her scales still visible in patches.

Suddenly, the windows of the bus explode, and a bolt of lightning strikes the roof, tearing through the metal.

“We have to go!” Grover says urgently, pushing them towards the woods. Without hesitation, they plunge into the dark forest, the burning bus behind them, and nothing but shadows and uncertainty ahead.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

IX

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

The four of them dash through the woods, the rain pelting them as they flee the scene of the exploding bus, only coming to a stop once they feel they are far enough away to take a moment to rest. The forest is alive around them, branches dripping with water and the ground muddy beneath their feet, adding to the weight of the exhaustion they all feel. The air is heavy with the scent of wet earth and pine, the lingering storm providing a relentless soundtrack to their ragged breathing.

Grover shivers, braying softly, his goat eyes going slit-pupilled and wide with terror. "Three Kindly Ones. All three at once," he murmurs, his voice barely audible against the steady patter of rain on the leaves above. His legs tremble, his usually cheerful expression replaced by one of fear, his goat ears twitching nervously at every creak of the forest.

"Well, what's the plan now?" Ellie asks, taking a few paced breaths, her chest heaving as she tries to calm down. She lets her divine traits fade, but a ring of scales still lingers around her eyes, a stubborn reminder of just how on edge she still is. Her fingers fidget with the bracelet on her wrist, the hidden form of her weapon, as if drawing comfort from its presence.

"I had this all planned out. We were supposed to take that bus to Los Angeles," Annabeth starts, her pacing betraying her frustration. Her wet sneakers squelch in the mud, and she pulls her Yankees cap lower to shield her eyes from the rain still dripping off the branches. Her eyes are filled with a mixture of anger and despair, her fingers clenching and unclenching around the strap of her backpack.

"The bus that we blew up?" Melia raises an eyebrow, her tone dry, though a small smile tugs at her lips. She wipes a stray drop of water from her face, her own tension easing slightly in the wake of Annabeth's visible frustration.

"So what are we supposed to do now?" Ellie presses, her eyes flicking from Annabeth to Melia, her anxiety still palpable. Her voice is edged with a desperation that she tries to hide, her fingers tapping against her thigh as she waits for an answer.

"Wait for another bus?" Annabeth suggests, stopping her pacing and turning back to face them, her eyes betraying her uncertainty. The suggestion hangs in the air, seeming almost ludicrous given their current situation, but no one has a better idea.

"What if we blow up that one too?" Melia quips, her lips curling into a smirk, and a chuckle escapes before she can stop it. The light-heartedness is forced, but it still manages to ease some of the tension in the group.

"We're lost in the woods, somewhere in New Jersey, and we're never going to make it to L.A." Grover mutters, trailing behind the others as they begin to walk, his voice thick with anxiety. His ears droop, and he looks utterly defeated, his hooves leaving deep impressions in the muddy ground.

"Well, maybe we won't blow it up if you don't decide to jump into the fight—" Annabeth starts, her irritation bubbling up, her eyes narrowing as she glares at Melia.

"What did you expect me to do!" Melia growls, her eyes narrowing, and in the fading light, the scales running down from her eyes and along her neck seem to glisten like polished metal. Her voice is filled with frustration, her protective instincts flaring up at the insinuation that she should have done nothing. "I am not going to let you die, or let them attack those who are mine."

"You don't need to protect me! I would've been fine! And what do you mean, 'yours'? I am—" Annabeth begins, her frustration boiling over, her fists clenching at her sides. She looks ready to launch into a full-blown rant, but Grover quickly places a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

"Annabeth, she doesn't mean anything by it." Grover's voice is gentle, trying to diffuse the situation. "Children of the Sea are... possessive. It's just how they are—protective over those around them. You've seen how they act at camp." His voice is soothing, a stark contrast to the tension crackling between Melia and Annabeth.

Annabeth stares at Grover, then back at Melia, her eyes searching. Slowly, she exhales, her shoulders dropping slightly as her tension eases. "Fine... Look, I appreciate you coming back for us, okay? That was really brave," she admits, her voice softening, the anger dissipating as quickly as it had come. Her gaze shifts to the ground, her fingers loosening their grip on her bag.

Melia nods, her expression softening in turn. "We're a team," she says simply, as if that explains everything. To her, it does. The simplicity of her statement carries a weight of conviction that seems to settle something within Annabeth.

They walk in silence for a few minutes, the rain turning from a steady pour to a soft drizzle, the canopy above absorbing much of the downpour. The forest seems to breathe with them, quiet except for the sound of their footsteps and Grover's soft shivers. The chill of the rain seeps into their clothes, and their breath fogs in the cool air.

Annabeth's voice breaks the silence, hesitant. "It’s just… this might be my only chance to see the real world, and I thought it would be different, you know?" Her voice is filled with an almost childlike vulnerability, a longing that seems to echo in the dark forest around them.

Melia glances over at her, her gaze softening. "You haven't left Camp Half-Blood since you were seven?" she asks, her voice gentle, the earlier tension between them slowly dissolving. Her scales seem to shimmer less fiercely now, their glow fading in the dim light.

"No... only short field trips," Annabeth admits, her voice tinged with vulnerability, her eyes downcast. "It didn't work out for me, living at home. I mean, Camp Half-Blood is my home." She rushes her words, as if afraid they might be taken from her. "At camp, you train and train. And that's all cool and everything, but the real world is where the monsters are. That's where you learn whether you're any good or not." Doubt edges her voice, and Melia can hear it. Annabeth's hands grip her bag straps tightly, her knuckles turning white.

Melia stops for a moment, catching Annabeth's gaze. "You're pretty good with that knife," she says, her tone sincere. Her eyes meet Annabeth's, and for a brief moment, there's an understanding between them.

Annabeth blinks, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. "You think so?" she asks, her voice almost a whisper. Her eyes widen slightly, as if she can't quite believe Melia's words.

"I didn't see much of the fight, but you clearly dealt with a Kindly One," Melia replies, her lips quirking into a small smile. "You did good." Her voice carries a warmth that cuts through the cold of the rain-soaked forest.

Annabeth's expression softens, the corners of her lips twitching upwards in the beginnings of a smile. She nods, a quiet thanks in her eyes. The vulnerability in her gaze shifts, replaced by a glimmer of determination.

The group falls into a more companionable silence as they make their way through the dark woods, the rain finally tapering off, leaving Grover and Annabeth soaked while Melia and Ellie remain inexplicably dry. The mud sucks at their feet, each step squelching softly, but there’s a sense of unity now—a shared purpose that drives them forward. It’s not long before they see light up ahead, the flickering glow of neon colours peeking through the trees, casting strange hues on the wet forest floor.

Even at a distance, they start to pick up the scent of food. Fried, greasy food. The scent carries something else to it that Melia can't quite identify as they approach, keeping their eyes out for any sort of trap. The air feels heavy, almost sticky, with the aroma lingering in the dampness of the woods. Melia isn't one to go crazy for fried, greasy food like she has heard some of the other campers complain about missing; she is just happy that the Nymphs cooking are happy, providing her and her cabinmates meat more on the rare side.

They keep walking until they see a deserted two-lane road through the trees. The asphalt is cracked, with weeds poking through the broken surface, and the surrounding area seems almost abandoned, a relic of another time. On the other side is a closed-down gas station, its windows covered in grime, a tattered billboard for a 1990s movie, and one open business, which is the source of the neon light and the good smell. The flickering light casts eerie shadows over the cracked pavement, and the sight of something still operating amidst the decay feels oddly out of place.

It isn't a fast-food restaurant like they'd hoped. It's one of those weird roadside curio shops that sell lawn flamingos, wooden Indians, cement grizzly bears, and stuff like that. The main building is a long, low warehouse, surrounded by acres of statuary. The neon sign above the gate is impossible for Melia to read, because if there's anything worse than regular English, it's red cursive neon English. ATNYU MES GDERAN GOMEN MEPROUIM is all she can make out, the letters buzzing slightly as they flicker in and out.

"Why can't more things be in Greek," she murmurs before looking to Grover. "What does that actually say?"

Grover squints at the sign before translating, "Aunty Em's Garden Gnome Emporium."

Flanking the entrance, as advertised, are two cement garden gnomes, ugly bearded little runts, smiling and waving, as if they were about to get their picture taken. Their painted eyes seem to follow them, and the smiles look a little too wide, a little too frozen, as if mocking them.

"The lights are on inside," Annabeth says, her voice sounding both hopeful and cautious. "Maybe it's open."

Annabeth and Ellie start walking forward, Melia only a half step behind, part of her mind screeching in warning, but something about it feels muted for some reason. It feels like she's trudging through mud, her instincts dulled by the heavy atmosphere that seems to cling to them the closer they get.

The front lot is a forest of statues: cement animals, cement children, even a cement satyr playing the pipes, which gives Grover the creeps. "Bla-ha-ha!" he bleats, his voice cracking with nervous laughter. "Looks like my Uncle Ferdinand!"

Annabeth gets to the warehouse door first, waiting patiently for the others. Melia starts to feel a little more off as they get closer, her unease growing like a tightening knot in her chest.

"Don't knock," Grover pleads, his voice almost a whisper. "I smell monsters."

"Your nose is clogged up from the Furies," Annabeth tells him, brushing off his concern. "All I smell is burgers. Aren't you hungry?"

"Meat!" he says scornfully, his eyes narrowing. "I'm a vegetarian."

The door creaks open, and Melia knows instantly something is wrong. The air that rushes out is too cold, carrying a strange dampness that has nothing to do with the rain outside. Standing in front of them is a tall Middle Eastern woman—at least, Melia assumes she is Middle Eastern, because she wears a long black gown that covers everything but her hands, and her head is completely veiled. Her eyes glint behind a curtain of black gauze, but that is about all Melia can make out. She smells like a reptile, giving Melia the feeling of something sliding over her skin with its scales, the sensation making her shiver involuntarily.

"Children, it is too late to be out all alone. Where are your parents?" the woman asks, her voice dripping with false sweetness, like honey masking something bitter beneath.

"They're... um..." Annabeth starts to say, her voice faltering under the woman's gaze.

"Trying to find a gas station, our car broke down," Melia quickly interjects, taking a cautious step back from the woman. She tries to grab Annabeth’s and Ellie's hands, but they shrug her off and give her an annoyed look.

They instead step closer to the woman with big smiles, their eyes slightly glazed. "Is that food I smell? We haven’t had a chance to eat yet," Ellie says, her voice unnaturally cheerful.

"Oh, my dears," the woman says, her tone syrupy, almost as if she's speaking to toddlers. "You must come in, poor children. I am Aunty Em. Go straight through to the back of the warehouse, please. There is a dining area, and I have a phone you can use to tell your... parents where you are."

Everything fades away the closer they get to the food, and Melia forgets what she was worried about. The scent is overwhelming, clouding her thoughts with hunger, her stomach growling insistently. She moves towards the dining area, practically salivating, her earlier concerns slipping away like water through her fingers. And sure enough, there it is at the back of the warehouse—a fast-food counter with a grill, a soda fountain, a pretzel heater, and a nacho cheese dispenser. Everything you could want, plus a few steel picnic tables set up in front.

"Please, sit down," the woman says, her voice almost musical, and you could just tell she is smiling beneath the veil.

They don’t hesitate to follow her order, their legs moving as if on autopilot.

"Um," Grover says reluctantly, looking uneasy, "we don't have any money, ma'am."

Before Melia can tell him she has some, Aunty Em waves her hand dismissively. "No, no, children. No money, not for such lost children. You must be starving!"

"Thank you, ma’am," Annabeth says as she sits next to Melia, and Aunty Em turns her gaze on her. Her eyes are dark, almost like bottomless pits, and Melia feels a chill despite the warmth of the room.

Somehow, her voice gets even softer as she whispers, "Of course, dear. You have such beautiful grey eyes, child. They remind me of a friend I had long ago." Then she stiffens, her hands pausing for just a moment before she straightens up and relaxes again, like it never happened. "I should get cooking, yes?"

In just fifteen minutes, she brings out plastic trays heaped with double cheeseburgers, vanilla shakes, and XXL servings of French fries. There is even a collection of cans for Grover, which is nice, though for some reason she tries to play it off as recycling she needed to take out, her laugh sounding forced.

Melia is halfway through her burger before she remembers to breathe. The warmth spreads through her body, and she devours each bite, barely pausing between mouthfuls.

Annabeth slurps her shake, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Ellie devours her burger simillary to Melia, the burger disapearing in a few bites.

Grover picks at the fries, his eyes darting around nervously. He eyes the tray's waxed paper liner as if he might go for that instead, but he still looks too on edge to eat. "What's that hissing noise?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

Melia listens, her senses tingling as something scratches at the edge of her awareness. Annabeth shakes her head when Melia looks at her, her eyes a little unfocused.

"Hissing?" Aunty Em repeats, her voice innocent, almost amused. "Perhaps you hear the deep-fryer oil. You have keen ears, Grover."

"I take vitamins. For my ears," Grover says, his voice trembling slightly.

"That's admirable," she says, her tone almost patronizing. "But please, relax."

They eat in silence for a while, with Aunty Em sitting across from them, her hands folded neatly in her lap. It might have felt weird to have someone watch over them as they ate, but Melia is too busy devouring what she can reach to care. The food is good—too good. It feels comforting, almost unnaturally so, and her eyelids grow heavier with each bite.

Annabeth seems to be in the same boat as Melia and Ellie, but she finishes eating first and starts leaning on the table, her head drooping slightly. All that food is making them sleepy. "Why did you get into statues?" Annabeth asks, her voice slurred.

"They capture the truth, do they not?" Aunty Em replies, her voice wistful. "And gnomes are supposed to protect people, and that’s all I wanted to do. Protect people." She places her hands on the table and drags a nail over the top lightly, the sound making Melia shiver. "Is that so wrong?"

"No, of course not," Annabeth assures her, smiling sleepily, her eyes half-closed.

"Once upon a time, I had two sisters to help me in the business," Aunty Em says, her voice growing softer, almost hypnotic, "but they have passed on, and Aunty Em is alone. I have only my statues. They will have to protect me." The sadness in her voice sounds so deep and so real that Melia can't help feeling sorry for her, her heart aching with sympathy.

Annabeth jerks her head up just as Melia pushes her own plate away. "Two sisters?" she asks, her brow furrowing as if something is nagging at her memory.

Melia's senses finally kick into gear, her brain screaming in warning as Aunty Em steps closer to Annabeth, her shadow falling over the table.

"It's a terrible story," Aunty Em says, her voice almost a whisper. "Not one for children, really. You see, Annabeth, long ago, when I was young. I worked for this wonderful woman, you know, but... something terrible happened." She shifts, her shoulders tensing as if remembering something painful. "She blamed me for what happened. My sisters stayed by me, so I was not so alone to suffer."

"Melia? Our parents are probably back at the car now, we should go before they get worried." Annabeth sounds scared, her voice cracking slightly, and Melia can't help but agree, her instincts roaring back to life, her muscles tensing.

"Such beautiful grey eyes," Aunty Em murmurs, her gaze fixed on Annabeth. "My, yes, it has been a long time since I've seen gray eyes like those." She reaches out as if to stroke Annabeth's cheek, but Annabeth stands up abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the concrete floor.

"We really should go," Annabeth says, her voice louder, more forceful.

"Yes!" Grover swallows his waxed paper and stands up quickly, his eyes wide with fear. "Our parents are waiting! Right!"

Before any of them can move to the door, Aunty Em is behind Ellie, her hand resting on the young girl's head, her fingers curling slightly in a way that makes Melia's skin crawl. She pats Ellie's head slowly, almost mockingly, and Melia feels a deep growl rising in her throat, her teeth sharpening into fangs.

"Stay," Aunty Em says, her voice silky and commanding. "I am sure you wouldn't want anything to happen to your companion when they can't even defend themselves." Her hand moves through Ellie's hair, her fingers twining with the strands as if to hold her in place.

"What do you want?" Melia growls out, her voice low and dangerous, her scales starting to shimmer under her skin, the warning signs of her divine traits coming forth.

"Just a pose, dear," Aunty Em says, her tone sweet but her eyes cold. "Children are so popular, you see. Everyone loves children. And then you’ll be allowed to leave." Her hand finally leaves Ellie's hair, and the girl takes a shaky breath, her eyes wide with confusion and fear.

Melia glances over to Annabeth, who is as much on guard and on edge as Melia is. Annabeth's hand twitches towards her knife, her eyes locked on Aunty Em. Melia meets Annabeth's gaze for a moment, a silent agreement passing between them, before turning back to the woman. "Fine," she says, her voice steady despite the tension in her body.

Grover bleats in worry, his eyes darting between Melia and Aunty Em as he follows their lead, his heart pounding in his chest.

Aunty Em guides Ellie in front of her, her hand resting gently on the young girl's shoulder as if she were leading her to a family portrait. She directs Ellie to sit on a worn-looking park bench, its paint chipped and peeling. The bench itself looks almost like another one of her statues, as if it belonged there, a permanent fixture amidst all the cement figures. The way Aunty Em moves feels almost too graceful, her hands light and deliberate, every motion carefully calculated.

"Please, children, make yourselves comfortable," Aunty Em says, her voice a melodic hum, rich and commanding at once. Her fingers brush across Ellie's shoulder, and Ellie sits down, her movements stiff, almost as if she is compelled. The others look on with hesitant expressions, a flicker of confusion passing over Grover's face as his nose wrinkles, the uneasy scent still making his instincts stir.

Melia feels her hand wanting to reach into her pocket to grab Riptide, her pulse thrumming with a sense of wrongness that she can't shake. But she knows that any sudden movement might tip Aunty Em off, might lead to consequences they aren't prepared for. Instead, she rubs her thumb over the smooth surface of the ring on her finger, feeling the storm inside it like a tether keeping her grounded. Her gaze locks onto Aunty Em, watching her every step, every motion.

"Not much light for a photo," Annabeth says, her body tense, her eyes scanning their surroundings. She's standing by the edge of the group, her weight shifting from one foot to the other, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. Her voice holds a note of suspicion, like she's trying to prod Aunty Em without giving herself away.

Aunty Em chuckles, a sound that seems almost rehearsed. "Oh, enough," she says, her hands lifting towards her veil, her fingers curling around the fabric. "Enough to see each other."

Melia's heart lurches in her chest as her instincts scream at her, the pieces snapping into place. "Look away!" she shouts, her voice breaking through the fog that had clouded her mind, and she lunges forward, tackling Ellie off the bench. They roll across the gravel, Melia shielding Ellie's head with her arms as they come to a stop behind one of the larger statues. She can hear Annabeth vanish into invisibility, the soft hiss of her cap activating.

"Run!" Grover bleats, his voice high-pitched and panicked. Melia hears him racing across the gravel, his sneakers skidding as he tries to gain momentum. "Maia!" he yells, and she knows he's trying to kick-start his flying sneakers, the flapping sound reaching her ears as they lift him off the ground.

Melia glances to the side, her breath catching as she spots one of those glass spheres people put in gardens—a gazing ball. She can see Aunty Em's dark reflection in the orange glass; her headdress is gone, revealing her face as a shimmering pale circle. Her hair is moving, writhing like serpents, and Melia feels her stomach twist with both fear and anger.

Greek curses slip from her lips, her voice a harsh whisper, the realization crashing into her like a wave. She should have realized. It should have been obvious. "The Gray-Eyed One did this to me, Melia," Medusa—Aunty Em—says, her voice echoing with a sorrow that seems almost genuine. She doesn't sound like a monster; she sounds like a storyteller, like someone sharing a piece of herself. "Annabeth's mother turned me from a beautiful woman into this. To protect me from your father, and to protect women like me."

"Don't listen to her!" Annabeth's voice shouts, her tone desperate, her footsteps barely audible amidst the chaos. "Run, Melia!"

Melia growls, a sound that comes from deep within her chest, her focus sharpening as she keeps Ellie pressed close, her eyes locked on the reflection. She moves, keeping herself and Ellie behind cover, knowing she can't afford to let her guard down, not now. Medusa's voice continues, growing softer, almost soothing, as if she were coaxing a frightened child.

"Do you really want to help the gods?" Medusa asks, her words wrapping around Melia like vines. "Do you understand what awaits you on this foolish quest, Melia? What will happen if you reach the Underworld? Do not be a pawn of the Olympians, my dear. You would be better off as a statue. Less pain. Less pain. For everyone."

"Melia!" Grover's voice breaks through, and she hears a buzzing sound, almost like a cartoon character flying through the air. She turns, and there he is, the night sky behind him, his winged shoes fluttering as he holds a tree branch the size of a baseball bat. His eyes are shut tight, his head twitching from side to side, navigating by ears and nose alone.

"Duck!" he yells again, his voice carrying an edge of panic. "I'll get her!"

Melia pushes Ellie down with her, the two of them dropping to the ground as Grover swoops in above them, the branch swinging. The impact echoes through the air, a loud thwack as it connects with Medusa. She roars, her voice filled with rage, and Melia feels a strange sense of relief, her thoughts clearing.

"You miserable satyr," Medusa snarls, her voice filled with venom. "I'll add you to my collection!"

"That was for Uncle Ferdinand!" Grover yells back, his voice filled with determination, his shoes fluttering as he goes in for another pass. Melia scrambles away, pulling Ellie with her, her heart pounding as she dives behind a statue for cover.

The sound of footsteps on gravel reaches her ears, and before she can react, an invisible hand grabs her, dragging both her and Ellie fully behind the statue. Annabeth takes off her Yankees cap, becoming visible once again, her eyes wide with fear and determination.

"I can explain later, but right now, one of us needs to cut off her head." Annabeth's voice is low, her eyes darting between Melia and Ellie. She wrings her hands together, glancing behind her, her expression grim. "You and Ellie have the better weapons. A sword is long enough; you should avoid the claws."

Melia nods, flicking the ring on her finger with her thumb, letting it transform fully into Maelstrom. The silver blade catches the dim light, rippling like water as she readies herself. "Okay. Look after Ellie. She seems to have gotten the brunt of it when we snapped out of it."

Annabeth hums, her eyes scanning the surroundings, and she grabs a green gazing ball from a nearby pedestal. "A polished shield would be better," she mutters, studying the sphere critically. "The convexity will cause some distortion. The reflection's size should be off by a factor of—"

"Would you speak English?" Melia grumbles, her eyes locked on Medusa, who is still distracted by Grover.

"I am!" Annabeth snaps, tossing Melia the glass ball. "Just look at her in the glass and never look at her directly. I'll help Grover distract her if you think you can get close."

"Hey, guys!" Grover yells somewhere above them, his voice filled with both excitement and fear. "I think she's unconscious!"

A guttural roar shakes the ground, and Grover quickly amends, "Maybe not!"

"Hurry," Annabeth urges, her voice tight. "Grover's got a great nose, but he'll eventually crash."

Melia nods, her fingers tightening around Maelstrom's hilt. She steps out from cover, her eyes locked on the glass ball, her breath coming in shallow bursts. Grover is swooping down for another run at Medusa, but without Melia and Annabeth grabbing her attention, Medusa manages to catch the stick mid-swing, throwing Grover into the arms of a stone grizzly bear with a painful "Ummphh!"

Medusa is about to lunge at him when Annabeth's voice rings out, taunting and filled with anger.

"Hey! Why are you doing this? Your powers were supposed to be a gift, used to protect women! When did you become this monster?" Annabeth's voice echoes, disembodied, and Melia knows she's still invisible, using every ounce of stealth she has to keep Medusa's focus away from them.

Medusa pauses, her body tensing, her head turning towards the sound. "Men made me what I am!" she yells, her voice filled with fury. "In Greece, I had purpose. I could do something! And then men twisted my story, said I led him into your mother's temple. Perseus killed me because I was a powerful woman, and even in your 'modern civilization,' we are still nothing! My girls have their hijabs torn off, their burkas spit on, their hair called 'unprofessional' just because it isn't white." Her voice cracks, a rawness to it that sends a chill down Melia's spine.

Melia hesitates, her grip on Maelstrom tightening. The words sink into her, a strange sense of empathy gnawing at her resolve. She remembers the way people looked at her and her mum, the comments about her "behavioural problems" being blamed on being raised by a single mother. The dreams she's had of packs of men circling, of a woman guarding a bed grown from a tree, and the blood-stained halls.

"Don't listen to her!" Annabeth's voice rings out again, sharp and desperate.

"Too late!" Medusa cackles, her laughter echoing through the garden, a sound filled with both triumph and bitterness.

Melia growls, the sound almost feral as she forces herself to move. She snaps her sword arm upwards, her muscles coiling as she channels every ounce of her strength into the swing. The Atlantean silver cuts through the air, biting into Medusa's neck with a sickening thud. There is a horrible noise, a mixture of a hiss and a gasp, before her head is severed, rolling towards Melia's shoes before the rest of her body crumbles to dust.

Annabeth appears beside her, her eyes fixed on the sky, her hands trembling slightly as she holds Medusa's black veil. "Don't move," she says, her voice barely a whisper. Very, very carefully, without looking down, she kneels and drapes the monster's head in the black cloth, her hands steady despite the tremor in her voice. She lifts it, the head still dripping green ichor. "Are you okay?" she asks, her voice softening as she looks at Melia.

"Yeah... I am," Melia says, her breath coming out in a shaky exhale. She forces a smile, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "How is Ellie?"

"I'm good," Ellie groans, pushing herself up, her eyes still slightly glazed. "If annoyed I missed the fight."

Grover climbs down from the statue he'd been hugging, adjusting his rasta cap with a sheepish grin. "Why did no one listen to me when I said that place smelled like monsters?" he grumbles, his eyes narrowing playfully. Melia chooses to ignore the comment in favour of giving him a fist bump, a grin spreading across her face.

"Your flying skills were pretty impressive," she says, and Grover blushes, his ears twitching. "That really was not fun, though. Well, the hitting-her-with-a-stick part, that was fun. But crashing into a concrete bear? Not fun."

They collect themselves, their breaths slowly evening out, the adrenaline beginning to fade as they make their way back into the warehouse and away from the garden of statues. Annabeth takes charge of securing Medusa's head, her hands working quickly, her movements efficient as she wraps it in layers of plastic, her face set in concentration.

They stare at the ball of plastic for a long moment, the weight of what just happened settling over them, the silence thick and heavy.

"What are we going to do with it?" Grover finally asks, his voice hesitant, his eyes flicking between the others.

Melia takes a deep breath, her emotions churning violently, a storm brewing inside her chest, anger bubbling just beneath the surface like a restless tide. She feels the weight of everything pressing down on her—anger at her father for his role in Medusa's story and the many like it, for his mistakes that she feels she will be forced to pay for. Anger at the gods for their arrogance, their detachment, for playing games with mortals like pieces on a chessboard. Medusa’s words claw at her mind, the bitterness of truth in them stinging more deeply than she wants to admit. The injustice of it, the way powerful women were vilified, twisted into monsters, while men walked away as heroes. It gnaws at her, digs its claws in and refuses to let go. And most of all, she’s angry at herself—for leading her friends into danger, for hesitating, for nearly succumbing to Medusa's persuasive words. Her heart aches with the weight of responsibility, her sense of failure adding fuel to the fire within her. She stands, her jaw set, her eyes narrowing with a fierce resolve. This anger is hers, and she will channel it, wield it like a weapon.

"I'll be back," she mutters, her voice tight.

"Melia," Annabeth calls after her, her brow furrowing, "what are you—"

Melia doesn't answer, tearing through Medusa's office, snatching up an address for the Underworld, stuffing her bag with cash, and slipping golden drachmas into the leather pouch attached to the packing slip. She moves with purpose, each action a way to channel her frustration, her anger. Once she's done, she returns to the picnic table, her jaw clenched.

She packs up Medusa's head, filling out a delivery slip. There's a sound like a cash register, and the package floats off the table, disappearing with a pop!

"They're not going to like that," Grover warns, his voice quiet. "They'll think you're impertinent."

"I am impertinent," Melia says, her voice hard, daring anyone to disagree.

Annabeth meets her gaze, her eyes searching Melia's for a moment before she simply nods. Ellie grins, her eyes filled with pride.

"Come on," Annabeth mutters, her voice resigned but determined. "We need a new plan."

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

X

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

Melia hates the new plan. None of them are comfortable staying in the warehouse despite it being mostly free of statues, so they end up camping out in the middle of the woods. Between Melia and Ellie, they manage to pull the water from their clothes and bags, drying themselves off to the best of their abilities. They might have had enough cash to splurge for a motel if there had been one around, but it would have cost them most of their money, and the woods seem like the better choice—safer, in a strange way.

As they leave the Gnome Emporium behind, Melia feels the final oily tendrils of Medusa's magic slipping from her mind. The oppressive fog lifts, leaving her thoughts raw and exposed, and she's forced to reckon with what remains. Medusa's words linger, a poisonous echo that feels both painfully real and distorted. Each step away from the stone garden brings a clearer understanding, but it also sharpens the conflict within her. How much of what she felt had truly been her own, and how much had been twisted by Medusa's power?

Melia looks ahead, watching Annabeth's determined stride, her body language tense as if still expecting an attack from the shadows. Grover walks nearby, his gaze darting nervously to every sound in the woods. Ellie keeps glancing back towards her, her eyes full of worry. But Melia keeps her gaze low, staring at the dirt path beneath her feet, her mind replaying Medusa's words over and over again. It gnaws at her, that strange sense of understanding—the way Medusa spoke of betrayal, of being punished for power and beauty, the injustice of it all. There was truth in that, an undeniable truth that made Melia's heart twist painfully.

She can feel the empathy bubbling within her, the deep sorrow at how Medusa was used and then discarded. Melia thinks of the myths, the stories of gods and heroes. She thinks of Athena’s supposed protection of her temple—a so-called punishment to shield Medusa from Poseidon's advances, an action that ended up cursing her forever. There was something about the gods' interference that always turned everything sour, that left the mortals and even lesser immortals like Medusa to suffer the consequences.

But then, as she breathes in the cold night air, she tries to untangle her own thoughts from the bitterness Medusa's magic had planted in her mind. Without that oily, creeping presence clouding her senses, Melia can see the fractures in Medusa's narrative, the places where time and pain have twisted her view. The truth was not as simple as Medusa had painted it—a narrative of powerful men and envious gods oppressing those they feared. Melia knows that pain and injustice don’t always align along the lines of gender, that evil and goodness aren’t assigned by one's station or identity.

Even in the few years Melia has lived, she knows better. She has seen men and women alike act with both cruelty and kindness. She thinks of her mum, who faced prejudice and hatred, not because she was a woman but because she was different to 'normal'. She thinks of Penelope, a woman whose story has always called to Melia, and of her holding off the suitors—men who saw her as nothing but a prize—with a strength and cleverness that went beyond gender.

And then Melia thinks of herself, standing in that warehouse, listening to Medusa speak of men twisting her story. She had felt it, the pull of those words, the way they resonated with the injustice she had seen. But there was something twisted there, something poisoned by the years of isolation and rage. Medusa's hatred had grown indiscriminate—a fury that saw all men as villains, all women as victims. That wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Melia knew people, good and bad, brave and cowardly, kind and cruel, and none of it had to do with being male or female.

She looks over at Ellie, who catches her gaze and smiles, tired but reassuring. Ellie's bravery, her willingness to stand beside her through everything, isn’t because she’s a woman. It’s because she cares. And Annabeth, with her sharp edges and brilliant mind, isn’t just a girl defying the expectations placed upon her—she’s a strategist, a warrior, a friend. And Melia—she isn’t just a daughter trying to prove herself in a man's world. She’s someone who cares deeply, who loves fiercely, who refuses to let those she calls hers be hurt.

Medusa's story is one of pain, but it is also one of bitterness that has become corrosive, eating away at the truth until only the hurt remains. Melia can understand that—she can see how it happened. But she also knows she cannot let herself fall into that same pit of despair. Her pain will not define her. Her anger will not consume her. She will not allow herself to become twisted by hatred, to see the world in the black-and-white terms that Medusa had embraced.

As they continue walking, Melia's mind flashes back to the myths she grew up with. She remembers the different versions of Medusa's tale—in some, she was a monster from the beginning, a Gorgon born to terrorize men. In others, she was a beautiful priestess, devoted to Athena, until Poseidon's violation turned her life into a nightmare. The stories were never consistent, always shifting depending on who told them. And that was the way of myths, wasn't it? The truth, if it existed at all, was buried beneath layers of fear, power, and manipulation. Just like Medusa's version of her own story—twisted, warped by centuries of pain.

Melia's heart aches as she thinks of Medusa's loneliness, the years spent isolated and hunted. She knows what it feels like to be different, to be judged for things beyond her control. She thinks of her own struggles, of the whispers behind her back at camp, the distrust she sometimes felt simply because she wasn't like everyone else. There were times when she, too, had felt that bitterness creeping in, the temptation to hate those who hated her, to let her anger consume her. But she had her mum, she had her friends, and that made all the difference.

"You okay?" Ellie's voice breaks through her thoughts, and Melia realizes she's stopped walking, her fists clenched at her sides. She forces herself to release them, to let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

"Yeah," she says, giving Ellie a small smile. "I’m okay. Just… thinking."

Ellie studies her for a moment, then nods. "We did what we had to do," she says quietly, her eyes softening. "It’s okay to feel conflicted about it."

Melia looks at her, really looks at her, and feels a warmth bloom in her chest. Not the rage, not the despair that Medusa had tried to feed her, but something stronger. Something good.

"Thanks," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the rustle of the trees. And with that, she takes a step forward, leaving behind the shadow of Medusa's words, choosing instead to walk towards whatever comes next, surrounded by her friends, her family. Whatever they faced, they would face it together—and that, she realized, was what made all the difference.

The night air is cold, but it feels cleansing, a stark contrast to the stifling, oppressive atmosphere of the Gnome Emporium. The farther they move away, the more Melia feels herself returning to who she is—not a vessel for Medusa's rage, but Melia Jackson, daughter of Sally Jackson, daughter of the sea, and someone determined to forge her own path. The trees around them whisper in the wind, the forest alive with sounds that feel comforting, grounding. She may not have all the answers, but she knows who she is, and that is enough.

Melia glances at Annabeth, her sharp eyes scanning the forest, always on guard, always ready. And Grover, his ears twitching, the ever-watchful protector. And Ellie, walking beside her, unwavering in her support. These are her people, her family. They aren’t perfect—they argue, they make mistakes—but they are hers. And together, they will face whatever comes next.

With each step, the weight of Medusa's influence fades further, replaced by a sense of purpose. They have a quest, a mission, and Melia knows that it won't be easy. There will be more challenges, more enemies, more moments that will test her resolve. But she won't face them alone, and she won't let the bitterness of others dictate who she becomes.

She is Melia Jackson, and she will keep moving forward, no matter what. The gods may play their games, twist stories to suit their purposes, but she won't be a pawn. She will write her own story, one step at a time, surrounded by those who matter most.

Once they stop for the night they decide to sleep in shifts. Melia volunteers to take the first watch, and Annabeth quickly agrees, rolling over on her pile of blankets to give her back to Melia. She is snoring as soon as her head hits the ground. Ellie hesitates for a moment before conceding, falling asleep almost as soon as she lies down.

Grover flutters with his flying shoes to the lowest bough of a tree, putting his back to the trunk, his gaze fixed on the night sky.

"You’re getting pretty good at that," Melia says, her voice low, trying to offer a lightness to the tension that still lingers.

He doesn’t even smile, his eyes still on the sky, something like longing reflected in them. His expression seems weighed down by sadness, a deep melancholy that clings to him like the night mist. "It makes me sad, Melia." His voice is soft, almost mournful.

Melia frowns, the weight of his sadness settling on her shoulders too. "What does? The sky?" she asks, trying to understand. All she sees is darkness, a few clouds floating over the moon, the shadows of branches swaying in the breeze.

"You can't even see the stars," Grover says, his voice trembling. "Humans have polluted the sky to the point that the stars are gone. This is a terrible time to be a satyr."

Melia doesn’t know what to say. She thinks of the rivers she’s seen running brown through New York, the plastic in the fish that made her choke when she tried to eat it. The way the wild places always seem smaller, threatened by the constant creep of human expansion. She wants to tell him she understands, but the words feel empty, so instead, she just sits there, staring up at the starless sky, her heart heavy.

Grover looks down at her, tears brimming in his eyes, angry tears that Melia knows aren’t aimed at her. “Your species is clogging up the world so fast... ah, never mind. It's useless to lecture a human. At the rate things are going, I'll never find Pan."

A strange breeze rustles through the clearing, carrying with it a scent that seems out of place—berries, wildflowers, clean rainwater. It's a fleeting moment, a whisper of what the world might have once been, and something inside Melia aches, a deep yearning for something she’s never known. The breeze fades, and with it, the sense of nostalgia, leaving only the damp night air and the distant rustle of leaves.

Melia shifts slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me about Pan." It’s the only thing she can think to say, the only way she knows to help. The way Grover talks about his search—it’s not just a mission. It’s like he’s a child looking for his father, someone he believes can make everything right again. She understands that feeling—the way she used to think her mum could do anything, could make sunshine appear just by smiling. Grover's belief in Pan feels the same—pure, hopeful, like a beacon in the darkness.

Grover’s gaze lifts back to the sky, his jaw clenched, determination shining through his sadness. “I'll succeed. I'll be the first searcher to return alive."

"Hang on—the first?" Melia asks, her brow furrowing.

Grover takes his reed pipes out of his pocket, his fingers brushing over them absentmindedly. "No searcher has ever come back. Once they set out, they disappear. They're never seen alive again."

"Not once in two thousand years?"

"No."

"But you still want to go," Melia says, a soft smile tugging at her lips despite the heaviness of the topic. She realizes, in that moment, how lucky she is to have Grover—to have someone who would risk everything, who would believe in something so fiercely. And she knows, deep down, that she’ll help him find Pan, even if it means living in the woods forever. Because he’s hers—her best friend, and she won’t let him fail.

"I have to believe that I’ll be the one to find him," Grover says, his voice thick with emotion. "Every searcher does. We have to believe that he’s out there waiting for us—maybe asleep, or weak, but still there. And if we can just find him…"

"You will," Melia declares, her voice steady, her eyes locked on his. "You’ll find him, and no more satyrs will have to disappear. The wilds will have someone to look after them again."

Grover smiles, a small, grateful smile that makes Melia’s chest feel warm. “Thanks, Melia.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, the kind of silence that only comes when words aren’t needed. The night is quiet, the occasional rustle of leaves the only sound. Melia almost thinks Grover has fallen asleep, the way his head tilts slightly, his eyes half-lidded.

But then he shifts, his gaze still on the sky. “Back at Medusa's, Annabeth and I agreed there's something strange going on with this quest. Something isn't what it seems."

“What do you mean?” Melia asks, her brow furrowing, her senses sharpening at his words.

“The Fur—The Kindly Ones were sort of holding back. Like Mrs. Dodds at Yancy Academy... why did she wait so long to try to kill you? Then on the bus, they just weren't as aggressive as they could've been."

Melia nods, her mind replaying the events, the way the Furies seemed almost hesitant, as if they were searching for something beyond just her. “They seemed plenty aggressive to me," she says, her voice tinged with unease.

Grover shakes his head, his expression pensive. "They were screeching at us: 'Where is it? Where?' They weren’t just after you, Melia. Annabeth and I, we both felt like they were searching for something—a specific object, not just a person."

Melia’s stomach sinks, a sense of unease creeping over her. "That doesn't make sense," she mutters, her thoughts swirling with questions that have no answers.

"I know," Grover says, his voice filled with frustration. "But if we've misunderstood something about this quest, and we only have nine days to find the master bolt..." He looks at her, his eyes searching hers, as if hoping she might have some kind of answer, some clarity.

Melia shakes her head, her gut churning. There’s something more going on—something beneath the surface that she can’t quite grasp. Her instincts tell her that Hades isn’t behind this, that her father isn’t to blame either, but she can’t explain why she knows that. It’s just a feeling, deep and certain, like a truth she’s always known. “Maybe they thought we had something important? Or did the Rich One lose the bolt? Or maybe he never had it in the first place.” She shrugs, her legs aching from sitting on the hard ground, her feet numb. She kicks her legs into the blankets, trying to get some feeling back. Finally, she sighs, her gaze dropping to the ground. "I haven’t been straight with you, Grover. I don’t care about the master bolt. I agreed to go to the Underworld so I could bring back my mother."

Grover blows a soft note on his pipes, his gaze gentle as he looks at her. "I know that, Melia. But are you sure that's the only reason?"

Melia hesitates, her eyes flicking to the sleeping forms of Annabeth and Ellie. She takes a deep breath. "Fine. I'm also doing it to protect my cabinmates from suffering any shared blame, and Atlantis from the looming war. They claimed me as theirs." Her voice wavers slightly, but there’s a steeliness beneath the vulnerability.

Grover gazes down from his tree branch, his eyes kind. "Look, Melia, I'm not as smart as Annabeth. I'm not as brave as you. But I'm pretty good at reading emotions. You want him to notice you. That's why you mailed Medusa's head to Olympus."

Melia’s eyes narrow, her heart clenching. "Yeah? Well, maybe satyr emotions work differently than human emotions. Because you're wrong. I didn’t do it for notice. I was angry. Besides, I haven't done anything worth bragging about. We barely got out of New York, and now we're stuck here with barely any money and no way west."

Grover looks at the night sky, his expression thoughtful. "How about I take first watch, huh? You get some sleep."

Melia wants to protest, to argue that she’s fine, that she doesn’t need rest. But Grover starts to play his reed pipes, a soft tune that fills the night air, gentle and soothing. It’s Mozart—Piano Concerto no. 12, soft and sweet, and the notes wrap around her like a blanket, comforting and warm. She turns away, her eyes stinging, her body finally giving in to exhaustion. After a few bars, her eyes close, and she drifts off to sleep, the music carrying her into dreams.

Melia's dreams lead her to the ocean, and for the first time, she feels unsafe being surrounded by water. The deep blue stretches out endlessly, and a trench lies before her, dark and foreboding, descending further and further until it vanishes into nothingness. She knows, with a sickening certainty, that if she falls in, she will never come back out. The sea that has always embraced her with its gentle currents now seems eager to swallow her whole.

"Interesting," a voice booms from the depths of the trench, vibrating through the water, forcing her to stumble backwards. Melia's feet slip on the slick seabed, the rock scraping against her heels. "You should have seen the Underworld."

She tries to reply, maybe make a sarcastic comment or tell the voice off, but her lips won’t part. They feel as though they are glued together, heavy and immovable. She tries to lift a hand to touch her mouth, but her limbs are useless, like weights that anchor her to the ground. Her instinct is to float, to let the water lift her, but her body won’t cooperate. She is trapped there, her feet rooted to the ocean floor.

"It matters not, little hero," the voice continues, rumbling like a distant quake, each word reverberating through her bones. "You will come find me. You can feel the pull, can't you?"

She can see bubbles escaping from the trench, rising lazily toward the surface. They shimmer, twisting and swirling like iridescent soap bubbles, and for a moment, they are hypnotic. The voice is low, almost soothing, drawing her forward, calling her closer. Her feet slide an inch towards the edge of the trench, and a primal panic claws at her, her pulse quickening as she struggles to resist.

"Come closer, little demigod," the voice whispers, more insistent now, coaxing. "Help me rise."

A chill runs down her spine, making her skin prickle beneath the water, and something about the entire scene makes her teeth feel wrong in her mouth. They feel too large, as though they don't quite fit. She wants to scream, to wrench herself away from that void, but her body won't obey. Her feet continue to slip forward, inch by inch, no matter how desperately she tries to resist. The voice laughs, a cold, hollow sound that fills the ocean around her.

"They have misled you, girl," it says. The voice is rich with an almost paternal warmth, though it chills her more than the icy water pressing in around her. "Barter with me. I will give you what you want."

What does she want?

A shimmering image appears over the void, flickering like a mirage—her mother, her form frozen at the exact moment she had dissolved into a shower of golden light. Her face is twisted with pain, her eyes wide with terror, her hands reaching out as if she could somehow grab onto her. Her gaze pierces through Melia, pleading silently: 'Go.'

She wants to reach for her, wants to pull her away from that horrible moment. But she can’t. Her lips won’t part, her voice is trapped inside her, smothered under the weight of that trench.

The laughter echoes louder, colder. “Bring me the bolt, little hero. Strike a blow against the treacherous gods! Help me, and I shall give her back to you.”

The image of her mother flickers, her pain-stricken face imprinted in Melia's mind, and the pull towards the trench becomes overwhelming. Her feet shift again, her body no longer her own, sliding closer, closer—

“No!” The scream tears itself from her throat, finally breaking free, and she bolts upright, her heart pounding wildly. Her eyes snap open to find Annabeth leaning over her, her eyes wide, startled.

"Well," Annabeth says, her voice dry, "the zombie lives."

Melia glares at her, the lingering fear and anger from the dream still clinging to her, making her hands shake. She sucks in a deep breath, trying to force it all down. "How long was I asleep?"

"Long enough for me to cook breakfast." Annabeth tosses her a bag of nacho-flavored corn chips from Aunty Em's stash. "And Grover went exploring. Look, he found a friend."

Melia blinks, trying to clear the sleep from her eyes, her vision blurry. But her nose catches it before she can see clearly—a dog. The pink blanket in Grover’s lap shifts, and it yaps at her, a tiny, shrill sound. As her vision focuses, she sees the little creature—a toy poodle, its fur dyed bright pink, its eyes beady and suspicious.

"Huh?" She rubs at her eyes, frowning.

Grover smiles, petting the poodle, though there is an edge of sadness to him, his expression strained. "No, she's not a threat," he murmurs to the dog before looking up at Melia. "This," he says, giving her a pointed look, "is our ticket west. Be nice to him. Melia, meet Gladiola. Gladiola, Melia."

"Hi," Melia says, raising an eyebrow at the tiny dog. "I promise I won’t hurt you. You’re not big enough to eat anyway." The poodle stops growling, though it doesn't look entirely convinced. Grover rolls his eyes at her, and Annabeth lets out a sigh, her expression half-amused, half-exasperated.

Grover pets Gladiola, his fingers scratching behind the poodle's ears. "I found him wandering around in the woods. I decided to talk to him. I've only had you two for company for way too long." He smirks, giving Melia a look.

Melia rolls her eyes, ignoring the jab. "And how is Gladiola going to help us?"

"He ran away from his family," Grover explains, his voice softening. "But they're local and well-off. They posted a $200 reward for his return. Gladiola doesn’t really want to go back to his family, but he’s willing to if it means helping us."

She eyes the tiny dog. He yawns, showing his tiny teeth. "Why run away if you were living in luxury?" she asks him, even though she doesn’t expect an answer.

The poodle yaps, and Grover translates, "They kept dressing him in sweaters. And he hated the kibble."

Melia snorts, shaking her head. "Okay. Cool. So we get some extra money. What does that do for us?"

"We turn in Gladiola," Annabeth explains, her tone shifting to that of a strategist, her eyes focused and sharp, "we get some money, and we buy tickets to Los Angeles. Simple."

"Not another bus," Melia says, her body tensing at the thought of the last one.

"No," Annabeth says, her lips twitching into a small smile. She points downhill, towards a set of train tracks Melia hadn’t noticed last night in the dark. “Our ride leaves at noon. A train this time."

Ellie stirs from her spot beside Melia, her eyes fluttering open. She groans, rubbing her eyes, her hair a tangled mess. "What's going on? Did I miss anything important?"

Melia gives her a grin, tossing her the bag of corn chips Annabeth had handed her earlier. "Not much. Just that we're about to turn in a poodle to buy our way to LA. Meet Gladiola."

Ellie squints at the pink dog, her nose wrinkling. "A poodle? Really?" She sighs, shaking her head. "Only us."

"Hey, it's a good plan," Annabeth says defensively, crossing her arms. "And it's better than trying to walk across the entire country."

Ellie gives her a sleepy smile. "I never said it was a bad plan. Just... weird." She opens the bag of chips, munching on a handful. "But I'm all for weird if it means we get to LA without getting blown up again."

Grover looks down at Gladiola, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "See, Gladiola? You’re our hero. You’re saving the day."

The poodle yaps, his tiny chest puffing out proudly, and despite the bizarre situation, Melia finds herself smiling. It is strange—how something so small and seemingly insignificant could suddenly feel like a lifeline. The path ahead is still unclear, filled with dangers she can't predict, but at least, for now, they have a plan. And they have each other.

The train tracks stretch out below the hill, glinting faintly in the mid-morning light, and Melia can see the faint plume of smoke in the distance—their train, slowly making its way towards them. Ellie stretches, her joints popping as she gets up, her eyes still half-lidded with sleep. She grabs her bag, slinging it over her shoulder, and gives Melia a sleepy grin.

"Ready to go, princess?" she teases, nudging Melia lightly with her elbow.

Melia rolls her eyes, though there’s a fondness to her expression. "Yeah, yeah. Let’s go before we miss our ride." She picks up her own bag, slinging it across her back, her gaze shifting towards the approaching train. There's a nervous energy buzzing under her skin, the uncertainty of what lies ahead mingling with the adrenaline that never seems to fully fade. She turns to Annabeth and Grover, nodding towards the tracks. "Come on. Time to get moving."

The four of them make their way down the hill, Grover carrying Gladiola in his arms, the poodle looking entirely unimpressed with the situation. The air is cool, the remnants of last night's rain still clinging to the earth, and the scent of damp leaves fills Melia's lungs. She breathes it in, trying to ground herself, to push away the lingering fear from her dream. The trench, the voice—it all feels too real, even now. But she shakes her head, focusing instead on her friends beside her, on the plan they have.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XI

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

They spend two days on the Amtrak train heading west, through the hills, over rivers, and past amber waves of grain. The rhythmic clattering of the wheels against the tracks feels almost hypnotic, a steady heartbeat that keeps time as the landscape changes around them.

The group tries to keep a low profile, given that the picture the tourist had taken of Melia had made its way to the news. It didn't look good at all—she was hunched over like a trapped animal, her eyes wild as she glared at the camera. Her claws had mostly retracted, so they looked like long, fake nails, but her eyes hadn't reverted to normal. Instead of the eerie, dark gaze, the Mist made her eyes look bloodshot and half-crazed, as if she was in the middle of a particularly bad drug trip. Honestly, she looked unhinged—like someone dangerous that no one would want to cross.

"Don't worry," Annabeth says during one of her moments of conversation. Most of the time, her nose is buried in a book. "Mortal police could never find us." There's a confidence in her voice that Melia wishes she could feel herself.

The reward money for returning Gladiola the poodle had been enough to purchase tickets as far as Denver, but not much further. They wouldn't be able to buy passage all the way to Los Angeles. Still, it had been enough for a sleeper car, giving them some privacy away from the prying eyes of mortals. Melia holds onto the rest of the money like it's her lifeline, knowing they'll need to be careful once they reach Denver—there's no telling what their next move might have to be.

Melia leans against Ellie, taking comfort in her friend's warmth as she naps. Annabeth sits beside the window, her back against the wall, while Grover snores softly on the bunk above them, his legs occasionally twitching like a dreaming dog.

The quiet seems peaceful, but the tension never really leaves Melia. She feels like a tightly coiled spring, waiting for something to snap. Her eyes drift closed, and she feels herself slipping into uneasy sleep.

A gentle nudge stirs her, and she blinks her eyes open, finding Annabeth looking at her. "So," Annabeth says once she realizes Melia is awake, "who wants your help?"

Melia frowns, still drowsy. "What do you mean?"

"When you were asleep just now, you mumbled, 'I won't help you.' Who were you dreaming about?"

Melia flinches, the dream coming back to her like a rising tide—the image of the trench, a dark abyss at the bottom of the ocean. The figure in the depths had dangled her mother in front of her, an image of Sally suspended in the water, her face twisted in pain, her eyes begging for Melia to help. Then there was the voice, echoing up from the darkness, offering to bring her mother back in exchange for the master bolt. The memory makes her throat feel tight.

She doesn't really want to talk about it, but there's something in Annabeth's eyes—something almost gentle. If a child of the patron of Athens offers you an olive branch, you take it. So Melia takes a deep breath and decides to share. "Someone wants something from me," she says slowly. "They keep showing me this trench down at the bottom of the ocean. Or at least, I think that's what it is. The details get fuzzy when I wake up. But they want the master bolt."

Annabeth's brow furrows. "That doesn't make any sense. It doesn't sound like Hades. He always appears on a black throne in the Underworld." Melia can see the gears turning in Annabeth's head, her sharp mind already trying to fit the pieces together.

"It's not him," Melia says, her voice steady. There’s something deep in her instincts telling her that whoever was calling to her was not the Lord of the Underworld. She recounts every detail she can remember from her dreams, watching Annabeth’s face scrunch with concentration as she listens.

"I guess… if he meant, 'Help me rise from the Underworld,' maybe he wants war with the Olympians. But why ask you to bring him the master bolt if he already has it?" Annabeth's voice is laced with frustration, her logical mind struggling against the illogical situation.

"I don't know. I really don't think it's him," Melia repeats, shaking her head. "But Chiron wouldn't even consider any other possibilities. There are too many unknowns, and no one seems interested in finding out what else might be going on."

Annabeth frowns, her hand drifting to her necklace. She fingers one of the beads hanging from it—a white bead painted with a pine tree. "You can't be tempted to make a deal for your mom, no matter who's offering," she says, her voice soft but firm. "Hades would never let a soul leave the Underworld."

Melia stares at the bead for a moment before looking up at Annabeth. "What would you do if it was your dad?"

Annabeth doesn't hesitate. "That's easy. I'd leave him to rot."

Melia blinks, taken aback. "You're not serious?"

Annabeth's gray eyes fix on Melia, her gaze unwavering. She wears the same expression she had in the woods at camp—that fierce determination, the steel edge she carried whenever things got dangerous. "My dad's resented me since the day I was born," Annabeth says, her voice level. "He never wanted a baby. When he got me, he asked Athena to take me back and raise me on Olympus because he was too busy with his work. She wasn't happy about that. She told him heroes had to be raised by their mortal parent."

Melia frowns, trying to imagine what that must have been like. "You were a brainchild. He probably didn't even think having a baby was an option," she reasons, then winces at how cold that sounds. "But he was still your dad. He never should've tried to give you back."

Annabeth looks at her for a long moment, then gives a small, weak smile. For a minute, the two just sit there in silence, the gentle rocking of the train the only sound between them. Then Annabeth huffs softly and shifts her weight so their shoulders bump.

She begins to tell Melia about her father, how he had tried to act like Annabeth was a miracle—a gift from the gods, something precious and rare. But when she was five, he remarried, and everything changed. He wanted a "normal" life with a "regular" wife and "regular" mortal kids. He tried to pretend Annabeth didn't exist. She talks about her stepmother, how she treated Annabeth like a freak, how her father just stood by and let it happen, never defending her.

Melia listens, her heart aching for her. She can see the pain written across Annabeth's face, the bitterness etched into her voice. The way she worries at the necklace, pinching the gold college ring that hangs alongside the beads. Melia wonders why Annabeth wears it if she hates her dad so much—but maybe it's not as simple as hatred. Maybe it’s complicated, a mix of resentment and longing for the love she never really had.

"I'm sorry," Melia says softly, her voice barely audible. She wants to reach out, to put a hand on Annabeth's shoulder, but the other girl seems so closed off, so guarded, that Melia isn't sure if the gesture would be welcome.

Annabeth looks at her, and for a moment, the fierceness in her gaze softens. "It's not your fault," she says quietly, and then her lips twitch into a small, wry smile. "Besides, it's not like your family situation is any less complicated."

Melia snorts, nodding. "Yeah, I guess we've both got our share of messed-up family dynamics, huh?" She looks out the window, watching the landscape blur past, her thoughts drifting to her mother. To Sally. Her mum had always been her anchor, her strength. And now, knowing she was gone—or at least out of reach, in the clutches of whatever darkness lurked in her dreams—it made Melia feel like a piece of herself was missing.

Annabeth shifts beside her, leaning her head back against the wall. "We're gonna make it," she says, her voice softer now, more vulnerable. "We have to. For your mum. For everyone back at camp."

Melia looks over at her friend, feeling a swell of gratitude for the determination she sees there. Annabeth—sharp-tongued, fiercely intelligent, sometimes infuriating—is also one of the strongest people Melia knows. And despite everything, despite her own pain and anger, Annabeth is here. She's fighting, just like Melia is.

"Yeah," Melia says, her voice steady. "We're gonna make it." She leans her head against Ellie's shoulder, feeling the comforting warmth of her friend beside her, and allows herself to believe it. They have each other, and that will be enough—somehow, it will be enough.

The train continues its journey west, the landscape rolling by like a living painting. Melia finds herself drifting again, her thoughts a mix of hope and fear. They are still far from their destination, far from Los Angeles and the truth they are seeking. But as long as they are together, she feels they have a chance.

It’s June 13th, with eight days left before the summer solstice, when the Amtrak train stops in St. Louis to switch out passengers. The Gateway Arch rises up in the distance, shining under the afternoon sun, a shimmering silver crescent cutting through the blue sky.

Annabeth cranes her neck to see it, her eyes wide with wonder. "I want to do that," she sighs, her voice soft with awe, almost as if she's talking to herself.

"What?" Melia asks, half-curious, half-distracted by the crowd bustling around them, the shuffle of bags and the hum of chatter filling the station.

"Build something like that," Annabeth says, a hint of longing in her voice. Her gaze is fixed on the Arch, her expression almost reverent. "You ever see the Parthenon, Melia?"

"Only in pictures," Melia replies with a shrug, glancing at Annabeth. She tries to imagine the Parthenon, but all that comes to mind are dusty ruins. She can’t see the wonder Annabeth does in things like that, though she wishes she could.

"Someday, I'm going to see it in person. And someday, I'm going to build the greatest monument to the gods ever. Something that will last a thousand years." Annabeth’s eyes shine with determination, and for a moment, Melia is struck by how young Annabeth really is beneath all the bravado. There’s a spark of innocence there, of hope that hasn’t been crushed yet.

Melia grins, the image of Annabeth trying to sit still long enough to draw something popping into her mind. Even on the train, Annabeth couldn’t stay put, always getting up to pace, her book in hand. She’d scribble in the margins, muttering about ideas as if they would disappear if she didn’t catch them right away.

Annabeth must catch the grin because she flushes slightly, her face hardening into annoyance. "Yes, an architect. Athena expects her children to create things." Her voice has a sharpness that makes Melia wince. There’s that expectation again, that constant pressure that seems to loom over Annabeth like a storm cloud.

Melia sighs softly, her amusement fading. It’s always about her mother—always about Athena—and that constant weight of expectation hanging over Annabeth. Melia is slowly starting to understand it, trying to break Annabeth of that mindset, to get her to see herself as more than just a daughter of Athena, but it’s a hard road. One Melia isn’t sure Annabeth even wants to walk.

Annabeth rolls her eyes, as if sensing Melia’s thoughts, and turns to watch the Arch disappear behind some buildings.

"You know," Ellie whispers, leaning into Melia, her eyes twinkling mischievously, "it kind of looks like a huge shopping bag handle stuck on the city."

The comment catches Melia off guard, and she struggles to suppress her laughter. Annabeth glares at them, but Melia catches the smallest of smiles tugging at her lips, and she knows Annabeth isn’t really mad.

Grover begins to stir, blinking awake as they pull into the station. He stretches, his joints popping like an old man’s. "Food," he mumbles, half-asleep, his eyes still half-closed.

"Come on, goat boy," Annabeth says, nudging him with her foot, her excitement bubbling over. "Sightseeing."

"Sightseeing?" Grover repeats, blinking groggily, rubbing at his eyes like a toddler who’s just woken up from a nap.

"The Gateway Arch," she says, the excitement evident in her voice. "This may be my only chance to ride to the top. Are you coming or not?"

Melia and Ellie are practically bouncing on their feet, looking at Grover with pleading expressions. They’re so bored. A part of Melia wants to stay on the train, where it’s safe and predictable. But another part wants to wander the city—and besides, Annabeth is excited. Melia doesn’t want her going off alone.

Grover shrugs, rubbing his eyes. "As long as there's a snack bar without monsters, I'm in."

The Arch is about a mile from the train station, so they walk. The warm summer air carries the scent of city life—concrete, exhaust fumes, and the occasional whiff of something sweet from a food cart. Melia notices some of the people from their train waiting for buses, looking as if they’re from out of town. Tourists. She feels the subtle tension in her shoulders—a sense of wariness. Being in the crowd makes her feel vulnerable, like they could be recognized at any moment.

When they arrive, the lines aren’t too bad, given that it’s later in the day. They wander through the underground museum, threading between displays of covered wagons and artefacts from the 1800s. It isn’t all that exciting, but Annabeth is animated as she talks about how the Arch was built. Her excitement is infectious, and Grover keeps handing Melia jelly beans, making it bearable.

But there’s a feeling gnawing at Melia, a creeping sense of unease she can’t shake. It feels like something’s watching them, something just out of sight. She keeps glancing at Grover, trying to gauge if he feels it too, but he’s too focused on his jelly beans, oblivious to the tension tightening Melia’s muscles.

"Dude, do you smell anything?" Melia mutters, leaning in close to Grover, her eyes scanning the crowd, trying to pinpoint the source of her discomfort.

"Underground," Grover says, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Underground air always smells like monsters. Probably doesn’t mean anything."

Melia frowns, her brow creasing. "Great. So, basically, we wouldn’t know if anything was coming."

"Got any red jelly beans left?" Ellie asks, her tone casual, but her eyes are scanning the crowd as well, her posture tense.

Annabeth, oblivious to their tension, is still explaining the history of the Arch, pointing out flaws in the museum’s layout and suggesting improvements. Melia can’t help but be impressed by her ideas, though she has no idea how Annabeth comes up with them so effortlessly.

Melia growls softly in the back of her throat as they step into the small elevator car. Confined spaces always put her on edge—this one especially. It’s cramped, and the air feels heavy, almost suffocating. An older lady with a Chihuahua squeezes in beside them, and Melia instinctively tenses, her muscles coiling like a spring.

The ride up is tense and awkward, silence hanging in the air as they ascend. The elevator creaks and groans, the sound echoing in the tight space. The moment the doors open, Melia practically drags Annabeth out, eager to be free of the confined space. Grover and Ellie follow close behind, all of them glad for the space to breathe.

Annabeth darts around the viewing platform, peering through the small windows, her eyes wide with wonder. She mutters under her breath, pointing out design flaws, criticizing the construction. Melia tries not to laugh at her insults, finding a strange comfort in Annabeth’s passion. There’s something grounding about it, something that makes the tension ease just a bit.

Melia starts to relax—just a little—until it’s time to leave. They have to get back in the cramped elevator, and that familiar tension creeps back in, settling like a stone in her stomach. The guards inexplicably decide to split them up, and Melia’s stomach twists. The four of them—just kids—separated. It feels wrong. She catches the look on Annabeth’s face, the concern in Ellie’s eyes.

Melia smirks, giving them a wink as the doors close, trying to reassure them—but there’s a weight pressing on her chest. She doesn’t like this.

And she was right. The moment they’re alone, the older woman makes her move. Her disguise drops, her form shifting until she’s no longer a harmless lady but a snake-woman, her Chihuahua transforming into a monstrous creature, scales glistening, teeth bared.

The snake-woman hisses, her voice dripping with malice. "Melia Jackson, it seems you’ve caught some attention. Lord Zeus himself requested I come here to test you. I am the Mother of Monsters, the terrible Echidna!"

Melia blinks, her heart pounding in her ears. The name Echidna rings in her mind, a chill running down her spine. "Nice to meet you," she says, half out of reflex, half to buy herself some time. She needs a plan—quick. She grips her sword tightly, her knuckles turning white. “Are you going to attack me?”

Echidna smiles, her sharp teeth glinting. “Do you wish to spar, little godling? My Chimera hasn’t had a good fight in ages, and I’m sure the gods are watching. I was sent, after all.”

Melia glances at the cowering mortals by the exit door, the guards desperately trying to pry it open. She can’t let them get hurt. She clenches her jaw, steeling herself. "Do you swear to leave the mortals alone?"

"I so swear," Echidna says, her voice almost mocking as she waves a hand dismissively.

The Chimera lunges, its lion's teeth gnashing, and Melia barely manages to leap aside, uncapping Riptide in one fluid motion. She bolts across the platform, putting distance between herself and the beast. "Hey, Chihuahua!" she shouts, hoping to draw its attention. The Chimera turns, its eyes locking onto her, and for a split second, she thinks she might have the upper hand.

But then its mouth opens, and a column of fire erupts, the heat searing her skin. She dives, rolling across the floor, feeling the scorch of flames at her back. She comes up in a crouch, her eyes darting to the hole now gaping in the side of the Arch, melted metal dripping at the edges. The wind howls through it, pulling at her hair, a reminder of how high up they are.

She doesn’t have time to think. She extends her claws, her other hand gripping Riptide. She slashes at the Chimera, hoping to overwhelm it with attacks from two directions, but the creature barrels into her, knocking her off balance. She scrambles, trying to regain her footing, but she’s too slow. The serpent tail whips around, sinking its fangs into her calf piercing straight through her scales, and a scream rips from her throat.

Pain explodes up her leg, her vision blurring. Her whole body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending screaming. She tries to stab at the Chimera, but the serpent tail coils around her ankles, yanking her down. Riptide slips from her grasp, spinning out of the hole in the Arch and disappearing toward the river below.

Melia struggles to her feet, her leg on fire, her body trembling, but she knows she’s outmatched. She’s cornered. The Chimera prowls closer, its eyes gleaming with a predatory glint, and there’s no escape. Except…

She turns, looking out at the gaping hole, the Mississippi River glittering far below. It’s a stupid plan—terrifying—but there’s no other option. The water calls to her, and she has to trust it even if she remembers dreams of looking down at the water from a height that always ends in blood. She turns back to Echidna, meeting her gaze one last time, defiance burning in her eyes.

“Good doing business with you,” she says, her voice dripping with defiance. The fire still burns through her shirt, and the poison pulses in her veins, but she doesn’t give Echidna the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

Without another word, Melia leaps. The wind tears at her, the world spinning around her as she falls. The river rushes up to meet her, and she closes her eyes, hoping—praying—that the water will catch her, that she’ll survive this. The city blurs above her, and for a moment, everything is weightless.

The wind roars in her ears, her body twisting through the air into a divers posture that would impress her coach. She feels the emptiness beneath her, the sheer drop, the rush of adrenaline that almost drowns out the pain. Her mind is a swirl of thoughts—fear, hope, determination—all crashing together. She thinks of Annabeth and Ellie, of Grover, of her mother. She thinks of what she still has to do, of the promises she’s made.

Then, darkness and water envelop her, the cold shock of the river swallowing her whole, and Melia lets herself sink, the world above fading away, the current wrapping around her like a protective cocoon. 

Melia sinks through the murk, her eyes adjusting to the dark as she welcomes the feeling of being surrounded by her element. Her divine traits emerge fully: gills opening up along her neck, webbing between her fingers. Yet even in her element, something feels wrong. The river is disgusting, thick with pollution, and Melia struggles against her instincts to breathe, the water tasting like grime and oil.

She is falling slowly now, bubbles trickling up through her fingers as she reaches out for something stable. Her feet touch the riverbed, settling silently amidst the silt. A massive catfish darts away into the shadows. Clouds of muck swirl around her, garbage caught in the currents—beer bottles, plastic bags, old shoes—all of it a testament to how little humans cared for her father's kingdom. Above, the sound of a riverboat's paddlewheel churns, vibrations reaching down to her through the water, stirring up even more silt.

"Hello, Melia." The voice is everywhere, rippling through the current, resonating in her bones like dolphin sonar.

Melia's heart pounds, her eyes scanning the murky gloom. "Where are you?" she calls, her voice muffled underwater.

Then she sees her—a woman, the colour of the river, shimmering like a mirage. Long, flowing hair floats around her face, her eyes a pale green, barely visible in the dim light. Melia knows who she is before she even speaks—the aura, the presence—it’s unmistakable. The titan goddess before her is Amphitrite, ruler of the sea long before her father's claim. A being of immense power, perhaps even stronger than her father in certain respects.

Melia's heart catches in her throat, awe and confusion mingling within her. "My la—mother," Melia stammers, correcting herself quickly under the stern look from Amphitrite.

A softness breaks through the goddess’s stern demeanour. "It is good to finally see you properly after all these years, my pearl," she says, her voice a gentle current, tinged with longing. Her gaze drifts over Melia, as though memorizing her features, like she wants to reach out but holds herself back.

Melia’s heart aches at the words. This is her first true encounter with Amphitrite, the mother she’s only ever heard about in myths. She opens her mouth, but the words that come out aren’t what she intends. “I don’t believe The Silent One has the bolt, but the prophecy says to go west.” The question hangs in the current between them, unspoken: 'What do I do?'

Amphitrite hums, the sound like a deep vibration through the water, her gaze drifting away as though seeing something beyond Melia's understanding. “Your mother's fate is not as hopeless as you believe, brave one. Go to the beach in Santa Monica.”

“What?” Melia blinks, thrown by the abruptness.

“It is your father’s will,” Amphitrite continues, her voice a mix of tenderness and reluctance. “Before you descend into the Underworld, you must go to Santa Monica.” There’s a sadness in her eyes, the kind that speaks of lifetimes of experience, of things left unsaid. “Please, Melia, I cannot stay long. The river here is too foul for my presence.”

There’s an urgency in her tone that makes Melia’s chest tighten. Amphitrite reaches out, and Melia feels the current brush her cheek, like a mother’s touch. “You must go to Santa Monica. And, Melia… do not trust the gifts…” Her voice fades, like the receding tide.

“Gifts?” Melia echoes, confusion tightening around her. “What gifts? Wait!”

But Amphitrite is already gone, her form dissolving into the river currents. Her presence, so strong moments ago, leaves a void that feels almost physical, a hollowness that pulls at Melia’s heart.

Melia takes a shuddering breath, her chest aching as she fights to keep herself from crying. She needs to be strong. Her friends are waiting. With a powerful kick, she propels herself upward, cutting through the murk and silt. She breaks the surface, gasping for air, the dirty river water dripping from her hair and clothes.

The first thing she feels is the overwhelming wave of her friends’ fear—panic radiating through the air like a storm. She doesn’t even take a full breath before she starts pushing through the water, her eyes scanning the shoreline. She sees them—Annabeth, Grover, Ellie—all of them frantic, eyes darting, searching for her.

She’s barely pulled herself onto the shore when someone grabs her from behind. She tenses, but the familiar scent of nature and goat calms her—it’s Grover. He turns her around, his eyes wide, tears brimming. “What happened? Are you three okay?” she blurts out, her voice shaky as she looks them over, searching for any signs of injury.

“What happened to us?” Grover exclaims, his voice breaking, and he punches her arm—hard enough that it would’ve hurt if not for her scales. “What happened to you?! You were supposed to be right behind us, and then the Arch blew up, and—gods, Melia! The wave—you almost died!” His voice cracks, and he wipes at his eyes angrily. “If you hadn’t had the water, you’d be dead. You were lucky. So, so lucky.”

Annabeth steps forward, her eyes still scanning Melia as if expecting to find some hidden injury. “Your eyes are black,” she murmurs, her brow furrowing. “You should really change them back before someone notices.”

Melia nods, closing her eyes, trying to take deep, calming breaths. The adrenaline from the fight still courses through her, making her hands shake. She can feel her pupils shrinking back, the inky black fading. “I’m okay. It wasn’t—” She pauses, catching her breath. “It wasn’t that big a deal.” She tells them what happened, her words rushed, trying to reassure them, but she can see their faces growing more horrified as she goes on. “It was just a spar,” she finishes weakly. “I was totally fine.”

Ellie steps forward, her eyes blazing. She growls, grabbing Melia’s shoulders. “Don’t be reckless like that! Not even for the quest. You’re our friend! Do you think we want you to do that? You asked me to watch your back on this quest.” Her voice cracks, her expression softening. “I know I failed with Medusa, but you didn’t even let me try this time… Do you not trust me to do it?”

The hurt in her voice is like a dagger to Melia’s heart. She quickly pulls Ellie into a hug, squeezing her tight. “No, no, never that. I trust you—all of you. I just didn’t want to risk fighting something unknown in a tight space like that, with all those mortals around. I thought it’d be safer if I just handled it.”

Ellie pulls back, her eyes narrowed but her lips curving into a reluctant smile. “Fine. But no more stunts like that. Seriously. Not even for the quest.” She pauses, her smile widening. “Not exactly a princess thing to do—leaping into danger all the time.”

Melia rolls her eyes, the tension finally easing as they all start walking back to the train. “Also, we need to go to Santa Monica,” she adds, her voice more serious. “Apparently, my dad wants me there. Amphitrite—my mother—she gave me the message.”

Annabeth glances at her, her expression softening. “Your mother?” she asks gently.

Melia nods, her eyes distant. “She… she was beautiful,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “She told me not to trust gifts, whatever that means. And she said my mom’s fate isn’t as hopeless as I thought.”

Grover places a comforting hand on her shoulder, his eyes kind. “Then we’ll go to Santa Monica. We’ll figure it out together.”

Melia smiles, feeling the warmth of her friends surrounding her, their presence like an anchor keeping her steady. They may be heading into danger—into the unknown—but they’re not alone. They have each other, and for now, that’s enough.

The walk back to the train is quiet, the air thick with unspoken emotions. Annabeth reaches out and squeezes Melia's shoulder briefly before letting go, a small gesture of solidarity that speaks volumes. Melia glances at her, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

Ellie walks alongside them, her eyes sharp, scanning their surroundings for any threat. Despite her earlier anger, there's a protectiveness to her movements, a silent promise that she won't let anything happen to them. Grover keeps close as well, his usual lighthearted demeanour replaced by a rare seriousness. The near loss of Melia has shaken him, and it's clear that he isn't going to let that fear fade easily.

As they board the train, Melia glances at her reflection in the window, her eyes still a little darker than usual. Amphitrite's words echo in her mind, and a chill runs down her spine. 'Do not trust the gifts.' What did that mean? And why did she feel as though the warning was more urgent than it seemed?

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XII

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

The next afternoon, June 14th. Seven days left. The thought hammers into Melia’s mind like an unrelenting tide every time she catches sight of the date on the station clocks or the corner of her ticket stub. The train finally screeches to a halt in Denver, the brakes screaming as the engine exhales a cloud of steam. Hunger gnaws at all of them, the memory of their last proper meal fading like a distant mirage—some snacks hastily scarfed down somewhere in Kansas. The grime of days spent travelling clings to them, a sour, uncomfortable layer they can’t shake off. Melia tugs at her damp shirt, salt and sweat sticking stubbornly to her skin, and wonders how mortal noses haven’t picked up on the smell yet.

The Denver air greets them like a punch to the gut—hot, dry, and almost oppressive. It settles on their skin like a heavy weight, made worse by the shimmer of faint scales still visible on Melia and Ellie’s necks, a leftover from the encounter at the Arch. The heat makes their scales itch, and Melia fights the urge to claw at her skin for relief. Beside her, Ellie looks equally miserable, fanning herself with little success.

Annabeth adjusts her pack, scanning their surroundings with the same sharp, calculating gaze that has guided them since they left Camp Half-Blood. “We need to contact Chiron,” she says, her tone firm, though exhaustion lingers in the set of her shoulders. “He needs to know about your conversation in the river, Melia.”

Melia grimaces at the reminder, shifting her bag to her other shoulder. The memory of Amphitrite’s warning clings to her, haunting her thoughts like a whisper she can’t quite ignore. “We can’t just call him, right? No mortal phone is going to have the protections we need.”

Annabeth shakes her head, her expression turning sly. “I’m not talking about phones.”

“She means an Iris Message,” Ellie chimes in, her voice a little raspy from the dry air. She wipes a hand across her brow, brushing away the glimmer of sweat and scale. “Iris, the rainbow goddess, carries messages for the gods. If you know how to ask, and she’s not too busy, she’ll do the same for us.”

Melia raises an eyebrow. The idea of summoning a goddess just to relay a message feels risky, but she doesn’t voice her scepticism. They fall into step behind Annabeth, weaving through the bustling streets of downtown Denver. The city hums with life, mortals going about their day completely unaware of the divine conflicts unfolding around them. It’s a strange juxtaposition—being surrounded by so much normalcy while carrying the weight of the gods’ demands.

Annabeth leads them with purpose, her pace brisk despite the heat. Eventually, they reach a do-it-yourself car wash on a quieter street corner. The bright signs and hoses look glaringly out of place compared to the gravity of their mission. Annabeth strides confidently toward the stall furthest from the street, waving for them to follow.

Grover fumbles in his satchel for loose change, muttering under his breath about the injustice of overpriced water. He feeds the coins into the machine, and a fine mist sprays into the air, catching the sunlight. A faint rainbow forms, shimmering delicately in the afternoon light.

“You summon the goddess with a spray gun?” Melia deadpans, crossing her arms as she watches Grover.

He grins, clearly enjoying the absurdity. “Unless you’ve got a better idea to make a rainbow.”

Melia exchanges a glance with Ellie. Without a word, they both raise their hands, conjuring swirling spheres of water that glint like diamonds in the sunlight. Grover’s grin falters, and he mutters, “Oh,” deflated by the obvious solution he’d overlooked.

Annabeth groans, pressing a hand to her forehead. “We already paid for this,” she says, exasperated. “Let’s just use it.” She tosses a drachma into the rainbow. “Half-Blood Hill!”

The mist swirls, then solidifies into an image of Camp Half-Blood. The familiar expanse of strawberry fields stretches into the distance, the Long Island Sound shimmering in the background. The focus shifts to the Big House, its porch casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. A figure leans casually against the railing.

“Luke!” Annabeth calls, her voice tinged with relief.

Luke Castellan turns, his bronze sword catching the light as he moves closer to the image. His eyes widen in recognition. “Annabeth? Is that—Melia? Ellie? Thank the gods. Are you okay?”

Annabeth fidgets, smoothing the wrinkles in her shirt. “We’re… fine. We thought—Chiron—we thought he’d be here.”

“He’s at the cabins,” Luke explains, his tone serious. “We’ve had some trouble with the campers. What about you? Is Grover holding up?”

Grover steps into view, still holding the nozzle. “I’m right here. What kind of trouble?”

Luke’s gaze shifts, a flicker of unease crossing his face. “Word about the standoff with the hellhound got out. The campers are taking sides—it’s starting to look like another Trojan War. Tensions are high.”

Before he can elaborate, the deafening bass of a car stereo shatters the moment. A lowrider rolls into the car wash, its speakers blaring so loudly that the walls vibrate. Luke flinches, yelling over the noise, “What’s that?”

“I’ll handle it!” Annabeth snaps, clearly eager for an excuse to escape. She grabs Grover by the arm, yanking the nozzle from his hand and thrusting it toward Ellie. “Hold this.”

Luke sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s been chaos down here. Chiron’s been breaking up fights all week.” He looks back at Melia, his expression softening. “What about the quest? How’s it going?”

Melia hesitates, the weight of her answer pressing down on her. Slowly, she recounts their journey, skimming over the worst parts of her dreams but recounting the encounter with Amphitrite, but just saying she is a water spirit. Time stretches as she speaks, the spray machine eventually beeping to warn that their session is about to end.

“I wish I could do more,” Luke says, frowning. “But it has to be Hades. He was on Olympus at the winter solstice. I saw him.”

Melia narrows her eyes. “I thought gods couldn’t steal each other’s symbols of power.”

“They can’t—not directly,” Luke admits. “But Hades has the helmet of darkness. He could’ve sent someone. How else could the bolt have been stolen? You would have to be invisible.”

Ellie growls softly, the sound low and menacing. Luke’s expression falters, realising what he’s implied. “Hey!” he protests. “I didn’t mean Annabeth! She’d never—she’s like a sister to me!”

The car stereo cuts off suddenly, followed by the sound of tires screeching as the lowrider speeds away. A muffled scream echoes in its wake, leaving an uneasy silence.

Ellie glares at the fading image of Luke. “We should check on them,” she says, her tone sharp.

Luke’s voice cuts in one last time as the mist fades. “Take care of yourselves. And tell Grover—” His words disappear as the connection ends.

Annabeth and Grover return moments later, laughing about whatever happened with the car. Melia shakes off her lingering unease and waves them forward. “Let’s find food,” she says, her stomach growling audibly.

A few minutes later finds the four of them slumped in a dingy diner booth. Hunger claws at their stomachs, sharp and insistent, making it impossible to ignore. The weariness of constant travel shows in the lines of their faces, the slump of their shoulders. They’d had to cut into their tight budget, reluctantly deciding that food was no longer optional—not with monsters lurking around every corner.

The waitress approaches, a grimace already pulling at her lips as her eyes sweep over their scruffy appearances. The judgment in her gaze is palpable, sharp enough to make even Grover bristle. “Well?” she asks, her tone making it clear she doesn’t expect much from them.

“We want to order,” Melia says firmly, her voice steady despite the exhaustion tugging at her.

The waitress raises an eyebrow, scepticism etched into her expression. “You kids got money to pay?”

Grover’s lower lip quivers, and Melia half-expects him to bleat in distress or, worse, start gnawing on the linoleum. Annabeth leans heavily against the table, her face pale with hunger, while Ellie sits back, her eyes half-lidded, looking utterly drained.

Melia feels her temper flare at the waitress’s tone, her claws threatening to extend. She opens her mouth to snap back, but a low rumble cuts her off. The entire building shakes as the roar of an engine fills the air—a motorcycle, its sound so deep it seems to vibrate through their bones.

All conversation in the diner grinds to a halt. Heads swivel toward the windows as the monstrous machine pulls up to the curb. It’s a motorcycle like no other, massive and menacing. Its headlight glares an unnatural red, its gas tank painted with roaring flames. Twin shotgun holsters are riveted to either side, each holding a weapon that looks far from ornamental. The seat, stitched from leather that looks uncomfortably human, gleams in the sunlight.

The man who swings off the bike exudes an aura of raw, predatory power. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, his movements deliberate, almost lazy, yet carrying an undeniable weight. His leather jacket seems to absorb the light around him, and the scent of blood follows him like a second shadow. He strides through the diner’s door, the clink of his boots on the tile floor punctuating the heavy silence.

Melia stiffens, every instinct screaming that this man—this god—is dangerous. Her claws unsheathe reflexively, and Ellie grabs her arm, her own nails clicking against Melia’s scales in warning. Annabeth presses her foot against Melia’s under the table, a subtle but grounding gesture. Grover, meanwhile, grips the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turn white.

The god’s gaze sweeps over the room, lingering briefly on their booth before he saunters forward. He radiates confidence, the kind born of knowing you are the apex predator in any room. His voice, low and gravelly, rumbles like distant thunder. “Get them whatever they’d like. It’s on me.” He slides into the booth next to Annabeth, raising an eyebrow at the waitress’s stunned expression. “Are you still here?” he growls, his tone dripping with disdain.

The waitress stammers something unintelligible before hurrying away. Melia digs her claws into her thigh, the pain grounding her against the oppressive aura radiating from the god. “Hello, my lord,” she says, her voice steady despite the tension coiling in her muscles.

The god smirks, his sharp teeth glinting as he leans back casually. “You know who I am, little cousin. Good for you. Respect will keep you alive—if it’s aimed at the right people.” His dark eyes fix on her, sizing her up with a predator’s interest. “I wonder how long you’ll last before you break. I can already smell your blood.”

Ellie growls low in her throat, pulling Melia’s hand away from her leg as if to stop her from doing something reckless. Melia can feel the heat of her friend’s anger, a steady counterpoint to her own.

The waitress returns quickly, almost throwing the heaping trays of food onto their table—cheeseburgers piled high with fries, onion rings glistening with grease, and thick chocolate shakes that promise a brief reprieve from their gnawing hunger. She doesn’t even glance at the god as she collects the money from the table, her movements rushed, her expression tight with poorly hidden fear.

The god doesn’t touch the food. Instead, he pulls a gleaming knife from his jacket and starts picking at his nails, his expression one of casual amusement. “I want to make a deal with you, little cousin,” he says, his tone light, almost conversational. “I left my shield at an abandoned water park here in town. It’s sitting by the Tunnel of Love ride. Fetch it for me, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Melia narrows her eyes, her suspicion flaring. “What’s in it for me?”

The god grins, sharp and dangerous. “I’ll arrange a ride west for you and your friends. Maybe I’ll even tell you something you want to know… something about your mother.”

Melia’s breath catches, her mind reeling. “My mum?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

The god’s grin widens. “That got your attention. The water park is a mile west on Delancy. You can’t miss it.” He leans forward, his gaze locking onto hers. “But listen closely, little cousin. Don’t mess this up. The gods are watching.”

Before she can respond, he waves a hand, and in the blink of an eye, he’s gone. The oppressive weight of his presence lifts, leaving the four of them sitting in stunned silence.

Grover is the first to speak, his voice trembling. “That’s not good. Gods don’t make deals. Ever. Whatever’s at that park… it’s bad.”

Melia glances out the window, but the motorcycle is already gone. She turns back to the table, her jaw tight. “We have to take the deal, don’t we?” she mutters, her voice laced with frustration.

Annabeth nods grimly, her eyes sharp with determination. “We do. But we’ll be smart about it. Ares has strength—that’s all he has. Even strength has to bow to wisdom sometimes.”

They exchange uneasy glances but say nothing more. The tension lingers as they turn their attention to the food, eating quickly and silently. If they’re going to face whatever awaits them at the water park, they’ll need every ounce of strength they can muster.

~~

WATERLAND is a horrible date spot. It doesn’t matter if you’re a godly biker who drives over people for fun or the most posh goddess in the world—no one could possibly enjoy their time here. The place is completely abandoned, decaying under the sun. The huge neon sign at the entrance is falling apart, with so many missing letters it now reads *WATRAD.* The vibe of the park is all wrong—like it’s haunted not by ghosts but by bad memories. If anyone still comes here, it’s to skate in the empty pools or to spray-paint on the cracked cement. And really, what else could you do in a place like this?

"So how are we getting in?" Melia asks, squinting up at the rusted fence surrounding the park. "Anybody see a hole in the gate? Or some lock cutters left behind?"

Grover doesn’t bother answering. He simply kicks off with his flying sneakers, soaring over the fence in a lazy arc before flipping mid-air and landing with a flourish on the other side. He grins through the fence, clearly pleased with himself.

"Show-off," Melia mutters, rolling her eyes.

"You guys coming or what?" Grover calls.

Melia, Annabeth, and Ellie exchange glances, then sigh almost in unison. They start climbing—the old-fashioned way—boosting each other up and holding down the barbed wire while they crawl over, careful not to snag their clothes. The climb is awkward, their muscles sore from days of travel, but they make it, eventually dropping down beside Grover.

The park sprawls out before them, even more rundown up close. The ride names are just as bizarre as Melia had imagined: AnkleBiter Island, Head Over Wedgie, Dude, Where's My Swimsuit? She frowns, scanning the park, trying to understand how this could ever have been a romantic spot.

“Why would they come here for a date?” she wonders aloud, shaking her head. “I mean, if you’re taking someone out, shouldn’t you go somewhere… nice?”

Annabeth raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “Like you know anything about dating or taking someone out.”

Melia scowls defensively. “Hey, my neighbour back home used to date a lot, okay? She always told my mum where she was going—you know, for safety. And it was always better than whatever this is.”

Annabeth just snorts, clearly unconvinced. Before she can say anything more, Grover pipes up. “They’ve gotta do it in secret, you know. Because she’s married.”

Melia stops walking, turning to look at him. “Wait, she’s married? To Hephaestus, right?” Annabeth nods, and Melia’s confusion deepens. “But why does that mean they have to sneak around? It’s not like it’s a secret anymore. Isn’t it kind of obvious at this point?”

Grover shrugs, looking a little disgusted. “It’s some kind of big game for the gods. Every time they get caught, it’s like a scandal—again. The other gods love trying to figure out where they’re meeting and then make a big scene about it.” He grimaces, shaking his head. “I hate that I know that.”

Annabeth rolls her eyes, clearly as tired of godly drama as the rest of them, when something catches her attention. She stops, staring at a ramshackle building. “Hey,” she says, pointing. “Clothes. Fresh clothes.”

Melia follows her gaze to a rundown gift shop, the sign missing a couple of letters so that it reads *GIF HOP.* It looks just as wrecked as the rest of the park, but Melia can see the glint of clothing racks inside.

“Seriously?” Grover protests, but Annabeth is already running ahead, Ellie right on her heels. Melia grins and jogs after them.

The shelves inside look like they’ve been untouched for years. The clothes are garish—all floral prints, bright reds, and the park’s tacky logo splashed across everything. But for kids whose shirts are stiff with sweat and grime, it’s paradise. They grab whatever fits, pulling clean t-shirts over their filthy ones, stuffing extra shirts and shorts into their bags for later.

Melia finds the cash register and tries to pry it open, but it’s already been emptied of anything valuable—only some coins remain, not worth the effort. She sighs, letting it go. They have bigger problems.

Once they’re dressed, they head back out, continuing their search for the Tunnel of Love. The park feels different now, the abandoned rides casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. The air seems heavy, like it’s waiting for something—that stillness before a storm. Melia can feel the hair on her arms standing on end as they move deeper into the park, her instincts prickling in warning.

They finally find the ride. The pool below is vast, at least fifty meters across, shaped like a giant bowl. Around the rim, bronze statues of Cupid stand watch, their wings spread, bows drawn as if they’re about to let their arrows fly. On the opposite side, a dark tunnel yawns open, the passageway where the water must have flowed when the pool was full.

At the centre of the empty pool is the boat, a tacky little gondola with a faded pink umbrella attached to it. And resting right there, unmistakable even from a distance, is the god of war’s shield.

Melia blinks, her heart skipping. But it’s not just the shield. There’s something else—a shimmer next to it, something that looks like water frozen in time, formed into a delicate shawl. Her breath catches.

“I’m going down there,” she says, her voice steady despite the unease gnawing at her. “This might be a trap. Grover, Ellie, you two stay up here and watch our backs. You’ve got the fancy shoes, Grover. And Ellie, I trust you. If anything goes wrong, you’re our backup.”

Ellie’s expression hardens. “Be careful, Melia. I’m serious.”

Melia gives her a small, reassuring smile before glancing at Annabeth, who’s already moving toward the edge of the pool. She seems upset, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m coming with you,” she insists. “You’re not doing this alone. But let’s try not to be seen.”

Melia scoffs. “Who’s going to see us?”

With that, they scramble down the side of the pool, their hands scraping against the rough concrete. The air feels even heavier down here, the metallic scent of bronze mixing with something else—a strange, magical energy that makes Melia’s stomach churn. She moves cautiously, her eyes flicking between the boat and the looming statues.

The closer they get, the worse it feels. The power radiating from both items—the shield and the shawl—is overwhelming, like a storm pressing down on her chest. Melia reaches for the shield first, her fingers brushing against the cool bronze surface. It shudders, then shrinks down until it’s small enough to strap onto her arm. She exhales, relieved.

“Can you get the shawl?” she asks, her voice tight.

Annabeth glances at the shimmering fabric, her nose scrunching. “What? Not interested in the love magic?” she teases, but her voice lacks its usual bite.

Melia shakes her head, fighting the nausea rising in her throat. “Just… get it. Please.”

Annabeth reaches for the shawl, her fingers brushing the ethereal fabric. The moment she makes contact, her eyes widen, and she swears under her breath. “Melia…”

Melia’s head snaps up, her eyes locking onto the bronze Cupids around the edge of the pool. One of them moves—its wings flexing, the bowstring tightening. She feels her heart plummet. Of course. A trap. Ares wouldn’t make this easy.

The statues begin to animate, their mechanical gears clicking to life, the grinding noise echoing through the empty park. Before Melia can even move to cover Annabeth, the cupids launch their arrows, but not at them. Instead, they fire at each other. Silky bronze cables trail from the arrows, arcing over the pool and anchoring into the stone where they landed, forming a huge golden asterisk. Within seconds, small metallic threads begin to weave together magically between the main strands, creating a shimmering net that grows thicker by the second.

“We have to get out!” Melia shouts, urgency pounding in her voice as she scrambles up the dry, uneven wall of the pool. Each foothold crumbles under her weight, sending her slipping back towards the bottom, her hands burning against the rough concrete. Climbing down was far easier than climbing out.

“Come on!” Grover shouts, his voice strained as he hovers above, trying to pull open a section of the net. Ellie is beside him, straining to hold the threads apart. But the golden strands seem almost alive—wherever they touch, the net wraps around their fingers, tightening its grip. The metallic threads twist with a cruel, sentient determination.

“It’s no use!” Ellie yells, frustration mounting in her voice as the net closes in on them.

Suddenly, a series of loud clicks echoes through the air. The Cupid’s heads pop open, and small video cameras extend out on metal arms, while spotlights rise all around the pool, blinding them with an artificial, white-hot glow. A loudspeaker blares to life, a mocking, mechanical voice booming: “Live to Olympus in one minute...fifty-nine seconds… fifty-eight…”

“Hephaestus!” Annabeth screams, her face contorted with frustration. “Of course, it’s one of his traps! He must have set it to catch Ares and Aphrodite! Now we’re about to be broadcast live to Olympus… looking like total fools!”

“That’s your worry right now?” Melia exclaims, her voice rising in disbelief. Before she can react further, a row of mirrors opens along the rim of the pool like hatches, and thousands of tiny metallic spiders scuttle out, their legs clicking against the steel. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard, skittering and echoing, filling the air with an eerie, mechanical rhythm.

Annabeth’s scream is one of pure terror, her eyes wide with panic as she freezes, staring at the mechanical swarm. Melia curses in Greek, grabbing Annabeth's arm and dragging her back towards the boat, trying to support her before she collapses. The spiders flood in from all directions, the mirrors acting like gateways, releasing wave after wave until the ground seems to writhe beneath them. They’re surrounded. The things are closing in, and Melia forces herself to think—they’re probably not designed to kill, just to humiliate, to tie them down and make them look ridiculous. But then again, this trap was set for gods, and they were far from gods.

“Thirty… twenty-nine,” calls the loudspeaker, the countdown relentless.

The spiders spit out strands of metal thread, wrapping them around Melia and Annabeth’s legs, trying to pin them down. The strands snap easily under the first kicks, but there are so many—each thread that breaks is replaced by three more. Melia kicks one spider off Annabeth’s leg, only for its pincers to latch onto her own, tearing through her shoe and grazing her skin.

Above them, Grover hovers, his flying trainers keeping him aloft as he pulls desperately at the net. The golden cables are taut, refusing to budge.

“Think, think!” Melia tells herself, forcing herself to focus. She needs a way out. Fast.

The tunnel of love—the entrance is below the net. An escape route. But it’s crawling with spiders. There’s no way they can make it through.

“Fifteen… fourteen,” the loudspeaker drones, each word a blow to her concentration.

Water, Melia thinks suddenly, her eyes darting around. Where does the water come from? She spots them—huge water pipes behind the mirrors where the spiders emerged. Her heart skips a beat as her gaze travels upward, to a glass-windowed booth next to one of the Cupids. That must be the control station.

“Ellie!” Melia yells, pointing, “Get into that booth! Find the on switch!”

Ellie doesn’t hesitate. She abandons the net, leaping up towards the booth with impressive agility. Grover takes her place at the net, pulling at it uselessly as Ellie slams into the booth, her hands flying over the controls. She hits every button she can find, looking back at Melia, her face filled with hopelessness.

Melia grits her teeth, cutting away at the spiders around them with Riptide, the celestial bronze slicing through them, but the spiders just keep coming. She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath, reaching out with her divine sense. She needs water—real water—to fight back. She can feel it somewhere, deep within the pipes. She latches onto that feeling, and pulls.

“Two… one… zero!” the loudspeaker calls.

And then water explodes from the pipes, roaring into the pool like a tidal wave. It crashes into the spiders, sweeping them away like a storm surge. Melia moves quickly, fastening Annabeth’s seatbelt as the flood hits their boat, lifting them up, spinning them in circles as the spiders are carried away. Annabeth clings to the side, her eyes wide as she stares at Melia, her breathing rapid.

The water fills the pool rapidly, rising higher and higher. Melia can barely concentrate on anything but controlling the boat, feeling its movement under her feet, directing it towards the tunnel. The Cupid-cams are still rolling, the spotlights glaring, broadcasting their every move live to Olympus. But she can’t think about that. Not now. They spin one last time, the water level high enough to shred them against the metal net, and then the boat’s nose turns towards the tunnel, rocketing them into the darkness.

They burst out of the tunnel, the night air cold against Melia’s face, her hair whipping in the wind. The boat barrels towards the exit, but Melia’s eyes widen as she sees the problem. The Gates of Love are chained shut. Two other boats are piled against the barricade—one half-submerged, the other cracked and broken.

“Unfasten your seatbelt!” Melia shouts.

“Are you crazy?!” Annabeth yells back, her eyes wide with panic.

“Unless you want to get smashed!” Melia’s voice is firm, her eyes meeting Annabeth’s. “We’re going to have to jump for it!”

Annabeth pauses, then nods, understanding the plan. They unfasten their belts, tension hanging thick in the air.

“When I say go,” Melia starts, but Annabeth cuts her off.

“No! When I say go!” Annabeth snaps, her eyes filled with determination.
Melia blinks, then nods, trusting Annabeth’s instincts, her knowledge of the physics involved. They brace themselves, the boat rushing towards the barricade, the roar of water surrounding them.

“Now!” Annabeth yells.

They leap, just as the boat crashes into the pileup, the force propelling them into the air. For a split second, they’re weightless, soaring over the barricade, over the pool, the ground rushing up towards them.

Grover appears out of nowhere, his hands grabbing hold of their jackets, his flying shoes straining to support their combined weight. But they’re too heavy. Gravity takes hold, and they plummet. Melia squeezes her eyes shut, bracing for impact, but then she feels a surge of cold, and they hit water—not the hard pavement she’d expected.

Ellie stands below, her hands outstretched, water swirling around her, cushioning their fall. They crash into a photo-board, the wood splintering beneath them, but it’s far softer than what could’ve been.

Melia rolls to her feet, already dry as she pulls the water from her clothes, her heart pounding. The spotlights are still on them, the cameras still rolling. She barely notices as she pulls the remaining water to swirl around her feet, her eyes dark, scales rippling across her face. She straightens, her posture regal, her gaze piercing as she stares directly at the cameras, her voice steady and commanding.

“Show’s over!” she declares, her words ringing out in perfect Ancient Greek. “Thank you, and goodnight!”

The air seems to buzz with her voice, an electric ripple spreading across the park. The cameras flicker, the spotlights stutter for a moment as if stunned. Melia doesn’t break eye contact, her eyes boring into the lenses as if daring anyone—gods or otherwise—to challenge her authority. The water swirls more vigorously around her feet, ripples extending outwards as if reflecting her determination.

Grover, still catching his breath, gives her a weary but proud grin. “Nice touch,” he says, his voice trembling slightly. “I think you scared the cameras half to death.”

Ellie rushes over, her eyes wide, hands still trembling from controlling the water. “We have to go,” she urges, grabbing Melia’s arm. “We can’t stay here—Hephaestus is probably watching every second of this.”

Annabeth, now back on her feet, looks pale but resolute. She nods. “Ellie’s right. We need to get moving before this gets worse.” She gives a shaky glance towards the remaining spiders, their twitching mechanical bodies being swept away by the diminishing water. “And Hephaestus doesn’t just set traps—he likes to watch how they play out. He’s probably enjoying this right now.”

Melia exhales, the adrenaline starting to ebb from her veins. She nods, her gaze shifting from the wreckage around them to her friends. “Let’s go then,” she says, her voice steady. “We’ve got what we came for. No point sticking around for the encore.”

They make their way across the crumbling park, the mechanical remains crunching beneath their feet. The night air is heavy with the lingering scent of oil and rust. They move in silence, each of them acutely aware of how close they had come to failing—and the very public nature of their almost defeat. Melia’s senses are heightened, every creak and rustle making her head turn, expecting another ambush. Her heart pounds with every step, her focus never straying from getting her friends out of this cursed place.

Ellie glances back at the spotlights, now flickering out one by one, leaving the park to return to darkness. She shivers. “Do you think… they were all watching?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.

Annabeth grimaces. “Probably. Hephaestus has his ways. The gods… they love their entertainment.” She looks at Melia, her expression softening slightly. “But you did good, Melia. You took control.”

Melia gives a small, tired smile. “I just hope it was enough to keep them from thinking we’re a joke.”

Grover snorts, adjusting his rasta cap. “If they think we’re a joke, then they clearly weren’t paying attention. You were fierce. All of you were.”

They reach the edge of the park, pausing for a moment as they survey the broken gates. Beyond them lies the sprawling city of Denver, its lights twinkling, indifferent to the chaos that had just unfolded within Waterland. Melia takes a deep breath, then looks at her friends—her companions, her family in this insane journey.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says, her voice resolute. “We’ve still got a long way to go.”

With that, they slip through the rusted gates, leaving the eerie, mechanical echoes of Waterland behind them.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XIII

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

The war god is waiting for them in the diner parking lot.

“Good, you didn't die. I was starting to worry about your competence,” Ares sneers, leaning casually against his monstrous motorcycle. The bike seems to hum with the promise of violence, its headlight glaring red as if daring someone to make a wrong move.

“It was a trap,” Melia spits, her jaw clenched in frustration.

“It was trapped, there's a difference,” Ares replies, completely unfazed. He shrugs like he is dismissing a minor inconvenience. “My dear, dear brother doesn’t like people touching his lady’s things and provides her with toys to keep them safe. I only asked you for the shield. You could have left it.”

Melia growls at him, and Ares growls right back, their eyes locking. It is a primal moment, two predators meeting head-on, neither willing to back down. The tension is almost palpable, like a storm ready to explode. “Here's your shield,” Melia snaps, shoving it hard into his chest, her eyes narrowed with barely restrained fury.

Annabeth and Grover stand off to the side, catching their breath, while Ellie bares her teeth beside Melia, her stance aggressive. She isn't just angry; she looks ready to strike if Ares so much as moves wrong.

Ares catches the shield easily, spinning it in the air like it weighs nothing, like it is a toy. It changes as it spins, morphing into a bulletproof vest that he casually slings over his shoulder. “Good doing business with you, cousin,” he drawls, like they are exchanging pleasantries over coffee instead of life-risking errands.

He points across the street to an eighteen-wheeler parked under the dim yellow glow of a streetlight. The truck looks as out of place as they feel. "That's your ride. It'll take you straight to L.A., with one stop in Vegas," Ares says, his voice dripping with amusement.

The sign on the back of the eighteen-wheeler catches Melia's eye. It is reverse-printed white on black, clear enough even for her dyslexic brain to understand: KINDNESS INTERNATIONAL: HUMANE ZOO TRANSPORT. WARNING: LIVE WILD ANIMALS.

“You’re kidding,” Melia mutters, her brows furrowing in disbelief.

Ares grins, the kind of grin that says he takes joy in watching others squirm. “If you don’t like it, you can always find your own way west. Don’t be a punk,” he warns, stepping forward, his shadow falling over them like a threat made physical.

Grover shifts closer to Melia, but she is proud that he doesn't back away, even with Ares looming over them.

“And because I’m nice, and you had to deal with one of my brother’s traps, I got you a gift. Something extra for all your hard work.” Ares’ smile is off, like he doesn't quite believe his own words. He tosses a backpack at them, a pink Hello Kitty backpack that looks ludicrous in his hands.

Inside, they find fresh clothes for all of them, twenty bucks in cash, a pouch full of golden drachmas, and a bag of Double Stuf Oreos.

“I don’t want your lousy—” Melia starts, her face scrunching in disgust.

“Thank you, Lord Ares,” Grover interrupts hastily, his eyes wide in warning. He gives Melia his best red-alert look. “Thanks a lot.”

Melia turns her head, catching a glimpse of the diner through the window. Only a couple of customers are left now. The waitress who had served them dinner is watching, her face filled with a mix of worry and fear. She drags the fry cook out from the kitchen, pointing towards them. He nods, fumbling for a disposable camera, then raises it, snapping a picture of them.

Great, Melia thinks. We’ll make the papers again tomorrow.

“You owe me one more thing,” Melia growls, her voice low and filled with restrained anger.

Ares looks down at her for a long moment, his eyes assessing. “You sure you can handle the news?” He kicks his motorcycle to life, the roar of the engine breaking the tense silence of the lot. “She’s not dead. Taken away from the Minotaur before she could die,” he says, his voice almost drowned out by the rumble of the bike. Before she can say anything else, he revs his Harley, and with a smirk that sends shivers down her spine, roars off down Delancy Street, leaving behind only the echo of his laughter.

Annabeth lets out a shaky breath, her face pale. “That was not smart, Melia.”

Melia clenches her jaw, her eyes still locked on the direction Ares has gone. “I know.”

The fury from Ares’ words still courses through her veins, her emotions tangled. Relief, rage, desperation—they all fight for space inside her chest. Her heart pounds with conflicting emotions, and the memory of her mother's image flickers in her mind, torn away by the Minotaur. The hope that her mother might still be alive makes her chest ache, but at the same time, she knows how dangerous holding onto that hope can be.

“Hey, guys,” Grover says suddenly, his voice tight, his eyes darting back to the diner. “I hate to interrupt, but…”

He points towards the register. The last two customers are paying their check. They wear identical black coveralls, a white logo on their backs that matches the one on the KINDNESS INTERNATIONAL truck.

Melia follows his gaze, her heart sinking. She had been so caught up with Ares, she hadn’t noticed the men watching them, their eyes cold and calculating. A chill runs down her spine, and she knows they need to leave, and fast.

“If we’re taking the zoo express,” Grover says, his voice urgent, “we need to hurry.”

Melia doesn’t want to admit it, but he is right. It really is their only option.

They make their way across the street, the truck looming closer with each step. Melia can feel her stomach twisting in knots—something about this feels wrong, like they are being led into yet another trap. The air around them feels heavy, thick with tension that makes every hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

The closer they get, the more the smell hits her. She doesn't know how she's missed it at first. Maybe it is the lingering stench of Ares—the metallic scent of blood and adrenaline that seems to cling to him like a second skin. But now, the smell from the truck is unmistakable. It’s rancid, a foul combination of animal musk, urine, and something even worse—something sour and old, like rotting food.

It reminds her of the old woman who lived a few floors down from one of their old apartments. She had too many cats, more than she could take care of. Even several floors away, the smell of the uncleaned litter boxes had seeped into the hallways. The stench from the truck brings back those memories, the rancid, acrid smell of neglect and filth, and it makes her stomach twist with disgust. The thought that these animals have been trapped in this for who knows how long makes her chest burn with anger.

“Oh gods,” Annabeth mutters, covering her nose as they approach the back of the truck.

Grover scrunches his face, visibly shaking. “This… this is awful,” he whispers, his voice trembling with rage.

Annabeth pulls out a flashlight from the backpack, her hands trembling slightly. She clicks it on, the beam slicing through the darkness of the truck, revealing row after row of filthy metal cages. Illuminating it for her and Grover, but Melia and Ellie are forced to look at the scene even without the torch, their eyes pitch black.

The sight makes Melia’s heart drop. Inside are three of the most miserable-looking zoo animals she has ever seen—a zebra, a male albino lion, and some kind of antelope. The animals look half-starved, their eyes wide and panicked, the whites showing as they shuffle uneasily in their too-small cages. The lion glares at a bag of turnips that has been dumped in its cage, while the other animals eye plates of hamburger meat warily. None of them have the right food; it is as if whoever had loaded them hadn't even tried to care.

The zebra's mane is matted with gum, and the antelope has a silver birthday balloon tied to its horn that reads, “OVER THE HILL!” It bobs mockingly with every movement the poor animal makes.

Melia's rage simmers beneath her skin, her fists clenching involuntarily. These creatures have been treated with complete disregard, left in their own filth without proper food or care. The sight of them—helpless, neglected—makes her feel like something is clawing at her chest. She can see the despair in their eyes, a kind of suffering that hits too close to home. The thought that Ares expects them to ride alongside this horror show makes her blood boil. Every muscle in her body tenses, the urge to break open the cages and set the animals free almost overwhelming her.

Her anger swells, an uncontrollable tide that threatens to spill over. She feels her hands trembling, the sharp tips of her claws extending as if to emphasize her fury. This is cruelty beyond measure, and it’s all just a game to the gods—a game that leaves innocent creatures suffering for no reason. Her heart aches for them, for the hopelessness in their eyes. They have no idea why they’re here, no idea why they’ve been taken from whatever lives they had and thrown into this nightmare. It’s almost too much for Melia to bear.

Grover's entire body seems to vibrate with fury, his eyes glistening as he takes in the scene. “This… this is…” He trails off, clenching his reed pipes so tightly Melia fears they might snap. For a moment, she honestly thinks he is going to lose it—attack the truck drivers or tear the cages apart with his bare hands.

The truck’s engine roars to life, the entire trailer shaking. The vibration jolts Grover out of his rage, and Melia feels herself let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“We need to free them,” Annabeth says, her voice a low, determined growl. She is already digging through the bag, probably looking for something to pick the locks with. Knowing Annabeth, she is probably carrying a lock-picking set somewhere.

Melia knows they can’t—not yet. She hates being the voice of reason, especially now. But they have to be smart. “We can’t do anything until the truck stops,” she says, her voice strained. “They’re safer in the cages for now. If we let them out while we're moving, they’ll get hurt.”

Annabeth glares at her, her eyes blazing with frustration. She looks like she is about to argue, but then her gaze softens, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Fine,” she mutters, her voice barely audible. She turns her head away, her jaw tight as they all brace for the long, unsettling journey ahead.

Melia uses Riptide to switch the food around, giving the animals the correct meal, and then draws some clean water from the air to fill their bowls. The change seems to help; the zebra's ears perk up slightly, and the lion stops glaring, its golden eyes softening as it drinks deeply. Grover, at least, seems to make some progress communicating after that. He kneels beside the cages, his expression softening as he speaks in low, comforting tones. The tension among the animals begins to ease, and Melia feels a small, bittersweet pang of relief. They might be trapped, but at least they aren't starving.

Annabeth helps Grover untie the ridiculous birthday balloon from the antelope's horn, and they toss it aside. It flutters away, a pathetic symbol of mockery, now nothing but trash. Grover kicks at a turnip sack until it resembles something he is happy with and then curls up beside it, much like a dog settling in for the night.

Annabeth nibbles on their supply of food but doesn’t seem ready to try sleeping quite yet. She glances at Melia, her voice softer now, vulnerable in a way Melia rarely hears. “I’m sorry I freaked out at the waterpark. Spiders…anyway, thank you for helping.”

Melia shakes her head and gives a small, understanding smile. “We're a team, remember?” she says, nudging Annabeth gently. “Besides, Grover did the fancy flying, and Ellie caught us.”

Grover, who Melia thought was asleep, mumbles from his corner, “I was pretty amazing, wasn’t I?”

Melia, Ellie and Annabeth laugh, the sound easing some of the heaviness in the air.

Annabeth hands Melia one of the Oreos she has been hoarding, then passes another to Ellie. They all settle into a comfortable silence, the tension from earlier easing as they focus on the simple act of sharing a treat. The only break in the quiet comes when Grover begins snoring softly, a sound that somehow brings a sense of normalcy to the chaotic day.

Melia leans back, resting against the side of the truck. The cold metal digs into her spine, but she doesn't mind. She watches Annabeth nibble on her Oreo, her eyes already starting to droop as exhaustion pulls at her. Ellie is similarly leaning back, her eyes closed but her breathing steady, as if she's determined to stay awake for just a little longer.

“So if the gods fight,” Melia asks, her voice barely above a whisper, “will that affect things at camp?” The question has been gnawing at her, even through her anger and frustration.

Annabeth shrugs, her gaze distant, thoughtful. “The cabins will probably follow whatever their parents do.” She sighs, putting her head against the pink Hello Kitty backpack Ares had given them. Her fingers trace the stitching absently. “I just know I'll fight next to you.”

“Why?” Melia asks, genuinely curious. She wants to understand Annabeth's loyalty, especially after everything they've been through.

Annabeth smiles, her eyes closing, her voice soft and sincere. “Because we’re friends, Seaweed Brain.”

Melia rolls her eyes at the nickname but feels warmth bloom in her chest, pushing away some of the day's lingering darkness. She leans back, her eyes closing as she lets herself rest. The night air is cold, and the truck rumbles beneath them, but for the moment, they are together, and that is enough.

Slowly, the exhaustion of the day catches up to all of them. The sounds of the truck fade into the background, the worries of tomorrow slipping away as they drift off to sleep, side by side.

Melia’s dream begins like many of her others, lying on her back beneath the branches of an ancient olive tree. Sunlight trickles through the leaves, casting dappled patterns of gold across her skin. The air is warm, filled with the gentle rustle of leaves swaying in a breeze that smells faintly of salt and earth. She turns her head, her gaze sweeping over the sprawling field of asphodels stretching into the distance—their ghostly white flowers glowing softly in the dream's light. A calmness washes over her, a feeling of belonging and timelessness.

Beside her lies a figure, a girl with pale skin that seems almost to glow under the scattered sunlight. Her violet eyes glimmer with warmth and mystery, framed by ebony-black hair that falls in loose waves across her shoulders. The details of her face shift slightly whenever Melia looks away, as if the dream refuses to fully solidify her features. Her clothes, too, shimmer with a subtle ethereal quality, their styles shifting seamlessly—one moment an elegant chiton, the next a soft tunic of midnight blue, then armour that glints like the sea at night.

The girl’s eyes meet Melia's with a gaze that is so full of affection it makes her heart skip a beat. The intensity of it warms Melia to her core, and she feels her pulse quicken, her entire body tingling under that loving stare. The girl smiles, and Melia is struck by a pang of familiarity, a feeling of having known this soul beyond time itself. The girl reaches out, her fingers caressing Melia’s cheek, the touch impossibly gentle and electric at once.

“You can’t stay here tonight, Princess,” the girl murmurs, her voice lilting with a mix of fondness and regret, each word flowing like a gentle stream. Her fingers linger on Melia's cheek, the warmth anchoring her for just a heartbeat longer. “There are things you must see. Hold the course.”

Melia frowns slightly, instinctively leaning into the touch, her mind clouded with confusion. “Princess?” she echoes, her brows knitting as she tries to remember if the dream has ever addressed her so directly before. But even as she grapples for clarity, the ground beneath her shifts, opening into darkness. The softness of the olive grove fades into a sudden emptiness, and she feels herself falling—plummeting through the earth, her stomach lurching as everything turns cold and damp.

Melia finds herself standing in a vast, shadowy cavern. The air is thick with the chill of death, a damp coldness that clings to her skin. Wisps of ghostly white drift around her—spirits, their mournful forms barely distinguishable from the dark. The dim light seems to come from nowhere, casting a sickly pallor over the jagged rocks that jut up like broken teeth. The cavern echoes with distant murmurs, disembodied voices whispering from every corner, a low chorus of lost souls.

“Melia Jackson,” a voice rumbles through the darkness—cold, ancient, the voice she knows too well. The voice from the edge of the trench, the one that creeps around her dreams like a shadow she can never quite shake. Its presence is suffocating, an oppressive force pressing against her from all directions.

“Yes, the exchange went well, I see.”

Melia’s heart stops; the voice isn’t speaking to her. She stays still, as if movement might give her away, even though she feels the thing in the pit knows she’s there.

“And she suspects nothing?” the cold voice asks, its tone dripping with disdain.

Another voice—familiar, maddeningly familiar—responds, sending a chill down Melia’s spine. It twists her stomach, her mind struggling to place why she knows it. “Nothing, my lord. She is as ignorant as the rest.”

“Deception upon deception,” the Crooked One muses aloud, each word reverberating in the cavern, carrying a sense of dark satisfaction. “Excellent.”

“Truly, my lord,” says the familiar voice, its tone eager to please, “you are well-named the Crooked One. But was it really necessary? I could have brought you what I stole directly—”

“You?” The Crooked One’s scorn is palpable, the word echoing with biting cruelty. “You have already shown your limits. You would have failed me completely had I not intervened.”

“But, my lord—”

“Peace, little servant,” the Crooked One interrupts, his voice sharp as a blade. “Our six months have brought us much. Zeus's anger has grown. Poseidon has played his most desperate card. Now we shall use it against him. Shortly, you shall have the reward you wish, and your revenge. As soon as both items are delivered into my hands… but wait.” The cavern seems to shudder as the entity pauses, the dead spirits around Melia recoiling, their forms flickering.

“She is here.”

“What?” The invisible servant’s voice tightens with alarm. “You summoned her, my lord?”

“No.” The full force of the Crooked One’s attention twists to Melia, and it’s as if all the air is sucked from the cavern. The weight of his gaze is a crushing force, like the abyss staring back. “Blast her father’s blood—he is too changeable, too unpredictable. The girl brought herself hither.”

Fear clutches at Melia’s throat, but the Crooked One’s words spark something else—a desperate defiance. She has to get out. Now. Her body tenses, and she reaches inward, searching for the core of her power. She feels the cold vastness of the sea, diving into it within her mind, seeking refuge in the familiar waves. Down, down, she plunges, grasping for the depths that connect her to her mother, to her father—to the sea itself.

“Girl—!” the Crooked One’s voice roars, but Melia barely hears it. She finds a current, a rushing torrent that she grabs onto with all her will. She pulls, her whole being focused on escape, on tearing herself away from this nightmare.

The darkness fractures, the weight shatters, and suddenly—

She wakes up, her heart pounding, her body drenched in sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The shadows of her dream linger, curling around the edges of her consciousness, refusing to fully fade.

Ellie shakes Melia's shoulder urgently. "The truck's stopped," she whispers. "We think they're coming to check on the animals."

"Hide!" Annabeth hisses, already slipping her Yankees cap onto her head, disappearing from view. Grover, Ellie, and Melia scramble underneath the sacks of turnip feed piled in the corner of the trailer. The rough fabric scratches against Melia's face, and she can feel her heart pounding as they try to settle without making a sound. The smell of earth and old vegetables is overwhelming, but they keep still, breaths held.

The trailer doors creak open, a harsh burst of sunlight flooding in. Heat and dust swirl inside, making Melia's eyes sting as she peers out from her hiding spot.

"Man!" one of the truckers grumbles, waving a hand in front of his crooked nose. "I wish I hauled appliances instead." He climbs into the trailer, his heavy boots clanking on the metal floor. He lazily sloshes some water from a jug into the animals' dishes, the liquid barely enough to make a difference.

"You hot, big boy?" the trucker jeers, tilting the jug towards the lion. Then, without warning, he splashes the rest of the water right in the lion's face.

The lion roars, its deep, guttural cry echoing off the walls of the trailer. Melia grits her teeth, feeling her muscles tense in anger. The man chuckles, completely unfazed, as if the powerful animal's misery is nothing more than a joke.

Ellie, Grover, and Melia cling to each other, all of them struggling to keep from doing something reckless—something they might regret. The injustice of it makes Melia's blood boil, but they have to be patient. They need the right moment.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the trucker says dismissively, giving the lion one last disdainful look before moving on. He throws a squashed-looking Happy Meal bag into the antelope's cage, the faded logo on the bag barely visible. The poor animal stares at the bag, its eyes reflecting confusion and hunger.

Then the trucker's gaze shifts to the zebra. He smirks, his mean expression twisting his features. "How ya doin', Stripes? Least we'll be getting rid of you at this stop. You like magic shows? You're gonna love this one. They're gonna saw you in half."

The zebra, its wild eyes wide with fear, turns and looks directly at Melia. There's a pleading in its gaze, something ancient that seems to reach right into her soul. "Free me, Princess. Please," its voice echoes in her mind, a desperate prayer.

Melia tenses, her eyes widening as the realization strikes her—the zebra counts as a horse. Of course it does. She hadn't even thought of it before, but now, the connection is unmistakable.

Suddenly, there's a loud knock from outside the trailer. The trucker grunts and climbs out, his boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud. As soon as he's out of sight, Annabeth slips back in, reappearing beside them like a ghost.

"This transport can't be legal," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, anger clear in her tone.

"No kidding," Grover mutters, his eyes wide as he watches the animals. He pauses, his ears twitching slightly as he listens to something beyond human perception. "The lion says these guys are animal smugglers," he translates, his voice trembling with barely contained fury.

"That's right," the zebra says again, its voice echoing in Melia's mind. "Please."

There isn't a choice to make. Melia knows what she has to do. She reaches into her pocket, pulling out Riptide. The pen expands into its full sword form, and with one swift movement, she slashes the lock off the zebra's cage.

The zebra bursts out, muscles rippling beneath its striped coat. It turns back to Melia, bowing its head. "Thank you, Princess," it says, and Melia feels a strange connection—something that transcends the simple act of freeing an animal.

Grover steps forward, holding his hands up. He says something to the zebra, his words like a gentle melody—a blessing. The zebra nods, then leaps gracefully out of the trailer, clearing the truckers with a single bound before galloping down the boulevard. People shout in surprise, their attention immediately drawn to the sight of a zebra racing through the streets.

"Now would be a really good time to go," Annabeth says, her voice urgent as she glances towards the open doors.

"Quick!" Grover urges. "The other animals!"

Ellie leaps into action, her movements swift and deliberate as she uses her own blade to cut the locks on the antelope's and lion's cages. The animals burst out, their initial hesitation giving way to freedom. Grover blesses each of them, his words calming their fears, and they bolt out of the truck, their forms disappearing into the chaos outside. The antelope and lion stay close to one another, bounding through the streets as onlookers shout in confusion.

The children scramble out of the trailer, the desert afternoon heat hitting them like a wave. They move quickly, putting as much distance as they can between themselves and the truck. The crowd's shouts grow louder, people chasing after the escaped animals, cameras flashing. Thankfully, the spectacle provides them enough cover—everyone's attention is on the wild creatures, not on four kids slipping away into the sunlit streets.

Melia's heart pounds in her chest, adrenaline coursing through her veins as they weave through the crowd. Her gaze lingers for a moment on the lion, now a distant silhouette moving towards the horizon. She hopes, with every ounce of her being, that they make it—that this taste of freedom isn't fleeting. 

They make their way down the strip, their footsteps echoing against the pavement, until they come to a sudden stop in front of the Lotus Hotel and Casino. The entrance is a massive neon flower, its petals lighting up in vibrant colors as they bloom open and close, almost hypnotic. No one is going in or out, but the glittering chrome doors are wide open, spilling out blasts of cool air that carry a scent of sticky, overly sweet flowers—a smell that clings to the back of Melia's throat and makes her wince.

"This place feels weird," Melia mutters, her brows knitting together. "And the smell… it’s off."

"But it’s out of the heat," Annabeth says, her eyes glued to the inviting, cool darkness beyond the entrance. There’s a longing in her gaze, almost like she’s already imagining a cold drink in her hands and air-conditioned bliss. "I bet there’s water and food in there."

Melia winces, her hand pressing against her side, where a dull ache reminds her of just how tired and drained they are. She exhales, nodding reluctantly. "Okay," she says, voice heavy with caution. "But we stay together. Seriously, this place is… wrong."

Annabeth straightens, her playful enthusiasm dimming at Melia's seriousness. Even Grover—usually one for adventure—seems to edge closer, his eyes shifting nervously. Ellie falls back slightly, taking up her spot behind the group, her eyes sharp and wary as they enter. The moment they step inside, they're met by a sharply dressed doorman whose smile seems a little too wide.

"Hey, kids! You look tired," he says smoothly, his voice dripping with syrupy hospitality. "Why don't you come in, have a seat, relax a little?"

They exchange wary glances, but the cold air is an irresistible lure after the relentless sun, and they reluctantly follow him inside.

"Whoa," Grover breathes, his eyes widening as they take in the opulent lobby.

The place is beyond anything Melia has ever seen. The whole lobby is a sprawling, decadent game room. An indoor water slide loops around the central area, passing through glass tubes alongside a glass elevator that shoots up at least forty floors. A massive climbing wall stretches up the side of the building, next to an indoor bungee-jumping bridge. There are virtual reality stations where kids in full-body suits shoot laser guns at targets, and hundreds—maybe thousands—of video games, each screen bigger than a widescreen TV. It’s overwhelming, a dizzying mix of lights, sound, and motion.

"Hey!" A bellhop, barely older than them, strides up, a wide grin plastered across his face. "Welcome to the Lotus Casino. Here’s your room key." He hands over a glossy card as if they had already checked in.

Alarm bells start to go off in Melia's head. Something is definitely not right. The name "Lotus" pings in her mind, like an itch she can’t scratch. And why does it feel like they’re being swept along? She tightens her grip on Annabeth's and Grover's hands as they instinctively try to pull away.

"We haven’t paid," Melia says, her voice hard, refusing to let herself be swept up in the glitz.

The bellhop laughs, the sound just a bit too high-pitched. "Oh, no worries! The bill’s all taken care of. No extra charges, no tips. Just head up to the top floor, room 4001. If you need anything—extra bubbles for the hot tub, skeet targets for the shooting range—just call the front desk. And here," he adds, handing each of them a glossy green plastic card, "your LotusCash cards. They work everywhere—restaurants, games, rides—just have fun!"

He walks away without another word, leaving their questions hanging in the air. Melia stares at the card in her hand, her unease growing by the second.

They ride the elevator up, the bellhop’s overly cheerful directions still ringing in their ears. The doors open to reveal their suite, and it’s nothing short of opulent. Three separate bedrooms, a bar overflowing with candy, sodas, chips, a hotline for room service, and water beds with feather pillows that look as though you’d sink into them and never leave. The balcony has its own hot tub, and the view over the Strip is absolutely breathtaking—lights glittering like stars against the dark desert.

"Oh, gods," Annabeth says, her eyes going wide, her voice breathless. "This place is…"

"Sweet," Grover adds, practically drooling at the sight of the snack bar. "Absolutely sweet."

"Weird," Melia cuts in sharply. Her eyes narrow as she scans the room, trying to pinpoint why her skin is crawling. The sheer luxury of the place feels out of sync with everything she knows, everything they've gone through. It feels wrong.

"Let’s shower, rest up, and get out of here. We can’t stay," Melia says, her tone making it clear she won't take no for an answer.

Grover sighs, a note of reluctance in his voice, but Annabeth snaps out of her awestruck daze, giving Melia a curt nod. Ellie nods too, her eyes never quite leaving the suite’s entrance as if she’s half-expecting someone to come bursting through.

"Right," Annabeth says, shaking herself. "Do you want to take a shower first?"

Melia gestures for Annabeth to go ahead. "You go. I’ll probably take longer."

Annabeth nods and disappears into one of the bedrooms. Moments later, Melia can hear her surprised murmur as she rummages through the closet, finding clothes—perfectly her size. A shiver runs down Melia's spine. Definitely weird.

After everyone has cleaned up and changed, the exhaustion catches up with them all, and they decide to take a short rest. Melia and Ellie exchange grumbles about the weird, unfamiliar feel of the water, how it left their skin feeling strange—not refreshed, but almost… dulled, numbed. Before long, they succumb to sleep, lulled by the deceptive comforts of the suite.

When Melia wakes up, she immediately knows something is wrong. The room feels emptier—missing the subtle warmth of her friends' presence. She looks around and finds a little note left on the table: 'Gone exploring. Be back soon.'

Melia curses under her breath, her heartbeat picking up in worry. She scrambles to gather her stuff—their stuff—before setting out to find them. She tears through the hallway, her bare feet thudding against the plush carpet.

"No, no, no," she murmurs, a sense of rising dread flooding her. "This is all wrong. It’s all—"

She crashes straight into someone, sending them both sprawling to the floor.

"Oof!" The wind is knocked out of her as she looks up to see who she’s run into—a little boy, just as dazed as she is.

"Ow," the boy groans, rubbing his head as he sits up.

Melia hisses in agreement, her senses kicking into overdrive as she picks herself back up. The boy looks… familiar, though she can’t place why. There’s a scent around him, something like pomegranates and still, dark water. It catches her off guard, making her flinch.

"Are you okay?" she asks, offering her hand to help him up. "Sorry about that, I wasn’t watching where I was going."

"No, no," the boy says quickly, his voice holding a hint of something old, something wise. "I wasn’t watching either, you—"

They lock eyes: his, like the earth freshly dug for a grave, dark and mysterious; hers, blue like the waves, ever-moving. Something passes between them, a connection neither understands.

"You… seem… familiar?" The boy frowns, blinking as though trying to shake something loose in his memory.

"Yeah," Melia breathes, her brows furrowing. "So do you."

"Nico!" a female voice calls, sharp and urgent. It’s hauntingly familiar, stirring something deep in Melia’s chest—something she feels she should remember. "Nico! Where did you go?"

"Uh…" The boy—Nico—glances over his shoulder, his eyes wide. "That’s my sister. I’ve got to go."

"Yeah," Melia says, dazed. She shakes herself out of it, offering a faint smile. "I’'ve got to go too. I'm Melia, by the way."

"Nico," he says, giving her a quick nod. "Yeah, bye!"

Before she can react, Nico is already gone, disappearing into the maze of hallways. Melia blinks, the encounter leaving her unsettled. Her gaze falls on the ground where Nico had dropped something; a deck of Mythomagic cards. She picks them up, recognizing them immediately. A smile tugs at her lips, nostalgic memories flashing in her mind. She tucks the cards into her pocket, a silent promise forming in her heart. One day, she will return them to him.

She finds Annabeth soon after, practically colliding into her as she rounds a corner. The two nearly fall over, but Melia catches her balance just in time.

“There you are!” she exclaims, her voice tight with urgency. “We have to get out of here, now!”

Annabeth blinks, disoriented, her eyes wide. “Wait—what?”

“No time,” Melia insists, grabbing her arm, her grip unyielding. There’s something in Melia’s expression that makes Annabeth falter for a moment, then nod. The concern in Melia’s eyes cuts through the daze.

“Alright, let’s go,” Annabeth finally agrees, her voice regaining its strength. It takes a little convincing, but soon she’s fully on board, the weight of unease falling over her like a thick cloak.

It doesn’t take much time to find Ellie, and she too needs only a few quick words before she’s at their side, her gaze hardened with determination. They move quickly, their steps echoing in the endless hallway of lights and sounds. It’s a labyrinth of senses—something intended to trap, to dazzle. The lights are disorienting, blinking in time with a rhythm that seems almost hypnotic. Melia doesn’t let herself stop; her grip on Annabeth’s wrist is tight, reminding herself, focus, focus, focus.

“Where’s Grover?” Ellie asks, her eyes darting around the crowd of gleeful, oblivious guests.

“He’s still in there,” Melia says, her nose twitching as she sniffs the air. There’s something—something—that smells familiar. Annabeth pulls Grover out of whatever trance he’s been caught in, managing to shake him awake, his eyes coming back into focus.

“We need to leave, Grover,” Annabeth says urgently. He nods, still looking dazed, but the three start making their way toward the exit, following where Melia’s senses lead her—

Until Melia stops, her eyes widening as she inhales sharply. “Wait,” she murmurs, her voice almost lost amid the chaos around them. She freezes, her eyes narrowing as she sniffs again. “That’s… strawberries.”

Annabeth and Grover exchange confused glances, but Melia is already moving, her instincts kicking in. She leads them across the lobby, her senses guiding her, her eyes keen and alert. The opulent game room transitions into a different section, one filled with slot machines and elaborate betting tables. There’s a shift in the crowd here—less children, more adults, the atmosphere turning darker and more intense.

A staff member moves to block their path, his mouth opening to protest, but before he can say anything, a voice calls out from across the room, “It’s fine. Let them through.”

Melia’s heart skips a beat. She turns, her gaze locking on the figure standing at a craps table, cards shuffling in his hands, his smile as bright as the lights above.

“That’s…” Annabeth breathes, her voice tinged with wonder. “Oh! Maybe he can help us get to the Underworld.”

“On your lead,” Melia murmurs, nodding, her eyes locked on the figure ahead of them. They approach the table cautiously.

“Hey hey!” Hermes calls, his grin widening at the sight of them. He spreads his hands as if welcoming old friends, his demeanor exuding warmth and charm. “What do we have here? Demigods!”

He’s average height, but there’s an aura about him—something commanding, magnetic. He wears a beige hoodie, the sleeves casually pushed up, dark pants that seem oddly ordinary. His hair is slicked back, dark as the night sky, his brown eyes holding a warmth that feels almost human. Almost. He looks… out of place, Melia thinks, like someone who stepped out for a moment and stumbled upon them by accident.

Not what Melia expected. But then again, gods never seem to match expectations. Dionysus looks like an overgrown cherub who’s been run down by life, while Ares seems ready to punch anyone who so much as breathes wrong. Melia shouldn't be surprised. Yeah, she thinks, gods rarely fit the mould.

Hermes doesn’t have a laurel wreath, like some of the others she’s met. Instead, there’s a cap perched on his head, a faint flicker of gold etching along its sides, a symbol that shimmers in and out of existence. Small wings flutter at either side of the cap, like a bird ruffling its feathers. Melia catches herself staring, her gaze darting back to the god, and she jolts when she realizes Hermes has caught her looking, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“So my siblings were right,” Hermes says, his smile widening. “Fascinating. Sit, sit. You kids know how to play craps?”

Annabeth takes a step forward, her eyes narrowing. “Look, we don’t really have a lot of time to play,” she says, her voice firm. “We need your help to—”

“Sneak into the Underworld,” Hermes interrupts, already shuffling a deck of cards. “Yes, yes. I know what you need my help for.” He gives them a half-smirk, his hands deft as he manipulates the cards.

“You’re a really good guesser,” Grover mutters, and Hermes snorts.

“Kid, I exist beyond space and time,” Hermes says with a bemused grin. “They put me in charge of the mail for a reason, you know. Look, you aren’t the first demigods to ask, and trust me, you won’t be the first to leave disappointed. But hey, at least play a little while you’re here, huh?”

“We’re friends of Luke,” Melia blurts out, her heart pounding. She doesn’t know why she says it, but it’s true, for at least half of them. Hermes freezes, the cards slipping from his fingers, falling silently onto the table.

He exhales, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Yeah. Okay.” The words are quiet, almost reluctant. He sets the deck down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Time and space are easy, kids. Parenting is… something else entirely.” He sighs, the weight of his centuries-old struggles evident in his expression. “Can I get you anything? Soda, chips…?” He trails off, his eyes drifting over Melia and Ellie, narrowing for a heartbeat. “…water?”

“Lotus free?” Melia asks, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

Hermes' lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile, the corners of his eyes softening just a little. He snaps his fingers, and a small assortment of drinks and snacks appear on the table, their scent pure, untouched by the magic of the Lotus.

Melia snatches a water bottle, her eyes locking on Hermes’ face. He chuckles, but the warmth fades, his gaze shifting to Annabeth.

“I remember you,” he says quietly, his voice carrying an undertone of regret. “You were there. The last time I saw Luke.”

Annabeth’s eyes flash, and she lifts her chin. “Yes. I saw you argue. I heard what he said—that what happened to his mom was your fault. That it was all your fault. That he hated you. Help us complete our quest, and he’ll see that you care.”

The silence stretches, heavy with emotion, as Melia looks from the god to Annabeth. Grover is holding his breath, and Ellie shifts on her feet, her eyes not leaving Hermes’ face.

“There is a way,” Hermes finally says, his voice low, almost pained. “A secret way into the Underworld. I’ve helped others find it before. But you know what happens? Every time? Every single time. You don’t want my help, trust me.” His eyes darken, almost black, his cap shifting, the wings fluttering in agitation. Melia swears she sees something—horns, curled like a ram’s—before the hat settles back into place.

Is that a trait all Zeus' children share? Melia wonders absently.

“No,” Annabeth says, her voice unwavering, “we actually kind of do.”

A charged silence hangs between them.

“I was warned,” Hermes says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Warned to stay away from Luke, to stay away from his mother. Warned that no matter what I did, I’d just make things worse. But I went anyway. And it wasn’t just awful for him—it was awful for all of us.” He looks up, his eyes meeting Annabeth’s. “Do you know what that’s like? To be so close to someone you love, knowing that no matter what you do, you keep hurting each other? I know you do.”

“Are you going to help us or not?” Annabeth asks, her voice unwavering.

Hermes leans back, his gaze unreadable. Melia already knows the answer before the god even speaks.

“I don’t get involved anymore,” Hermes says, his voice thick with regret. “It’s just not worth it. I’m sorry.”

Melia swallows her disappointment, pushing away from the table, shaking her head slightly. Annabeth looks like she wants to argue, but Melia meets her gaze and gives a firm nod toward the door. She lets out a sigh, taking Grover’s hand, and starts to lead him away with Ellie following.

“One last thing,” Melia says, turning back to face Hermes. She lifts her eyes to meet his, her gaze unwavering.

Hermes stiffens, his eyes narrowing. “Can I ask a question?”

“You just did,” Hermes replies, his voice clipped, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

Melia ignores his deflection, her voice softening. “I’m sorry if this drags up bad memories, but my friend Grover… he’s trying to find Pan. I know Pan’s your son, so I wondered if…”

Hermes’ face falls, his posture deflating slightly.

“Oh,” Melia mutters, instantly regretting her words. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Of course, if you knew where he was, he wouldn’t be considered missing.”

Hermes stares at the table, his expression unreadable. Melia holds his gaze for a moment longer, then bows her head slightly. "Thank you," she says quietly. "For letting me stay in your cabin for a time, and for giving the children of the sea a place to be." Her voice is genuine, even if she thinks the state of the cabin should never have gotten that bad.

Hermes waves a hand dismissively, his voice thick. "Get out of here, kid. You’re doing just fine without me."

Somehow, Melia almost believes him.

She catches up to her friends. Together, they sprint out of the hotel, weaving through the bustling crowd. No one tries to stop them, but Melia can still feel the weight of eyes on their backs, a haunting feeling that seems to trail behind them as they run. Strawberries, sweet and potent, drift in the air around them like ghosts of a lost time.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XIV

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

“Two whole days,” Annabeth says quietly, her eyes fixed on the crumpled newspaper, her expression a mix of disbelief and horror. Outside the window, the Mojave Desert blurs past, a vast expanse of gold and rust-red as the Greyhound bus rumbles along. “We were in there for two whole days.”

“Look on the bright side,” Grover chimes in, gnawing on the edge of a tin can he had picked up somewhere along the way. “We could’ve been in there for five days, and only had one left to complete the quest.” He tries to smile, but it’s a weak attempt, like even he doesn’t believe the bright side could shine through the shadow of what happened.

“Or we could’ve missed the deadline entirely,” Melia adds, her voice low, as if admitting it out loud might make the nightmare real. They all shudder at the thought—at the weight of what they had almost lost.

“I can’t believe you both kept the water bottles,” Annabeth mutters, laying back in her seat and closing her eyes, her brows furrowed in exasperation.

“Hey!” Melia protests, her arm curling protectively around the sleek blue metal bottle. It's covered in a mix of stickers—tiny snakes and winged sandals, the remnants of some previous owner’s sense of humour. She holds it tight, like Annabeth might suddenly decide to rip it away. “Water is water.”

Grover snickers, his mouth full of shredded tin. 

Melia doesn’t tell them what she knows—that no matter how much she drinks, the bottle never seems to run out. The water inside is always cold, always refreshing, like it’s been freshly drawn from the cleanest ocean current. She doesn’t tell them how that little fact has pushed the bottle up into her mental list of Important Objects, alongside her circlet and Maelstrom. She’d fight anyone who tried to take anything on that list. There are things you can’t afford to lose, not when the world feels like it’s constantly trying to take pieces of you.

They settle into their seats, the bus rocking them gently as the sun begins its descent behind the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange, pink, and indigo. Each of them takes turns trying to rest, though their dreams still seem laced with unease, like the remnants of a spell that hadn’t quite worn off.

The bus finally drops them off just as the sun is dipping below the horizon, leaving streaks of firelight across the sky. The air is cooler now, and they walk the short distance to the beach in Santa Monica, the salty breeze filling their lungs as the sound of waves crashing against the shore grows louder. The sky is deepening into twilight, the first stars beginning to prick through the fading glow.

The beach looks exactly like it does in movies—white sand stretching out in front of them, waves capped with foam that sparkle in the fading light. But it smells worse. There’s a tang of salt, yes, but also the scent of trash and fuel, an oily bitterness that lingers in the air. Melia crinkles her nose, adding Santa Monica to her mental list—the list of places she hopes she’ll never have to visit again.

She turns to face her friends, the sea breeze ruffling her hair. “Hopefully, I’ll be back soon,” she says, her tone attempting a confidence she doesn’t entirely feel. The ocean is her domain, sure—but this isn’t just a casual swim. She’s diving into a message, an omen, something left by her mother. There’s no telling what she’ll find beneath those waves.

Grover adjusts his backpack, the Lotus card poking out from the top pocket. He gives her a small nod. “Got it,” he says. “We’ll get some food, maybe rest a bit. Just don’t take too long, okay?”

Annabeth steps closer, her eyes catching Melia’s. Her worry is palpable, something deeper than the words she speaks. “If you’re not back soon, we’ll come in after you. Or at least send Ellie after you. We’re not losing you.”

Melia smiles at her friend, appreciating the worry even if she doesn’t say it aloud. She takes a deep breath, the scent of saltwater filling her nose, and turns towards the waves. She can feel the pull of the ocean calling her home, like a mother’s arms outstretched, ready to embrace her.

“Don’t worry,” she says, though she knows they all will anyway. “I’ve got this.”

She steps forward, feeling the cold sand beneath her feet as the tide brushes against her ankles, inching up her calves. With a final glance back at her friends, she plunges into the surf, the waves swallowing her as she slips beneath the surface. The cool, familiar feel of the ocean surrounds her, and she moves with the current, her body flowing as if she’s a part of it—because she is.

The world above fades away, replaced by the deep blue twilight of the underwater world. It’s quiet here, only the gentle sound of the sea, the comforting murmur of her mother’s domain. She closes her eyes, allowing the current to guide her, feeling the shift of the water against her skin, the pulse of something ancient beneath the waves.

Melia grins as she wades into the sea, feeling the transition begin almost instantly. The familiar rippling sensation starts in her fingertips and spreads across her skin, scales blooming iridescently in the evening light. Her fingers lengthen, webbing forming between them, while gills open on either side of her neck, cool seawater flowing in and out, filling her lungs with breath. She lets out a contented sigh, the world of air above her fading into irrelevance as the sea welcomes her back.

She steps into the shoals, each footfall muffled by the soft silt, the water's darkness surrounding her like an embrace. Somehow, she can sense everything—every movement, every ripple. The gloom is her home, and in it, her senses are heightened. The ocean reveals itself to her: colonies of sand dollars nestled across the sandbars, currents weaving together like braids, warm and cold streams blending as they move. Melia moves with ease, feeling the dance of the ocean around her.

Something brushes against her leg, swift and playful. She smiles, a genuine grin spreading across her face. A sleek, five-foot mako shark circles her, nudging her gently, almost like an eager dog wanting to play. Its silver-grey body darts around her with a kind of joyful energy that makes her laugh aloud, her voice coming out in soft bubbles. She reaches out, and it nuzzles her hand, then turns, presenting its dorsal fin to her.

It wants her to follow.

Melia wraps her fingers gently around the shark’s fin and then they’re off, cutting through the water with astonishing speed, leaving the familiar shallow waters behind. The world blurs past her, colours smearing into a dark, fluid tapestry. The exhilaration of speed and the strength of the shark flow into her, and she laughs, the sound swallowed by the rushing water. She feels untethered, free in a way she rarely does on land.

The ride takes her to the edge of the underwater world she knows well—the point where the sandbank drops off into a massive, yawning chasm, plunging into unknown depths. For a moment, she pauses, her heart pounding with longing. The chasm calls to her, a dark mystery that holds the secrets of Atlantis somewhere far below. She wonders what it would be like to just let go and fall, to trust the deep to take her in.

But then, something shimmers far beneath, its glow spreading through the darkness, and Melia snaps back to the present. She watches as the light grows, an orb of warmth in the cold blue. Her heart skips as she hears that familiar voice again—the one from St. Louis—ringing out, resonating through the water, calling her name.

“Melia Jackson.”

The light solidifies, forming the figure of a woman—a figure that makes Melia's chest tighten with emotion. She smells her before she sees her clearly, a scent like sweet green rock candy mixed with the briny tang of seals. Amphitrite. The Queen of the Sea.

Amphitrite emerges fully from the shadows, her billowing black hair seeming to merge with the water, becoming a part of the ocean itself. Her eyes glow green, illuminating her delicate features. Her dress—woven from silken strands of kelp and seaweed—shimmers in different shades of green and blue, catching the light that filters down from above. Her hands are webbed and clawed, like Melia’s own, but there’s an elegance to her, an ethereal beauty that speaks of her divinity.

She rides atop a seahorse the size of a stallion, its pearlescent skin catching the dim light as it moves. As they near, the seahorse darts away to play with the mako, and Melia turns her full attention to her mother.

The first thing Melia notices, though, is the crown. It sits atop her mother’s head, unmistakable and stunning—a wreath of celestial bronze, lined with pearls and adorned with coral, aquamarine, and other unidentifiable gems, each one gleaming with a soft inner light. A second chain of bronze loops around her head, a vivid blue gemstone resting on her forehead, glowing like a piece of the ocean itself.

“You’ve come far. Well done, young one,” Amphitrite says, her voice full of warmth and pride. Her tail flicks, shimmering scales catching the light as she swims closer.

“Mother,” Melia whispers, her voice tinged with awe and longing. She swims closer, her heart aching to finally see her mother up close.

Amphitrite reaches out, her long fingers threading through Melia’s dark hair, gently scratching at her scalp. Melia can’t help the pleased clicking sound that escapes her throat, her body relaxing under her mother’s touch.

“It has been too long,” Amphitrite murmurs, her tone bittersweet. “I have waited years for this moment, to see you properly. I only wish I could’ve been with you sooner.”

Melia meets her mother’s gaze, eyes bright with curiosity. “Why me?” she asks quietly.

Amphitrite smiles, the corners of her eyes softening. “I do not have many demigod children,” she admits. “I could count them all on one hand. I care deeply for each of my daughters, though your father—well, Poseidon’s never had a clue how to handle them.” She lets out a soft laugh, like the sound of waves breaking gently on the shore. “But that’s a story for another time, my pearl.” She pauses, her expression growing more serious. “For now, I have a warning… and some gifts.”

Amphitrite raises her palm, four pearls appearing, glowing with soft, milky luminescence. They hover just above her open hand, each one reflecting the light of the sea in strange, beautiful ways.

“I know you journey to Hades’ realm,” Amphitrite says, her voice taking on a solemn note. “Few mortals have attempted this and lived to speak of it. Orpheus, Hercules, Houdini—each had gifts and skills that allowed them to succeed. You too have strengths, Melia—gifts you have only just begun to realise. But your journey will be perilous.” She pauses, her gaze deepening with emotion. “The Oracles have foretold a future both great and terrible for you, my daughter. I wish I could do more to change it—but even we, the Old Ones, cannot defy the prophecies. All I can offer are these.” She nods at the pearls, their light catching in Melia’s eyes.

Melia hesitates, then reaches out to take the pearls. They are warm against her skin, each one gleaming softly in her palm. “What do they do?” she asks.

Amphitrite smiles sadly. “That depends on your need,” she says. “When you find yourself in dire straits, smash one at your feet. But remember this: what belongs to the sea will always return to the sea.”

Melia nods, slipping the pearls carefully into a pouch at her side.

“And one more thing,” Amphitrite adds, her eyes softening again. She dips her hands into the current, her fingers flowing as if they’re part of the water itself. Silken threads of sea-green float up, weaving together between her hands until they form a necklace—a delicate chain holding a small dolphin engraved from silver, its eyes two tiny pearls. The clasps are styled like crab claws, intricate and beautifully detailed.

Amphitrite fastens the necklace around Melia’s neck, adjusting it so it sits perfectly. “This will protect you when you enter the Underworld,” she says, a note of pride in her voice.

Melia fingers the dolphin, feeling its smooth surface under her thumb. She looks up, eyes glistening. “Thank you, Mother. What’s the warning?”

Amphitrite’s expression darkens slightly, her gaze becoming more intense. “Follow your heart, my pearl, or you risk losing everything. The Lord of the Dead thrives on doubt and despair—he will twist your thoughts, make you question your own judgment. You must keep your faith. Remember—the Ocean will never abandon you.” She hesitates, as if there is more she wishes to say, something more profound and personal, but she simply nods. “Good luck, Melia.”

Melia watches as her mother turns, summoning her massive seahorse with a flick of her wrist. The majestic creature glides over, and Amphitrite mounts it effortlessly, casting one last, lingering look at her daughter. The emotion in her eyes is almost too much for Melia to bear. Then, with a powerful flick of its tail, the seahorse carries Amphitrite away, deeper into the darkness until she vanishes completely.

Melia stands still for a long moment, her heart full and aching. Then, she turns and swims back toward the shore, her thoughts a mix of hope and fear.

When she emerges from the water, dry and feeling a strange combination of both heavier and lighter, her friends are waiting. Annabeth, Ellie, and Grover are sitting at a little restaurant along the boardwalk, their faces lighting up when they see her approach.

“We got you some food,” Grover says, pushing a plate of fries and a sandwich toward her as she sits down. “And we packed some sandwiches for the road.”

“Thanks,” Melia murmurs. She eats in silence, sharing with them everything her mother had said and shown her, the warnings and the gifts.

As the sky turns a deeper blue, they make their next plans, the city lights twinkling around them. Melia digs into her bag, retrieving the slip of paper they had gotten days ago.

“We have the address,” she says, her gaze steady. Annabeth frowns slightly at the reminder of where they got it. “So now we just need to find the place.”

The sky above West Hollywood is beginning to darken, the sun sinking low as they step off the bus into the busy streets. Neon signs flicker to life, and the city hums around them with energy.

“Somewhere in West Hollywood is my bet,” Annabeth says, glancing around, her brow furrowed in concentration. “But we’ll probably have to wander a bit. Think your nose could pick up on the place?”

Melia blinks, startled. “My nose?”

Annabeth rolls her eyes. “Who else’s, Seaweed Brain? You seem to have a good nose for gods.”

“And monsters,” Grover adds, his nostrils flaring for emphasis.

Melia nods slowly. “Yeah, I can give it a try. Let’s head to West Hollywood and see what I can pick up.”

The bus driver had only given them a confused look when they mentioned where they were going, so they ended up wandering through the streets, the neon lights blurring together with the last light of the sun. The air is a strange mix of city scents—asphalt, car exhaust, and the greasy aroma of food from nearby vendors. But beneath it all, Melia keeps catching something else—a faint hint of brine, saltwater, and something older, like seaweed baking in the sun.

“You keep coming back this way,” Annabeth points out when they round a particular corner for the third time, her voice tinged with impatience.

Melia sighs, running a hand through her damp hair, feeling the frustration building up. “It’s weird…” She pauses, sniffing the air again, trying to hone in on that familiar, ancient tang. “It feels like something’s calling me this way. It smells like the ocean—briny, but really old. I think…”

She stops dead in front of a rundown store, her eyes narrowing at the sign above it. The building is out of place, sitting there like it belongs to another decade altogether, wedged between two trendy boutiques.

“Crusty’s WaterBed Palace,” Grover reads aloud, squinting at the sign. The letters are faded, barely legible. “Maybe it’s a sign?”

“Or something,” Melia mutters, staring at the doors. Something about the place feels... off, a kind of magnetic pull she can’t quite explain. “It’s like we have to go inside. There’s something we need to deal with.”

Annabeth studies her closely, eyes narrowed in contemplation. “Maybe you’ve got strong sight,” she finally says, the slightest hint of a smile touching her lips. “The Fates are leading you to where you need to be.”

Melia groans, shaking her head. “If the Fates could be a little clearer, that’d be fantastic.”

“They’re never clear,” Ellie says, stepping up beside her, setting her shoulders as if preparing for battle. “Let’s just deal with this.” She pushes open the door, the old hinges creaking loudly.

“Welcome!” a booming voice calls out as soon as they step inside, making all of them jump.

Standing at the far end of the room, a tall man waits, his gaze locked on them, a strange smile on his face. He looks... reptilian. Seven feet tall, no hair, and skin as leathery as a crocodile’s. His eyes are thick-lidded and unblinking, his smile too wide to be comforting. He moves towards them with a strange, unhurried grace, his polyester suit somehow even more dated than the storefront—the paisley shirt unbuttoned too far, gold chains jangling at his neck.

“I’m Crusty,” he says, flashing them all a tartar-yellow grin.

“Yes, you are,” Ellie whispers just loud enough for Melia to hear. Melia bites her lip to stifle a laugh.

“Sorry to barge in,” Melia says, trying to keep her expression neutral, though Ellie’s comment is still tickling at her.

“No problem at all, no problem,” Crusty says, his gaze lingering a moment too long on Melia’s necklace. His eyes narrow, something calculating behind them. He straightens, his smile widening even further. “Say, want to check out a waterbed?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, his massive hand coming down on Melia’s shoulder. His grip is firm—uncomfortably so—as he steers them deeper into the showroom.

The space is cluttered with all sorts of waterbeds—each more outrageous than the last. Carved wooden frames, swirling neon colours, satin sheets in garish prints.

“This right here,” Crusty says, spreading his hands with pride over a black satin-covered monstrosity with built-in Lava Lamps, “This is our most popular model. Million-hand massage. Go ahead, try it out.”

“Uh…” Melia hesitates, her eyes flicking nervously to her friends. Something feels very wrong here.

“Million-hand massage!” Grover exclaims, leaping onto the bed with enthusiasm. He grins, his eyes closed in delight as the mattress starts vibrating. “Oh, you guys! This is awesome.”

Crusty hums approvingly, his gaze flicking between them. “Almost... almost,” he mutters to himself.

“Almost what?” Melia asks, suspicion growing in her chest.

Crusty barely acknowledges her question, his eyes settling on Annabeth. “You, darling. This one might fit. Try it out, honey.”

Annabeth’s brows knit together. “Wait, what—”

Crusty’s hand lands on her shoulder, guiding her forcefully towards a bed with carved teak-wood lions on its headboard and a leopard-print comforter. Before she can resist, he shoves her down, his fingers snapping. “Ergo!”

Ropes shoot out from the sides of the bed, lashing Annabeth to the mattress. Melia’s eyes go wide, heart pounding as she glances at Grover—similar ropes now hold him down as well, the vibrating bed only making his voice quiver as he cries out, “N-not cool! N-not cool at all!”

The giant’s grin only widens as he turns to Ellie, his hand wrapping around her neck, holding her in place. Then, his other hand clamps down on Melia’s shoulder, fingers digging in. “Don’t worry, girls. We’ll find you both a bed in just a moment.”

Melia’s mind races, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. There’s no way she can take this guy down without a plan. He’d snap her neck before she could even draw her weapon. She needs to think, needs to buy time.

“Your real name isn’t Crusty, is it?” she asks, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her throat.

The man hesitates, then sighs dramatically. “Legally, it’s Procrustes,” he says, sounding almost mournful.

“The Stretcher,” Melia murmurs, a chill running down her spine.

“Yeah, but Procrustes isn’t great for business,” the man says with a shrug. “Now ‘Crusty,’ that’s a name anyone can remember.”

Melia manages a smile. “You’re right. It’s got a nice ring to it.”

Crusty’s eyes brighten. “You think so?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Melia assures him, nodding. “And these beds? Incredible craftsmanship. Really top-notch.”

The giant’s chest swells with pride, his fingers loosening slightly on Melia’s shoulder. “I tell my customers that all the time! Nobody 

seems to appreciate the craftsmanship anymore. How many built-in Lava Lamp headboards have you seen?"

“Not too many,” Melia agrees, keeping her tone light. 

“Exactly!” Crusty beams, clearly enjoying the conversation. 

“I bet it’s tough finding people who are exactly six feet tall,” Melia muses aloud.

“Tell me about it!” Crusty throws his hands up in exasperation. “So inconsiderate, all of them! And then they complain about the fitting.”

Melia nods sympathetically. “What do you do if they’re longer than six feet?”

Crusty reaches behind a desk, pulling out an enormous double-bladed brass axe. “Simple fix,” he says nonchalantly. “I just centre them up as best I can and lop off whatever’s extra. Gotta make them fit!” His grip on Ellie tightens, as if to emphasise his point.

“Sensible,” Melia says slowly, trying to keep her voice even. 

Crusty’s eyes brighten again. “I knew you’d understand! Finally, someone with some sense."

Melia glances at the nearest bed, the gears in her head turning rapidly. She forces a grin. “So, Crusty…does this one really have dynamic stabilisers to stop wave motion?”

The giant's eyebrows lift in surprise, then pride. “Absolutely! You want to give it a go?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Melia says, tilting her head thoughtfully. “But would it work for a big guy like you? No waves at all?”

Crusty snorts, clearly amused. “Guaranteed. No waves.”

Melia grins. “No way.”

“Way,” Crusty insists, puffing out his chest.

“Show me.”

Without a second thought, Crusty lets go of Ellie and plops down onto the bed, patting the mattress with confidence. Melia doesn’t hesitate. She snaps her fingers. “Ergo.”

Ropes shoot out from the sides of the bed, snapping tight around Crusty, pinning him to the mattress.

“Hey!” He roars, struggling against the bonds.

“Center him just right,” Melia says, her voice cold.

Ellie darts off, drawing her sword and rushing to Annabeth and Grover, quickly cutting through their restraints while Crusty writhes in frustration.

Melia uncaps Riptide, the blade gleaming under the dim light of the showroom.

“No! Wait!” Crusty pleads, his tone shifting, eyes wide with panic. “It’s just a demo! You drive a hard bargain—how about thirty percent off? No money down, no interest for six months!”

Melia’s expression hardens, the weight of her responsibility pressing down on her. Sorry, Dad, she thinks, though there isn’t much sympathy in her heart. He tried to kill us first.

The scent of the sea fills the room, a mix of salt and something sweet, almost like caramel. It’s comforting in its way, a reminder of the strength that lies in her blood.

With one clean motion, Melia swings Riptide. Crusty stops making offers, his body dissolving into a shower of golden dust, the particles shimmering in the dim light before scattering across the floor.

There’s a moment of silence as they all take in what just happened. Then Grover coughs, stepping forward, something bright orange in his hand. “I, uh, found this on the bulletin board over there. Plus, a stash of drachmas.”

Melia takes the bright orange flyer from Grover, glancing over it. It’s an advertisement for DOA Recording Studios, promising commissions for heroes’ souls. The address is printed clearly beneath, along with a small map. Grover hands her the drachmas, and she slips them into her pouch.

"Oh, great,” Annabeth mutters, peering over Melia’s shoulder. “It’s only a block from here.”

They step out of Crusty’s WaterBed Palace, leaving behind the eerie silence and the strange, dark energy of the place.

“Oh yeah,” Melia says as they turn the corner, her senses sharpening, the scent of the ocean growing stronger, more insistent. “This is definitely the place.”

They stood in the shadows of Valencia Boulevard, staring up at the polished gold letters etched in black marble: DOA Recording Studios. The sign was elegant and cold, each letter reflecting the dim streetlights like a set of polished teeth. Underneath, stencilled on the glass doors, read a trio of ominous instructions: No Solicitors. No Loitering. No Living.

It’s almost midnight, but the lobby is brightly lit, bustling with an eerie stillness. Behind the security desk sits a tough-looking guard, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, an earpiece coiled like a serpent at his neck.

“This should be fun,” Melia says, attempting brightness as she takes the lead.

“Oh yeah,” Annabeth mutters right behind her. “The Underworld, so much fun.”

Grover audibly gulps, his nervousness clear in the jittery way his hooves tap against the marble floors, each tap echoing in the otherwise hushed space.

Soft, soulless Muzak plays from hidden speakers, blending almost too well with the sterile surroundings. The carpet and walls are an impersonal steel grey, a shade that seems to drain the warmth from everything it touches. Pencil cactuses grow in the corners, their skeletal limbs stark and unsettling under the overhead lights. Black leather furniture dots the space, each seat occupied by someone—or something. People sit on the couches, others stand by the walls, staring at the ground or out the windows, their eyes vacant, movements absent. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves beyond slow, passive breathing.

The security guard’s desk is elevated on a raised platform, forcing them to look up at him as they approach. The guard himself is imposing—tall and refined, his dark skin contrasting sharply against his silk Italian suit, bleached to match his hair. A black rose is pinned to his lapel, right below a silver name tag that glints with black letters.

There’s something about him that feels... off. He smells earthy, like freshly turned soil, but also airy and ethereal. It’s the scent of honeysuckle drifting through a graveyard, calming yet ultimately unsettling. Melia squints at his name tag, trying to make out the letters.

“I’m sorry,” she says after a moment, “I’m dyslexic, you’re Mr. Chi—Charon?”

He leans across the desk, taking a long look at each of them, and then sighs, a deep, weary sound.

“I thought we said we didn’t want to see you for a long time,” he says, his voice laden with resignation, almost sad. The sadness is heavy, as though he expected them to live longer—to have more time—before coming to this place.

Melia blinks, taken aback by the sentiment. “Yeah, drowning is not a fun way to go.”

Charon clenches his jaw, his lips thinning into a tight line as he rubs his eyes. There’s something almost too human about the gesture.

“Not again,” he murmurs to himself, a tremor of pain in his voice. Then, louder, “Come on. They will be wanting to see you... again.” He steps from behind the desk, gesturing for them to follow.

“Wait, what do you mean again?” Melia asks, her brow furrowed. A ripple of unease washes over her.

Annabeth’s hand hovers near her knife, and Grover clutches his reed pipes so hard his knuckles turn white. Ellie steps closer, her stance protective, ready to lunge at a moment's notice.

Charon glances at them, the smallest frown creasing his forehead. “You aren’t dead yet, or you’d remember,” he says simply, his voice soft, almost relieved.

He leads them toward the elevator, grabbing two spirits who try to follow and shoving them back into the lobby. “Right. Now, no one get any ideas while I’m gone,” he announces to the waiting room, his voice commanding, echoing slightly. “And if anyone touches my easy-listening station again, I’ll make sure you’re here for another thousand years. Understand?”

The elevator doors slide shut, cutting off the muffled presence of the lobby beyond. Charon inserts a keycard into a slot in the elevator panel, and they begin to descend, the numbers ticking backward.

“What happens to the spirits waiting in the lobby?” Annabeth asks, her voice a low murmur.

“Nothing,” Charon says flatly.

“For how long?”

“Forever,” he replies. “Or until I’m feeling generous.”

“Oh.” Annabeth bites her lip, a chill running through her.

Charon glances at her. “Nobody ever said death was fair. Just wait until it’s your turn. You’ll die soon enough, where you’re headed.”

“We’ll get out alive,” Melia mutters, her voice steady though her heart pounds.

Charon gives her a long, assessing look, his eyes briefly softening. “Maybe you will,” he concedes. “But this place always takes something.”

A sudden wave of vertigo washes over them. The sensation of descending stops, replaced by something stranger, something like moving forward—but without any real sense of direction. Mist begins to fill the air, swirling around them, obscuring the walls and floor. Spirits in the elevator shift, their forms blurring. Their modern clothes flicker, replaced by flowing grey hooded robes, their features becoming indistinct, like shadows slipping through fog.

Melia blinks, trying to shake the feeling, but it only grows stronger. She looks over at Charon. His Italian suit has vanished, replaced by a long black robe, its fabric seeming to absorb the very light from the space around them. His tortoiseshell sunglasses are gone, and where his eyes should’ve been are empty sockets—dark, endless, filled with night and death and a void that seems to pull at her very soul.

He is no longer simply Charon the security guard. He is the ferryman of Hades, the guide of the dead—a fragment of the night sky carved into a human shape. One moment, he’s there, tangible, and then he flickers, his form twisting into something vast and empty, like a black hole that threatens to consume everything around him. His skin shimmers, then becomes translucent, until Melia can see through him to the bone beneath.

The floor sways beneath them, and Grover groans, clutching his stomach. “I think I’m getting seasick…”

Melia blinks again, her eyes adjusting to the new reality around them. The elevator is gone, replaced by a creaking, ancient barge. The mist parts, revealing the dark, oily waters of the River Styx, its surface swirling with bones, dead fish, and other remnants—plastic dolls, wilted flowers, letters never sent. It’s a river of lost hopes, lost dreams, of discarded remnants of countless lives.

“The River Styx,” Annabeth breathes, her voice tinged with both awe and horror. “It’s so...”

“Polluted,” Charon interjects, his voice filled with disdain. “For thousands of years, you mortals have been throwing in everything you could—hopes, dreams, wishes that never came true. It’s disgusting. Irresponsible waste management, if you ask me.”

Melia frowns, leaning over the side of the barge, her eyes scanning the murky depths. Her resolve hardens. She will clean this up, one day.

For a moment, something else shifts beneath the surface—a figure cloaked in white, her form almost translucent, her hair dark as midnight, her eyes meeting Melia’s without fear. It’s like staring into a mirror that shows not just a reflection, but a memory, a truth from a time long forgotten.

Melia knows her. She will always know her. Even if everything else fades—even if she loses herself entirely—she will know her.

Melia looks into the River Styx, and she looks back at her, her gaze steady, like she knows all her secrets, all her fears, and accepts them anyway.

The boat rocks as they move through the thick mists, the misty air heavy with anticipation and despair. As they sail deeper into the river, strange shapes lurk beneath the dark waters, rising occasionally before vanishing into the oily depths. Grover holds onto the side of the boat, his face pale and green. His fingers tighten around the edge, his knuckles white with tension.

“Just... a little longer, Grover,” Annabeth reassures him, though her own face is tense, her eyes flicking nervously toward the approaching shoreline.

Dark cliffs loom in the distance, jagged and stark against the dim light that barely pierces the mist. Strange lights flicker along the shore, the dim glow of torches illuminating figures waiting. The river seems to stretch on endlessly, the current slow but insistent, drawing them toward the ominous shore. Melia feels a chill creeping down her spine as they drift closer, the shadows growing denser, the weight of the Underworld pressing in on them.

Charon stands tall at the helm of the barge, his skeletal hand guiding the pole through the water with an ease that speaks of centuries of practice. His empty eye sockets seem to take in everything, yet reveal nothing. He remains silent, his aura both commanding and otherworldly, as if the entire Underworld bends to his will.

Melia can feel the tension growing between her friends. Annabeth’s eyes dart around, taking in their surroundings, always alert for any sign of danger. Ellie stands protectively close to Melia, her gaze fixed on Charon, ready to move at the slightest hint of threat. Grover, for all his queasiness, has his reed pipes clenched tightly in his hand, ready to spring into action if needed.

They near the shore, the boat scraping against the dark, pebbled ground. Charon looks down at them, a hint of something—pity? regret?—flickering across his skeletal features. He steps off the boat, gesturing for them to follow.

“Remember,” he says, his voice echoing across the desolate landscape, “you’re not meant to be here. The Underworld has a way of keeping those who don’t belong. Watch your step. Trust no one.”

The shoreline is covered in black pebbles that crunch underfoot as they disembark. Spirits drift around them, whispering among themselves, their forms barely distinguishable in the heavy mist. The air is cold, almost biting, and carries the faint scent of decay and despair. The land ahead stretches out into darkness, an endless expanse of grey and black, punctuated by flickering fires in the distance.

Charon turns back to the barge, his form already fading into the mists. Melia watches him go, her heart heavy with uncertainty. They have made it to the Underworld.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XV

~~~~ The Lightning Thief ~~~~

As they walk along the winding path toward the entrance to the Underworld, the oppressive atmosphere presses in on them. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of decay and damp stone, carrying an almost metallic tang that sets their nerves on edge. Shadows flicker and shift, their shapes distorted by the faint, flickering glow of ghostly will-o’-the-wisps that hover along the trail. Every step feels heavier, the ground beneath their feet uneven and treacherous, as if the very earth resents their presence.

Annabeth and Ellie exchange glances, each giving Melia a sideways look, their concern evident despite their attempts to hide it. Grover, on the other hand, wears his emotions openly. His eyes dart nervously to every flickering shadow and whisper of movement, his hooves tapping against the ground with an anxious rhythm.

Melia finally lets out an exasperated sigh, coming to a sudden halt on the narrow path. She feels the tension build in her chest, like a knot tightening with every passing moment, until she can’t keep it in anymore. “What?” she snaps, her voice sharper than intended, cutting through the eerie silence like a blade.

Ellie stops a step behind her, her expression softening with a hint of worry. She hesitates, her hand reaching out slightly before she pulls it back, her eyes searching Melia’s face. “I just…” she begins, her voice gentle, “I just want to make sure you’re okay. After what Charon said back there… it’s a lot to take in.”

Annabeth nods, her brow furrowed as if she’s turning over some complex equation in her mind. “Yeah, it’s… it’s just that everything he said, about you being here before,” she trails off, glancing at Melia with concern. “About being reborn? It’s kind of a big deal.”

Melia bites her lip, her gaze shifting to the dark path ahead, where the shadows seemed to swallow the light. Her heart feels heavy, like it’s being pulled in two directions. She doesn’t quite know how to feel—how to even begin to process it. The idea that she had lived before, that this wasn’t her first life, that she had somehow been here—in the Underworld—before. It’s like a puzzle with missing pieces, a picture she can almost see but not quite grasp.

Flashes of images come to her mind, fragmented and hazy. She’s standing on a terrace overlooking the sea, the wind tangling her hair, the scent of salt and thyme in the air. A city of white stone sprawls below her, its streets narrow and winding. She hears laughter—familiar, warm—and turns to see a woman beside her, her face blurry but her eyes vivid, filled with love and pride. The sound of children playing echoes faintly, the happiness of a distant life she can’t quite touch. Ithaca, her mind whispers, though she doesn’t know why.

Another image—she’s on a ship, the waves crashing against the hull. The sails are full, catching the fierce wind that pulls them forward, and she feels the thrill of adventure rushing through her veins. The sky is dark, filled with storm clouds, and beside her stands a figure, her face obscured by shadows, but the bright violet eyes stand out. She hands her a spyglass, and she looks through it, seeing another ship in the distance, a black flag flapping against the stormy sky. She feels the weight of the sword at her hip, the sea spray on her face.

“I guess it is strange to think about,” she admits finally, her voice quieter, almost lost in the heavy, dead air of the Underworld. She tries to keep her tone casual, but her hands clench into fists by her sides, betraying her unease. “But it… explains a few things, I guess.”

Annabeth tilts her head, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. “What do you mean?” she asks, taking a step closer, her eyes never leaving Melia’s face.

Melia exhales slowly, trying to find the right words. “The dreams,” she says, her gaze turning inward, her eyes unfocused as she recalls them. “I’ve had these dreams for as long as I can remember. They’re… vivid, like memories. Sometimes I’m in places I’ve never been, surrounded by people I feel like I know, but I can’t place them. I see faces that feel familiar, hear voices that seem to speak to me like they know me—like they’re part of me.” Her voice wavers, a tremor of emotion creeping in. “But I never understood why. I always thought they were just nightmares, or maybe something to do with my demigod side. But now…”

She pauses, the silence between them growing heavy. Ellie steps forward, placing a hand on her shoulder, her touch grounding Melia in the present. “You don’t have to figure it all out now,” Ellie says gently. “Whatever those dreams mean, whoever you were… it doesn’t change who you are now. We’re with you, no matter what.”

Melia glances at Ellie, her eyes softening, grateful for the reassurance. “Thanks,” she mutters, her throat feeling tight. She looks at Annabeth, who nods in agreement.

“It’s just… it’s a lot to think about,” Melia adds, her voice breaking slightly. “The idea that I’ve done all this before, that I’ve been here before, and I’m supposed to remember it somehow? It’s… confusing. I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel scared, or angry, or…” She trails off, her eyes glistening. “Or if I’m just supposed to accept it.”

Annabeth steps closer, her expression softening as she meets Melia’s gaze. “We’ll figure it out together,” she says, her tone firm, a promise. “Whatever happens, whatever you find out… you’re not alone in this.”

Melia takes a deep breath, feeling the knot in her chest loosen slightly. The oppressive air of the Underworld doesn’t seem quite as stifling as it did moments ago. She nods, her eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. “Okay,” she says, her voice steadier now. “Let’s keep going.”

They resume their journey, the shadows still shifting around them, but the weight on Melia’s shoulders feels a little lighter. For the first time, she feels like she might not have to carry this burden alone.

They resume their path toward the entrance of the Underworld, the oppressive darkness still pressing in on them, but the burden on Melia's shoulders feels just a little lighter. She doesn’t have all the answers, not yet, but maybe—just maybe—she doesn’t need to figure it out alone. Not this time.

As they continue, flickering images persist in her mind—a dark-haired woman with a soft smile, the sensation of a warm embrace, and a sense of belonging she can’t quite explain. A different time, a different life. The rolling waves and the roar of cannon fire, the thrill of the unknown, and the ache of loss. It’s all there, somewhere deep within her, waiting to be remembered.

The group rounds a bend, and the entrance comes into view. Melia stops for a moment, her brow furrowing in confusion. It is not what she expected. To be honest, it looks like a strange cross between airport security and the Jersey Turnpike.

Under a huge black archway that reads, "You Are Now Entering Erebus," there are three separate entrances. Each one has a pass-through metal detector with security cameras perched on top. Beyond these are toll booths, each manned by black-robed ghouls who look unsettlingly similar to Charon. The ghouls sit motionless, their hollow eyes fixed forward, an aura of monotony emanating from them. The faint clinking of coins and rustling of robes punctuate the stillness.

A low, mournful howling echoes through the cavern, sending a chill down Melia’s spine. It’s the sound of something massive and hungry, a primal warning that resonates in her chest. She glances around, half-expecting to see Cerberus lurking in the shadows, but the three-headed dog is nowhere in sight. Yet, his presence lingers—a heavy, oppressive feeling that makes the air harder to breathe.

Ahead, the dead queue up in three lines, their translucent forms shifting uneasily. Two of the lines are marked "Attendant On Duty," while the third is labelled "EZ Death." The latter line moves briskly, its occupants passing through without hesitation, while the other two crawl along at a sluggish pace. The souls in the slower lines clutch small bags, purses, or even satchels—offerings of currency clutched desperately in spectral hands.

“What do you figure?” Melia asks Annabeth, her eyes scanning the lines, curiosity piqued.

“The fast line must go straight to the Asphodel Fields,” Annabeth says, her tone contemplative as her sharp gaze takes in the scene. “No contest. They probably don’t want to risk judgment from the court because it might go against them.”

“I’m not familiar with how the Underworld works… There’s a court for dead people?” Ellie asks, her voice filled with both bewilderment and intrigue.

“Yeah,” Annabeth nods, slipping into her element as she explains. “Three judges. They rotate who sits on the bench. King Minos, Thomas Jefferson, Shakespeare—people like that. Sometimes they’ll look at a life and decide the person deserves a special reward—the Fields of Elysium. Sometimes they choose punishment. But most people? They’ve just lived. Nothing extraordinary, good or bad. So they go to the Asphodel Fields.”

“And do what?” Ellie’s brow furrows, her nose crinkling in distaste.

Grover answers this time, his voice almost a whisper. “Imagine standing in a wheat field in Kansas. Forever.”

“Fun,” Ellie says sarcastically, then adds more quietly, “Harsh.”

“Not as harsh as that,” Grover mutters, nodding toward a commotion near the security desks. “Look.”

A couple of black-robed ghouls have pulled aside one spirit and are frisking him with deliberate intensity. The dead man’s face is vaguely familiar to Melia, though his features are twisted with a mixture of indignation and panic.

“Isn’t that the preacher who made the news?” Ellie whispers. “The one who raised millions for orphanages and then got caught spending it on his mansion?”

“Oh, yeah,” Melia murmurs, snapping out of her thoughts about how many years her spirit—or whatever gets reborn—might have spent down here. “He died in a police chase, right? His Lamborghini went off a cliff.”

“So… punishment?” Annabeth guesses, her tone more curious than surprised.

“Bingo. Special punishment from Hades,” Grover confirms. “The really bad people get his personal attention as soon as they arrive. The Furies—or, uh, the Kindly Ones—will set up an eternal torture for him.”

“Ah,” Melia says, her gaze lingering on the man. It’s a stark reminder that they are in the Furies’ home territory now.

“He’s a preacher… and he believed in a different kind of hell,” Melia adds, her curiosity sparking anew. “How does that work? How do they reconcile it?”

Grover shrugs, his expression thoughtful. “Who says he’s even seeing this place the way we’re seeing it? Humans see what they want to see. You’re stubborn—er, persistent—that way.”

Annabeth folds her arms, her gaze moving back to the lines of souls. “It’s like a distorted mirror. People bring their own beliefs and fears, and those shape what they experience here. The Underworld just… amplifies it.”

“Creepy,” Ellie mutters, pulling her jacket tighter around herself as a chill seems to seep into her bones.

Melia shifts uncomfortably, her fingers brushing against the charms on her necklace. The oppressive atmosphere feels heavier now, the weight of the place pressing down on her shoulders. She looks ahead at the archway, the lines of souls, the ghouls in their toll booths. The path forward feels daunting, but she straightens her back, determination hardening her resolve.

“Let’s keep moving,” she says, her voice steady despite the unease prickling at the edges of her mind. “We’re not here to linger.”

As they get closer to the gates, the howling grows louder, reverberating through the very ground beneath their feet. Each vibration seems to crawl up their legs and settle in their chests, a deep, guttural sound that carries the primal menace of a predator. The overpowering scent of asphodel-dog fills the air, sharp and earthy, but it’s impossible to pinpoint where it’s coming from. Every breath feels heavier, tinged with the oppressive weight of the Underworld’s gloom.

About fifty feet ahead, the green mist thickens, swirling like a living thing. An enormous shadowy figure emerges from the haze, half-transparent, blending unnervingly with the darkness behind it. Its eyes and teeth, however, are disturbingly real. The eyes glow with an eerie, predatory glint as they fixate on Melia, and the teeth gleam sharp and white, like jagged shards of bone.

“He’s a Rottweiler,” Ellie says, her voice breaking the tense silence, tinged with both awe and surprise. “I always imagined a Mastiff for some reason.”

But he is unmistakably a Rottweiler—only, of course, twice the size of a woolly mammoth, his immense form partially invisible, and sporting three enormous heads. Each head swivels independently, sniffing the air and growling low in their throats. The combined sound is enough to make the ground tremble.

“This is just great,” Melia mutters, her voice a mix of sarcasm and genuine panic. Her fingers tighten around the stick she picked up along the path, though it now feels pitifully inadequate. “We make it all the way here just to become dog chow. I swear, if this is how I die—again—Uncle H is going to get an earful.”

“We’re not going to die,” Annabeth says sternly, though her tone is laced with tension. Her hand inches toward her backpack, clearly preparing for something. But before she can act, one of Cerberus’s massive heads lowers to the ground, its glowing eyes narrowing as it sniffs the air directly in front of Melia. The warm, damp huff of his breath washes over her, ruffling her hair.

Melia freezes, every muscle locking up, her heart hammering so hard it feels like it might burst. She glances at the others, seeing their wide eyes and tense bodies, their hands poised on weapons or supplies. Another head swings lower, sniffing her shoulder, then her hands. The massive dog lets out a deep, booming woof that echoes across the landscape. To everyone’s astonishment, Cerberus drops onto his massive paws, his heads tilting slightly as he fixes Melia with a look that can only be described as… hopeful.

“Uh, good boy?” Melia says hesitantly, her voice wavering. Slowly, she lifts a hand, her movements deliberate as she reaches for the closest head. The coarse fur under her fingers is warm, almost comforting, as she starts patting one of his heads, then another, and finally the third, switching between them as Cerberus’s tail begins to thump against the ground. The tremors ripple through the earth, making Ellie stumble slightly.

“I guess he recognises you,” Ellie says, her tone filled with cautious wonder.

Melia nods slowly, her hand still scratching behind one of Cerberus’s enormous ears. “Yeah… seems that way,” she murmurs. Her mind races, trying to piece together why the guardian of the Underworld’s gates would react to her like this. She looks at the others, her expression turning serious. “You three go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

After a brief exchange of glances, Annabeth leads Grover and Ellie around Cerberus, their steps careful and deliberate. They skirt the edge of the massive hound, their movements slow to avoid drawing attention. Melia keeps her focus on the giant dog, her heart softening at the sight of his wagging tail and eager eyes. Once her friends are safely past, she leans in, resting her forehead against the top of one of Cerberus’s massive noses.

“I’ll visit when I can,” she whispers in Ancient Greek, her voice barely audible. Her words carry a weight of both promise and longing, as if speaking to an old friend.

Cerberus’s tail thumps again, his warm breath washing over her with a gentle whine. He gives her one last nuzzle, his massive form almost radiating affection, before she steps back. A pang of sadness stabs at her chest as she takes one final look at him. The massive hound watches her intently, his three sets of glowing eyes following her until she disappears from sight.

As they regroup beyond the gates, Annabeth gives Melia a curious look, her sharp mind clearly brimming with questions. Melia just shakes her head, a faint, wistful smile tugging at her lips. “Let’s keep moving,” she says, her voice steady despite the emotion still lingering in her chest. She knows this isn’t the last time she’ll see Cerberus, not if she has anything to say about it.

They step through the gates, only for the metal detectors to erupt in a cacophony of alarms. Red lights flash wildly, bathing the area in an ominous glow. “Unauthorized possessions! Magic detected!” blares a robotic voice, its monotone cutting through the chaos as more alarms begin to echo through the Underworld.

Cerberus starts barking, the deep, thunderous sound reverberating off the cavern walls. The ground shakes under the heavy thuds of his paws as he bounds closer, responding to the commotion. The ghouls at the toll booths scramble to action, their hollow, raspy voices shouting commands as they fumble with weapons and lanterns.

“Run!” Melia yells, grabbing Grover by the arm. The group bolts through the EZ Death gate, the flashing lights and wailing alarms chasing after them like a physical force. They sprint down the rocky path, weaving between spirits and obstacles as the cacophony fades into the distance. Behind them, Cerberus’s barking grows softer, though the echoes of his deep voice linger in the air.

After several frantic minutes, they duck into the hollow trunk of an immense black tree. The wood is damp and decaying, the air inside thick with the smell of mildew and rot. It’s far from pleasant, but it’s their best chance at hiding. They huddle close together, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as they listen to the commotion outside. Security ghouls scuttle past, their lanterns casting flickering, distorted shadows against the tree’s twisted roots. Their raspy voices bark orders for backup, calling on the Furies to aid in the search.

Melia presses a hand against her chest, trying to steady her frantic heartbeat. Her eyes meet Annabeth’s, both silently acknowledging how close they just came to being caught. Grover is trembling, his eyes wide and darting nervously, while Ellie grips the hilt of her sword tightly, her knuckles white.

“That was… close,” Ellie whispers, her voice barely audible.

Melia nods, her fingers brushing against the charms on her necklace as she takes a deep breath. “Too close,” she murmurs. She glances at her friends, the weight of their trust anchoring her resolve. “But we’re not done yet. Let’s keep moving.”

The Fields of Asphodel stretch out before them like an endless, dreary plain—and it is quickly clear to Melia that this place is not somewhere she would want to linger. The entire expanse is muted, shrouded in a pervasive grey that seems to seep into her skin and weigh down her very soul. The sky above is a swirling canvas of dull clouds, never breaking, never moving, as if time itself has forgotten this place. The ground underfoot is soft, a mixture of ash and soil that puffs up faintly with each step. The air smells of asphodel flowers, thick and cloying, a fragrance that both comforts and unsettles her. It evokes something—a memory, perhaps. A flash of laughter, a bright day under the sun, a gentle hand resting on her shoulder—but it is all indistinct, foggy. The sense of something just out of reach gnaws at her, an unsettling feeling she cannot shake.

“The dead aren’t scary,” she murmurs, almost to herself. As they move through the fields, she realises the truth of her words. “They’re just… sad.”

Annabeth glances over, her sharp grey eyes searching Melia’s face for a beat. She doesn’t say anything, just nods slightly. The spirits around them drift aimlessly, their movements slow and vacant, each face blank and devoid of hope. The faint murmurs of their voices mingle together, creating an eerie hum that ebbs and flows like a dying tide. It’s heartbreaking.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Grover mutters, his voice barely audible. His ears twitch nervously, and his hooves crunch softly against the ashy ground.

They creep along, staying close together, following the line of new arrivals that snakes its way from the main gates toward a black-tented pavilion. A garish banner hangs over it, starkly out of place amidst the gloom, reading: "Judgements for Elysium and Eternal Damnation. Welcome, Newly Deceased!" The sign’s cheerful tone is grotesque against the grim landscape, and Melia feels a shiver run down her spine.

Out the back of the tent, two much smaller lines form, splitting off in different directions. To the left, spirits flanked by security ghouls march down a jagged, rocky path toward the Fields of Punishment. Even from their vantage point, Melia can see the glow of fire and the smoke that rises into the dark sky. The distant screams carry faintly through the air, mingling with the crackle of flames and the clanking of chains. It’s a vast, cracked wasteland filled with rivers of lava, minefields, and barbed wire as far as the eye can see. She catches glimpses of tormented figures—some being chased by hellhounds, others enduring endless tortures. The sight of Sisyphus struggling eternally with his boulder catches her eye, and she quickly looks away, her stomach churning.

The line to the right is much more pleasant. It leads to a verdant valley surrounded by gleaming walls—a gated community of sorts, the only part of the Underworld that seems to hold any sense of peace. Within the walls are neighbourhoods of beautiful homes—Roman villas, medieval castles, Victorian mansions. Flowers of silver and gold bloom on the immaculate lawns, the grass rippling in vibrant rainbow hues. She hears laughter, smells the mouthwatering scent of barbecue cooking. This is Elysium, the paradise for the blessed souls.

For a moment, Melia feels a pull, a tug deep in her chest that draws her eyes to the shining blue lake at the heart of the valley. Three small islands sit in the middle of the lake, idyllic and serene—the Isles of the Blest. Reserved only for those who had chosen to be reborn three times and achieved Elysium each time. She feels a longing, a strange sense of familiarity, like something inside her knows this place, as if it’s calling her back.

“Do you think…?” Ellie’s voice breaks through her thoughts. She’s looking at Melia, her gaze shifting between Melia and the Isles of the Blest, her expression both curious and cautious.

Melia swallows, her eyes still on the distant islands. “I think I might be trying for it, yeah,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. The admission feels heavy, yet strangely freeing.

Annabeth’s gaze lingers on Melia, a contemplative look in her eyes, but she doesn’t press. There’s an understanding between them—some things are too complex, too heavy to unpack right now, in the midst of everything else.

They move away from the judgement pavilion, delving deeper into the Asphodel Fields. The further they go, the darker it becomes. The colours of their clothes seem to fade, their vibrancy leached away by the dull, oppressive atmosphere. The crowds of spirits begin to thin, the once ceaseless murmur of voices growing quieter, until only a few wandering souls remain, drifting aimlessly through the gloom.

The silence feels heavier here, pressing in on them like a tangible force. Each step seems to echo too loudly, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the stillness. The ground becomes rougher, jagged stones protruding from the ash as if the land itself is trying to slow them down.

After what feels like miles of walking, the silence is shattered by a familiar screech. Melia’s heart sinks as she looks up, her eyes widening at the sight ahead. Looming on the horizon is a massive palace made entirely of glittering black obsidian, its spires reaching up like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. The structure seems alive, pulsing faintly with a dark, malevolent energy. Circling above the parapets are three dark, batlike figures—the Furies. Their shrill cries echo across the fields, sharp and piercing, sending shivers down her spine. It’s clear they’re waiting for them.

“I suppose it’s too late to turn back,” Grover says wistfully, his voice trembling. His eyes dart nervously to the palace, then to the Furies above.

“Way too late,” Annabeth replies grimly, her hand inching toward her backpack. Her tone is steady, but her expression is tense.

Melia doesn’t respond immediately. She’s too focused on the palace, the weight of its presence settling heavily on her chest. She takes a deep breath, her fingers brushing against the charms on her necklace. Finally, she nods, her voice firm as she speaks. “Let’s go.”

Together, they steel themselves and step forward, the oppressive shadows of the Underworld closing in around them as they approach the obsidian palace.

“We’ll be okay,” Melia says, trying to inject some confidence into her voice, though the sight of the Furies circling in the distance makes her stomach twist in knots. Their shrill cries echo faintly, a haunting melody that seems to pierce her very core. She steels herself and starts to move forward, but Grover’s winged shoes suddenly jerk, lifting him off the ground.

“Maia!” Grover yells, his voice high with panic as he tries to activate the shoes’ magic to stop them. It’s no use. The winged shoes have a mind of their own, their battered laces glowing faintly as they drag him away. His hooves scrabble against the rocky ground, kicking up gravel as he struggles.

“Grover!” Annabeth shouts, lunging forward, but the shoes are already pulling him too fast. Ellie sprints after him, her natural speed letting her close the distance quickly. Her fingers brush against his shirt as she reaches out, but the shoes jerk him forward, just out of reach.

“Untie the shoes!” Melia yells, her heart pounding. Grover’s fingers fumble desperately with the laces, but the shoes’ enchanted movement makes it nearly impossible. They’re moving too quickly now, the ground beneath them sloping downward into a dark, narrow tunnel. The walls begin to close in, jagged and uneven, forcing Annabeth and Melia to slow as they follow.

The air grows colder, the tunnel damp with condensation that drips from the sharp, stalactite-laden ceiling. Then the smell hits Melia like a punch to the gut—rot, decay, the unmistakable stench of death. It’s thick, clinging to her nostrils and coating the back of her throat. Her vision blurs for a moment, and flashes of dark memories rush through her mind—blood spilled on a stone altar, screams echoing in the void, shadowy figures looming over her. She shakes her head, trying to focus, to push away the images.

They burst out into a vast cavern, and Melia’s heart stops. The cavern is dominated by a massive chasm, a swirling abyss of inky darkness that seems to devour the faint light of the Underworld. The edges of the pit are jagged, its depths radiating an ominous pull that makes Melia’s skin crawl. Grover is sliding straight toward it, his eyes wide with terror.

Ellie makes a desperate lunge, tackling him to the ground just meters from the edge. Her fingers dig into the gravel as she clings to a sharp outcropping of rock with one hand, holding onto Grover’s arm with the other. The strain on her face is evident, her muscles trembling with effort.

Melia and Annabeth reach them seconds later, grabbing onto Ellie and Grover, pulling them back from the brink with every ounce of strength they have. The effort leaves them all gasping for breath, their muscles burning from the strain. Melia collapses onto the obsidian gravel, her chest heaving as she tries to steady her breathing. Her backpack feels like it’s filled with lead, the weight pressing her down into the ground.

Grover’s hands are bleeding, the skin scraped raw. His eyes are wide and glassy, the slit-pupilled look of his goat form showing the depth of his terror. “I don’t know how…” he pants, his voice trembling. “I didn’t…”

“Wait,” Melia says, holding up a hand. Her eyes widen as she hears something—a deep, echoing whisper that seems to come from the very depths of the chasm. It’s a voice, ancient and full of malice, speaking in a language she doesn’t quite understand but feels deep in her bones.

Annabeth stiffens beside her, her face pale as her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag. “Melia, this place…” she starts, her voice shaky.

“We need to go,” Melia says urgently. The whispering grows louder, an evil, muttering chant that vibrates through the very air. She realises with a sickening certainty what they’ve stumbled upon. The pit—Tartarus, the entrance to Tartarus. It’s calling to them, pulling at them like a dark tide.

Together, they pull Grover to his feet, their movements frantic. The gravity of the abyss seems to intensify, dragging at their legs as they scramble away from the edge. The wind picks up behind them, a cold, biting gust that tugs at their clothes and hair, as if the pit itself is trying to drag them back.

Melia stumbles, her foot slipping on the loose gravel. She catches herself with a sharp intake of breath, forcing herself forward even as her knees threaten to give out. The wail of outrage from the abyss echoes behind them, a sound so raw and primal it feels like it’s tearing through her very soul.

They finally reach the top of the tunnel, bursting out into the Fields of Asphodel once more. The oppressive pull of the pit lessens, but the lingering sense of dread clings to them like a shadow. The wind dies down, and the air grows still, but their hearts continue to race, the adrenaline still coursing through their veins.

They collapse into a grove of black poplar trees, their bodies trembling from exhaustion and fear. The brittle leaves rustle faintly above them, their sound eerily similar to whispered voices.

“What was that?” Grover asks, his voice barely a whisper. His hands tremble as he grips the fabric of his shirt, his knuckles white.

“One of Hades’ pets?” Ellie ventures, though her tone is doubtful. She keeps glancing back toward the tunnel, as if expecting something to follow them.

“No,” Melia says grimly, her voice steadier than she feels. “Much worse.” Her gaze shifts to each of them in turn, her expression hardening. “We need to keep moving. This place… it’s not safe.”

Annabeth nods, her face pale but resolute. “She’s right. We can’t stay here.”

Grover swallows hard, his gaze lingering on the dark tunnel they’ve just escaped. He nods slowly, his fear still evident but overridden by the determination in his friends’ faces.

They pick themselves up, their steps shaky but resolute as they continue on their path. The dark palace of Hades looms in the distance, its black spires piercing the dim, ashen sky like daggers. The journey ahead feels heavier now, the weight of what they’ve just encountered settling over them like a suffocating blanket. But they press on, knowing they have no other choice.

The Furies circle high above the parapets, their leathery wings blending seamlessly into the shadows that stretch and curl around the fortress like living things. Their shrill cries echo intermittently, piercing the oppressive silence and sending chills down Melia’s spine. The fortress itself is a monolith of glittering black ice, each polished wall reflecting the dim, unearthly glow that emanates from the cavern’s ceiling. It feels alive, as if it’s watching them, waiting.

As Melia approaches, the towering bronze gates come into full view. At first, they appear to be adorned with abstract patterns, but as she draws closer, the true nature of the carvings becomes horrifyingly clear. Scenes of death are etched into the metal with agonising detail. Modern images stand starkly against the ancient surface—an atomic bomb blooming over a city, skeletal soldiers collapsed in mustard-filled trenches, the hollow faces of children holding empty bowls, their emaciated forms waiting in endless lines under a merciless sun. The engravings look ancient, as though they’ve been here for millennia, yet the events they depict feel uncomfortably recent.

Melia’s chest tightens. This isn’t just the home of a god—it’s a place of endings, a monument to mortality. No matter the era, no matter the distance, everything that dies ends up here. The weight of that realisation settles over her, cold and suffocating.

Inside the courtyard, her eyes are drawn to a garden that could only belong in the Underworld. It’s both grotesque and mesmerising. Brightly coloured mushrooms cluster together like unnatural bouquets, their caps glistening with an oily sheen that screams "danger." Poisonous shrubs stretch upward with spindly, skeletal branches that seem to shiver without any breeze. Strange, luminescent plants cast an eerie, flickering light, their twisted forms creating shadows that dance unnaturally across the stone walls.

Instead of flowers, the garden boasts piles of gemstones. Rubies the size of fists spill from gnarled roots, clusters of jagged diamonds sparkle like shards of ice, and veins of emerald snake through the ground, glowing faintly as if lit from within. Their beauty is hypnotic, yet there’s something predatory about the way they catch the light—like they’re meant to lure the unwary.

In the centre of the garden stands an orchard of pomegranate trees. The blooms are startling—bright orange and almost neon against the gloom—their vibrant colour a stark contrast to the oppressive surroundings. Heavy fruits hang from the branches, their crimson skins glistening with a dew that seems to pulse with life. The scent of pomegranates fills the air, tart and intoxicating, and Melia has to swallow hard against the sudden, inexplicable urge to reach out and pluck one. The temptation is strong, almost overwhelming.

Annabeth’s voice cuts through the haze, tight and controlled. “The garden of Persephone. Keep walking,” she warns, her eyes fixed firmly on the path ahead.

Melia understands the urgency in her tone. Just one bite of Underworld food, and they’d never leave. The thought makes her fingers curl into fists. When she notices Grover eyeing a particularly large pomegranate, she quickly grabs his arm and pulls him away. He looks at her sheepishly, and she shakes her head, her grip firm as Ellie gives him a light shove to keep him moving.

They ascend the black steps that lead to the fortress, the weight of the place pressing down on them with each step. Towering columns flank the entrance, their surfaces etched with ancient runes that seem to writhe and shift in the dim light. The portico looms above them, an expanse of darkness that absorbs every flicker of light, leaving only the faintest suggestion of depth. They step into the shadowed archway, the air growing colder as they pass through.

The entry hall stretches out before them, a vast, echoing space that seems to stretch endlessly. The floor is polished bronze, its reflective surface casting back distorted images of flickering torchlight, making it seem like they’re walking on molten metal. The ceiling is non-existent, replaced by the jagged cavern roof far above, lost in shadow. Every sound they make feels amplified, their footsteps echoing unnaturally as if the hall itself is alive and listening.

Skeleton guards line the hallway, standing motionless at attention before each side doorway. Their hollow eyes seem to follow the group as they move, and the variety of their appearances is unsettling. Some wear ancient Greek armour, their rusted breastplates and helmets pitted with age. Others are clad in British redcoat uniforms, their muskets held at the ready. Still others wear tattered modern camouflage, faded American flags stitched to their shoulders, their skeletal hands gripping M-16s. Though none of them move, the weight of their presence is oppressive. It feels like they’re waiting for something—a command to spring to life.

At the end of the hall stands a massive set of double doors, crafted from the same polished bronze as the floor. They’re guarded by two skeletal figures dressed as U.S. Marines. Their grinning skulls are unnervingly expressive, their empty sockets seeming to watch the group approach. Grover shifts nervously behind Melia, his hooves clicking softly against the floor.

“You know,” he mutters, his voice shaky but laced with a hint of forced humour, “I bet Hades doesn’t have trouble with door-to-door salesmen.”

A nervous chuckle escapes Melia before quickly dying away. The air feels heavier here, charged with an almost electric tension. Her backpack seems to weigh twice as much as it did moments ago, the straps digging into her shoulders. A sinking feeling gnaws at her stomach, an instinctive dread she can’t shake. The faint smell of ozone, sharp and biting, tickles her nose. She resists the urge to open her bag, to check its contents. Now isn’t the time. Not here.

“Well, guys,” she says, forcing a confident tone into her voice. “I suppose we should… knock?”

Before anyone can respond, a hot wind sweeps down the corridor, carrying with it the faint smell of sulfur and decay. The bronze doors swing open with a groan that reverberates like a thunderclap, the sound echoing down the hall and into the cavern beyond. The skeletal guards step aside, their empty grins seeming to widen, as if they know something the group doesn’t.

“I guess that means ‘entrez,’” Annabeth murmurs, her voice tight with tension. She glances at Melia, her grey eyes sharp and wary.

Melia nods, gripping the straps of her backpack tightly as she takes a step forward. The group moves together, their footsteps hesitant as they cross the threshold into the domain of the god of the dead.

They step inside, and the throne room stretches before them—a vast, cavernous space where every inch exudes an overwhelming sense of dread and power. The walls and floor are made entirely of glittering black obsidian, their polished surfaces so flawless they reflect distorted images of the room’s occupants. The light from flickering torches set into wrought-iron sconces along the walls casts dancing shadows that seem to move with a will of their own. The air is cold, not just the physical chill of winter, but an unnatural, biting cold that seems to seep into their very bones, sapping warmth and strength alike.

The room is eerily silent, save for the faint crackle of the torches and the echo of their footsteps. At the far end of the room, two thrones rise above them on a dais. The first is made entirely of bone, its surface twisted and fused into grotesque shapes—skulls, rib cages, femurs, and vertebrae interwoven into a macabre display of artistry. It seems to pulse faintly, as if it has a life of its own, the hollow sockets of its skull adornments appearing to watch them.

The second throne, in stark contrast, is crafted of pure silver, its surface shimmering like moonlight on still water. Delicate engravings wind across it, patterns that resemble constellations, seashells, and intricate vines. The throne radiates a quiet, cool beauty, almost ethereal, yet still carrying an edge of cold detachment.

And there, lounging on the bone throne, is Hades.

His presence is undeniable, a force that fills the room and demands reverence. He is impossibly tall, easily three meters, and his skin is an unsettling shade of alabaster, as if he has never been touched by sunlight. The contrast between his pale skin and the deep black of his robes is stark, and the flowing fabric shimmers faintly, as if woven from shadows themselves. His hair is jet black, falling in thick waves around his shoulders, and his eyes are dark, fathomless pits that seem to draw in all the light of the room. Gazing into them is like staring into the abyss—infinite, unyielding, and terrifyingly empty.

A crown of twisted gold rests on his head, its jagged design reminiscent of barbed wire or thorns. The crown seems to hum faintly, an almost imperceptible vibration that prickles against the skin. His features are sharp, regal, and unnervingly perfect, as though sculpted by an artist with a penchant for both beauty and menace. He does not possess the brute strength or raw intimidation of Ares, but there is something far more dangerous about him—an elegance, a lethal grace, like a panther poised to strike. Every movement, every glance, carries an air of calculated precision and control.

He regards them lazily, his long fingers drumming against the armrest of his throne. The sound—a hollow, rhythmic tapping—echoes ominously through the chamber.

Hades looks at Melia, his face an impassive mask, but his eyes betray emotions that seem almost impossible—surprise, and something that might even be regret. His dark, fathomless eyes hold her gaze, and for a moment, time seems to stretch and still. Melia feels the weight of that look, a strange sense of familiarity settling over her, as though she’s meeting an estranged relative rather than a god she’s never encountered before. How can she understand so much from a mere glance? Perhaps it’s something about being reborn—memories that refuse to stay buried, emotions that feel older than her current life, a connection to the past she can’t quite place.

“You are brave to come here, Princess Melia,” Hades says, his voice smooth but edged with something slippery, like oil on water. The sound fills the cavernous room, resonating off the walls like the toll of a distant bell. Despite his cold tone, the way he addresses her shows respect, as if acknowledging an unspoken bond. “Though foolish for doing so. Very few demigods dare to walk into my realm, let alone seek an audience with me.”

“Lord Hades,” Melia says, bowing deeply, the gesture flowing naturally from her, as though it’s something she’s done a thousand times before. Her movements are fluid, regal, instinctual. Behind her, the others scramble to mimic the gesture, their awkward bows a stark contrast to Melia’s grace. As she rises, there’s a flicker in her eyes—a faint, ethereal glow that she doesn’t notice, but it doesn’t escape the attention of her companions. Annabeth and Grover exchange uneasy glances, and even Ellie’s hand inches toward her sword. There’s something in Melia’s presence now—strange, powerful, a whisper of an ancient soul beneath her skin.

Hades studies her for a long moment, his penetrating gaze seeming to strip away the layers of her being. Then, with a weary sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose, his sharp features softening just slightly. It’s a strangely human gesture, at odds with his divine aura. “I was fairly certain my brother would not have committed such foolishness,” he says, his voice softer now, tinged with a note of resignation. “Poseidon may be reckless, but he would not risk you.”

Melia blinks, confusion flickering across her face as she glances back at her friends. They shrug helplessly, their expressions mirroring her uncertainty. “I assume you mean the theft of the master bolt,” she says finally. “As far as I know, my father had nothing to do with it. And even though others have accused you, I knew you would not have taken it. You wouldn’t seek war,” she adds, her voice steady despite the rapid pounding of her heart. The enormity of speaking so directly to Hades weighs on her, but she pushes through it.

Annabeth steps forward, her brow furrowed in thought. “You’re the Lord of the Dead,” she says, her tone curious but tinged with scepticism. “Wouldn’t a war expand your kingdom? More souls, more subjects…”

Hades’ lips curl into a mirthless smile, his eyes narrowing as he regards Annabeth with cold disdain. “Typical for mortals to think in such simplistic terms,” he says, his voice dripping with contempt. “Do you think I need more subjects? Did you not see the sprawl of Asphodel? The thousands of lost souls crammed together like grain in a silo? The overcrowded fields of those who lived without great virtue or vice?”

Annabeth shifts uneasily under his gaze, her confidence faltering for a moment. But Hades isn’t finished. He rises from his throne, his towering form casting a shadow that seems to swallow the room. His movements are deliberate, graceful, and utterly commanding. “Have you any idea how much my kingdom has swollen in this past century alone?” he continues, his voice deepening with frustration. “How many new divisions I’ve had to create just to manage the influx of souls? More security ghouls, more judges, more labyrinthine layers of bureaucracy. I used to be a rich god. I control all the precious metals beneath the earth. But my expenses...” His voice trails off, and he growls softly, his hand clenching into a fist before relaxing again.

The room falls into a heavy silence, the weight of Hades’ words settling over them like a shroud, thick and oppressive. The flickering torches lining the obsidian walls seem to dim slightly, their light swallowed by the overwhelming darkness of the Underworld’s ruler. Melia takes a small step forward, her hands at her sides, her movements deliberate. Her voice is calm but resolute, cutting through the stillness like a blade. “You’re right, of course,” she says, her tone respectful yet firm. “But if you didn’t believe it was my father, why did you send the Furies after me?”

Hades regards her in silence for a long moment, his dark eyes fathomless, like twin voids that pull at her very soul. The tension in the room grows unbearable before he finally speaks, his voice low and resonant, each word carrying the weight of eons. “Because I wasn’t sure. And, more importantly, because someone dared to steal from me as well—my helm of darkness was taken the same night as Zeus’ bolt.” He leans forward, his presence intensifying as his gaze locks onto hers. “I had no illusions that Olympus would offer me justice. The only potential ally lay beneath the sea, but with Poseidon as the prime suspect, I had no choice but to investigate myself.” His tone sharpens, cutting through the air like a knife. “So I searched for you, Princess. After all, the rumours pointed to you.”

A deep, tired sigh escapes him, a sound so heavy that it seems to echo through the vast throne room. For a moment, Melia sees the burden of eternity etched into every line of his face. There’s a loneliness about him, a kind of exhaustion that feels deeper than the Underworld itself. An ache rises in her chest—a strange, unplaceable longing. She wishes Persephone were here. Her mother had always told her stories of Hades and his queen, of their love—a light in the oppressive darkness of this realm. Now, that absence feels palpable, a void that no throne room grandeur could ever fill.

“I will find your helm,” Melia promises, her voice softening, carrying an edge of sincerity that even she finds surprising. She steps closer, her sandals silent against the gleaming obsidian floor. Her eyes search his face, seeking something she cannot name. “I know who gave me the bolt, and I believe he has your helm too. But he’s not acting alone. I think… I think my grandfather is involved.”

Hades’ expression shifts subtly, his eyes widening ever so slightly with an emotion that might have been fear, or perhaps recognition. He straightens in his throne, the flickering torchlight casting stark shadows across his sharp features. “The pit,” he whispers, the words barely audible, as if the very thought drains him of strength. His gaze flickers briefly to the ground, as though he can sense the lingering scent of Tartarus clinging to the air around them. For the first time, there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his expression, a crack in the unyielding facade of the Lord of the Dead. “I will investigate myself, no matter what. But if you return my helm, you will have my favour—and I will return your mortal mother to you. She is unharmed.”

Relief floods through Melia, her shoulders sagging slightly as the tension eases. She nods, her voice steady but laced with gratitude. “Thank you, Uncle.” She reaches into her pocket, pulling out the pearls her divine mother had given her. The faint light they emit seems to brighten the room ever so slightly, a tiny defiance against the pervasive gloom. She hands them to her friends, each taking one, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and uncertainty.

Hades rises from his throne, his movements fluid and commanding, his robes flowing like shadows made tangible. He towers above them, his presence filling the space with an almost unbearable gravity. “I would tell you not to return, niece,” he says, his voice echoing through the throne room like a distant storm. “But I doubt it would do any good. Not this time, nor any of the times before.”

A bittersweet smile tugs at Melia’s lips, a flicker of something ancient and familiar in the gesture. “You know it won’t,” she replies, her tone light but undercut by a heaviness she cannot shake. A sudden flash of pain lances through her head just as she smashes the pearl at her feet. The world blurs, and in its place, fleeting images rise—herself, in another time, sneaking into the Underworld. A figure is by her side—a girl with dark hair and violet eyes, their laughter echoing through the cavernous halls, carefree and defiant.

The glow fades from her eyes as the memories scatter, slipping away like mist, leaving only a lingering ache and the scent of pomegranates hanging in the air. The pearls shatter, and in a flash of divine magic, they vanish from the Underworld, leaving Hades alone with his thoughts, his gaze fixed on the spot where his niece had stood.

He turns away, his shoulders sagging under the weight of countless millennia. A deep sigh escapes him, carrying with it the weariness of an eternal existence. “She always was stubborn,” he murmurs, a faint, wistful smile playing at his lips, before he vanishes into the shadows of his kingdom.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XVI

~~~~ The Lightning Thief ~~~~

They appear in the Santa Monica Bay, the saltwater stinging their skin and the familiar roar of the ocean filling their ears. The setting sun casts a golden glow over the waves, painting the sky with streaks of pink and orange, but the beauty of the scene does little to calm the tension thrumming in the group. They land near enough to the pier that Melia and Ellie can easily pull the others to safety without drawing too much attention. The waves lap against their bodies, soothing yet cold, the salt sharp in the air. With a flick of her hand, Melia commands the water to slide off their clothes and skin, leaving Grover completely dry as she helps hoist him onto the pier’s wooden boards. Ellie mirrors her actions with Annabeth, the water evaporating in soft wisps of steam as she steadies the still-damp girl with practised ease. Within moments, all four of them are dry, though the chill of the ordeal lingers in their bones like a phantom.

The four of them settle at the end of the pier, now completely dry thanks to Melia and Ellie’s powers. Despite their dry clothes, a chill still grips them, but it has nothing to do with the ocean—it’s a deeper cold, a remnant of their journey and the things they’ve seen. Grover tucks his legs beneath him, shivering slightly as he glances around, while Annabeth hugs her knees to her chest, her blonde hair now dry but slightly dishevelled. They sit in silence for a moment, the rhythmic crashing of the waves below the pier the only sound.

“We’re okay!” Grover exclaims suddenly, his voice cracking with emotion. He looks around at the group, his wide eyes glistening with relief. “We did it!” He seems almost surprised at his own words, as though the reality of their survival is only now sinking in.

“Not entirely,” Melia replies, her tone calm but her gaze intense as she looks down the length of the pier. Her onyx-black eyes, still faintly glowing from her divine traits, scan the horizon as though expecting another challenge to rise from the sea. “But we’re getting there.”

“We’ve got time,” Annabeth says, her voice firm but laced with tension. She turns to Melia, her stormy grey eyes sharp and unyielding. “Now, can you explain?”

Melia lets out a long breath, her hands moving to unsling the now-dry backpack from her shoulders. She places it carefully on the ground between her legs, the leather unblemished by any trace of water. She looks at her friends, their faces etched with equal parts exhaustion and expectation. “I could smell the bolt in the backpack ever since we got near the pit,” she begins simply. Her voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of weariness. She unzips the bag, and the unmistakable glow of Zeus’ Master Bolt illuminates their faces in an eerie, electric blue light.

Annabeth’s breath catches. She lets out a disbelieving huff, her eyes wide as they fixate on the shimmering weapon. “I don’t believe it… We went through all of that, and it was right here?” she mutters, shaking her head. Her voice carries a mixture of frustration and awe. “The entire time?”

Melia nods slowly, her gaze not leaving the bolt. “It was there. I think it’s why Hades thought I might’ve been guilty. Even if I didn’t know, it was in my possession.”

Grover’s mouth opens and closes, his legs shifting nervously beneath him. “That thing—that’s really it? Zeus’ bolt?” He looks both terrified and fascinated, as if he’s staring at the very essence of a god’s fury.

“Speaking of,” Melia says, standing and dusting off her clothes with an air of quiet determination. She offers her hands to her friends, helping them to their feet. “It’s time to find the god that started this mess.”

“Wait—” Grover’s eyes dart between Annabeth and Melia, confusion etched on his face. Then his expression shifts, realisation dawning. “You mean…?”

“Yes,” Annabeth confirms, her voice grim. Her hands tighten into fists at her sides, her sharp mind already piecing together what comes next.

Melia’s jaw tightens, her gaze fixed on the distant shore. “The prophecy was right,” she says, her voice unwavering. “‘You shall go west and face the god who has turned.’ But it wasn’t Uncle Hades. Hades doesn’t want a war among the Big Three. Someone else pulled off the theft. Someone stole the bolt and the Helm, and framed me because I’m Poseidon’s kid. Father gets blamed by both sides—a three-way war. And who else would be enticed by a war other than War himself?”

The weight of her words settles over them like a storm cloud, heavy and foreboding. The waves crash against the pier, their sound a reminder of the forces at play, vast and unrelenting. For a moment, none of them speak, the enormity of their task sinking in. Then, with a shared look of determination, they gather their strength and prepare for what lies ahead.

As if summoned by the mention of his name, the wind shifts. It carries with it a mix of cinnamon fire Jolly Ranchers, the coppery tang of blood, and the unmistakable musk of dog. There, on the sands of Santa Monica beach, stands Ares. His black leather duster flaps in the breeze like wings, and an aluminium baseball bat rests casually on his shoulder. Beside him, his motorcycle idles menacingly, its deep rumble blending with the rhythmic crashing of the waves. The bike’s headlight casts an eerie red glow across the sand, bathing the scene in a hellish light.

“Hey, kid,” Ares calls out, his grin spreading slowly, like a predator savouring its prey. There’s a strange, almost delighted glint in his eyes as they lock onto Melia. “You were supposed to die.”

Melia’s expression hardens, her eyes narrowing into sharp slits. She steps forward, the sea breeze whipping her hair around her face. “Hades isn’t a fool,” she retorts, her voice cold and steady. “And neither am I. You stole the Helm and the Master Bolt.”

Ares’ grin widens, his teeth gleaming unnaturally white. He looks amused, almost like he’s enjoying a private joke. “Well, now, I didn’t steal them personally. Gods taking each other’s symbols of power—that’s a big no-no. But you’re not the only hero in the world who can run errands.” He tilts his head slightly, his sunglasses catching the fading light of the setting sun, obscuring his eyes but not the danger behind them.

Melia’s scowl deepens. “I’m sure you won’t give away who.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Ares shrugs, his duster shifting with the movement, the leather creaking ominously. He plants the baseball bat in the sand, leaning casually against it. “The point is, kid, you’re impeding the war effort. See, you were supposed to die in the Underworld. Then Old Seaweed would be mad at Hades for killing you. Corpse Breath would have Dad’s Master Bolt, so Dad would be mad at him. And Hades’d still be looking for this…”

The air grows heavier as Ares pauses. From his pocket, he pulls out a ski cap—the kind worn by bank robbers. He tosses it lazily between the handlebars of his bike. In an instant, the cap transforms, shimmering and shifting into an elaborate bronze war helmet.

“The Helm of Darkness,” Grover whispers, his voice trembling with awe and fear.

“Exactly,” Ares says, his grin taking on a more predatory edge. He taps the helmet lightly with his fingers, almost as if in reverence. “Now, where was I? Oh yeah—Hades’d be mad at both Zeus and Poseidon, ‘cause he wouldn’t know who took this. Pretty soon, we’d have ourselves a nice little three-way slugfest.”

Melia’s fists clench at her sides, her disgust evident. How could he be so casual about it?

“But they’re your family!” Annabeth protests, stepping forward, her voice rising with indignation. “You’d let them destroy each other?”

Ares shrugs again, his grin unshaken. “Best kind of war. Always the bloodiest. Nothing like watching your relatives fight, I always say.”

Melia feels the sea breeze whip through her hair again, its chill soothing her rising anger. She closes her eyes for a moment, sending a silent prayer. Father, Uncle Hades, I hope you’re listening. I hope you hear the nonsense he’s spewing. Be better than this.

“You gave me the backpack in Denver,” Melia says, her voice sharp and precise. Her eyes lock onto Ares, the accusation clear. “The Master Bolt was in there the whole time.”

“Yes and no,” Ares replies, a sly smile curving his lips. “It’s probably too complicated for your little mortal brain to follow, but the backpack is the bolt’s sheath—just morphed a bit. The bolt’s connected to it, like that sword of yours, kid. Always returns to your pocket, right?”

Melia ignores the taunt, her mind racing. She knows she’s touched a nerve, that she’s getting closer to the truth. “Why not keep the bolt for yourself, then?” she asks, her tone measured but probing. “Why send it to Hades?”

Ares’ jaw twitches, a flicker of something uncertain flashing across his face. He hesitates, as if he’s hearing a voice deep within his mind, a voice not his own. “Why didn’t I… yeah… with that kind of firepower…” His voice trails off, his eyes momentarily vacant, like he’s lost in a trance.

One second. Two seconds.

Melia exchanges a quick glance with Annabeth. Both of them realise the same thing. Ares isn’t acting entirely of his own accord.

Ares blinks, snapping out of the moment. His face hardens, his arrogance returning like a shield. “I didn’t want the trouble,” he snaps. “Better to have you caught red-handed, holding the thing.”

Melia’s lips curl into a slight smile, one devoid of warmth. “You’re lying,” she says, her voice calm, almost conversational. The subtle accusation only serves to irritate Ares more.

“Sending the bolt to the Underworld wasn’t your idea, was it?”

“Of course it was!” Ares roars, his voice booming across the beach. Smoke curls from behind his sunglasses, as though they’re about to ignite.

“You didn’t order the theft,” Melia presses, stepping closer, her confidence building. “Someone else sent a hero to steal the two items. When Zeus sent you to track down the thief, you caught him. But you didn’t turn him over. Something convinced you to let him go. You kept the items until another hero could come along and complete the delivery. That thing in the pit is ordering you around.”

“I am the God of War!” Ares bellows, his fury radiating like heat from his body. “I take orders from no one! I don’t have dreams!”

Melia tilts her head, her eyes gleaming with a knowing light. She takes one deliberate step closer, her voice cutting through his rage like a blade. “Who said anything about dreams?”

Ares’ jaw clenches, his smirk faltering for just a second before he covers it with an air of forced bravado. His face reddens slightly, and Melia can almost feel the tension crackling between them like electricity. She knows she’s hit the mark, and that knowledge sends a pulse of confidence through her.

“Let’s get back to the problem at hand, kid,” Ares says, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. “You’re alive. I can’t have you taking that bolt to Olympus. You just might get those hard-headed idiots to listen to you. So I’ve got to kill you. Nothing personal.”

Melia’s entire body goes rigid, her muscles tensing as if preparing for the weight of the ocean itself to crash down on her. The air seems to thicken, wrapping around her like the crushing pressure of the deep sea. The distant roar of the ocean fades into a dull hum, steady and hypnotic, beating in time with her pulse. Everything slows, sharpening into acute focus. She can feel the oppressive heat radiating off Ares, hear the rhythmic crash of the waves against the sand, even note the faint, out-of-place cry of a seagull somewhere above. The sky darkens, clouds rolling in like spectators gathering to witness the brewing storm.

Ares snaps his fingers, and the beach erupts. The sand at his feet explodes outward in a shimmering burst, and from the chaos rises a monstrous wild boar. Its eyes gleam like molten gold, its nostrils flaring as steam bursts from its snout. Each hoofstep causes the earth to tremble, and the beast’s bristling fur stands on end, sharp and wiry like steel wire. The boar’s tusks curve wickedly, razor-sharp and glinting in the dim light. It paws at the ground, snorting, readying itself to charge.

Annabeth’s sharp intake of breath echoes behind Melia, a soft gasp barely audible over the growling boar. Grover takes a step back, his eyes wide with fear. Ellie’s hands tighten around her weapon, her jaw set, but her nervous energy is palpable.

Melia doesn’t flinch. Her muscles coil instinctively, her senses sharpening further as she steps back. Her heels sink slightly into the wet sand, and she feels the ocean’s cool embrace swirl around her ankles. The water reaches out to her, a quiet assurance, the comforting caress of her parent’s realm wrapping her in its strength. She draws a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with deliberate calm.

“Fight me yourself, Ares,” Melia calls, her voice steady and unwavering. It carries across the beach like a challenge, slicing through the heavy air and drawing all attention to her. “Hiding behind a beast doesn’t suit a god.”

Ares throws his head back and laughs, a loud, mocking sound that reverberates like thunder. But beneath the bravado, Melia catches a flicker of something else—unease. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s there, a hesitation buried beneath the layers of arrogance.

He steps forward, his boots crunching against the sand and leaving dark, deep impressions in his wake. The baseball bat on his shoulder gleams ominously. “You’ve only got one talent, kid,” he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “And it’s running away. You ran from the Chimera. You ran from the Underworld. You don’t have what it takes to face me.”

A smile curls Melia’s lips, sharp and dangerous. It’s not a kind smile, not even close. It’s the kind of smile that promises storms on the horizon, the kind that whispers of an ocean’s fury. Her eyes darken, catching the dim light and reflecting it back like the depths of a moonlit sea, infinite and unknowable. Her teeth catch the glow of the fading sun, their sharpness accentuated by the light, glinting like the edge of a blade. There’s something ancient about her now, a reminder that her lineage is more than just Poseidon’s domain. Her mother’s connection to the ocean is older, more primal, tied to the abyssal depths where crushing waves hold dominion and no light ever ventures. That energy emanates from her, rolling off in chilling, relentless waves—a promise of the sea’s boundless, unyielding power.

The air grows heavier, pregnant with unspoken tension. It’s not just her presence that changes—the very atmosphere around her seems to shift. The distant crash of the waves intensifies, the rhythm of the ocean aligning with the slow, deliberate rise of her aura. The scent of salt thickens in the air, mingling with the faint tang of ozone, as though a storm is ready to break.

Ares hesitates. It’s only for a heartbeat, a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. His smirk falters ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing as he truly takes her in. Something shifts in his stance, the confident arrogance giving way to a flicker of wariness, a glimmer of recognition that he cannot entirely suppress. The God of War, who thrives on chaos and thrives on dominance, is caught off guard by the sheer force of her presence.

“That’s an interesting way to put things,” Melia says, her voice shifting with an unsettling cadence, carrying the rhythm of rolling waves before a storm—steady, inevitable. Her words ripple through the air, both a taunt and a warning. “Considering the Chimera needed a cramped space off the ground to have any chance. And Uncle Hades? He let me leave. My, my, it almost sounds like the God of War is scared.”

Her tone cuts deep, precise and deliberate, each word driving into Ares’ ego like a dagger. The sand beneath her feet shifts subtly, a faint ripple moving outward as if the earth itself acknowledges her challenge.

“In your adolescent dreams,” Ares snaps, heat radiating from him in waves. The temperature around them spikes, the sand beneath his boots beginning to smoulder faintly. The lenses of his sunglasses warp, the edges melting under the intensity of his fury. “No direct involvement. Sorry, kid. You’re not at my level.”

Melia takes another deliberate step forward, her movements fluid and unhurried, like the tide rolling in. Her heart pounds in her chest, her blood thrumming in her ears, but she doesn’t let it shake her. If Ares won’t fight her, then she’ll give him no choice.

“Melia, watch out!” Ellie’s voice cuts through the tension, urgent and raw, a thread of panic woven into the words.

The wild boar charges, a living battering ram, each thunderous step pounding the earth with a force that makes the ground quake. Its molten-gold eyes burn with unrelenting rage, its massive tusks slicing the air with lethal intent. For a breath, everything else fades—the world narrowing to this one moment. The roar of the beast swallows everything, an overwhelming sound that reverberates through Melia’s very bones. Time seems to crawl, each second stretching into infinity as adrenaline floods her veins.

Father, Mother, Melia thinks, her vision dimming at the edges as she channels her focus inward. Her senses sharpen to a knife’s edge, the world around her fading into a blur of motion and sound. A sacrifice for you, she prays silently, the thought a steady mantra grounding her as the storm within her builds.

At the last possible moment, she pivots sharply, her movements fluid and instinctual, sidestepping just as the boar barrels past her in a blur of bristling fur and raw power. The rush of air from its charge tousles her hair, a tangible reminder of how close it had come. Her fingers graze the surface of her ring, the metal warm and pulsing faintly as though alive. In an instant, Maelstrom bursts into being, the blade shimmering like a fragment of the sea itself. Forged of Atlantean silver, the weapon catches the last rays of the dying sunlight, casting a cold, ethereal glow. The sword hums faintly, a resonance that seems to echo the ocean’s own power, a connection as ancient and immutable as the tides.

With every ounce of strength she can summon, Melia swings upward. Her muscles scream in protest, but the momentum is unstoppable, the blade slicing cleanly through the air. The tusk severs with a sickening crack, flying off to land with a heavy thud in the sand. The boar lets out a high-pitched, pained squeal, the sound piercing and frantic, a stark contrast to its earlier confidence.

Disoriented and blinded by agony, the beast charges forward—straight into the ocean’s waiting embrace. As if summoned by the will of the sea itself, a wave rises to meet it, immense and unnatural, a towering wall of water that looms with ominous intent. The wave curls over the boar, a shroud of liquid power, and for a single, suspended moment, the beast’s terrified squeal echoes through the air. Then, with a thunderous crash, the wave collapses, swallowing the creature whole and dragging it into the abyssal depths.

The aftermath is deafening in its silence. The sea lies still once more, its surface smooth and unbroken, as if the battle had never happened. Only the faint ripple of the tide remains, a quiet testament to the power that had been unleashed.

Maelstrom vibrates faintly in Melia’s hand, the energy of the ocean coursing through it and into her, a shared rhythm of life and power. She feels the blade’s connection to the sea as if it’s an extension of herself, a conduit through which the will of the ocean flows. The water around her ankles ripples outward in concentric waves, as though bowing to her victory, acknowledging her command.

Melia’s gaze remains fixed on Ares, unwavering and sharp. Her irises have darkened completely, black as the deepest trenches of the ocean, glinting like polished onyx. Scales ripple across her forearms and neck, catching the fading light in an iridescent sheen that shifts with every movement. She lifts Maelstrom, pointing the blade directly at Ares, her voice slicing through the heavy silence. “Are you going to fight me now?” she demands, her tone edged with ice, carrying the chill of the ocean’s infinite depths. “Or are you going to hide behind another pet pig?”

Ares’ face turns a blotchy shade of purple, his jaw clenching, the muscles standing out against his skin. He grips his weapon tighter—a baseball bat that shifts and lengthens, transforming into an enormous two-handed sword. His knuckles are bone white. “Watch it, kid,” he growls, his voice thick with fury. “I could turn you into—”

“A cockroach?” Melia interrupts, her grin widening, her teeth sharp and predatory. “Or maybe a tapeworm? Yeah, I’m sure. That’d save you from actually fighting, wouldn’t it? How interesting—the God of War, running from a battle.”

The air ripples around them, the pressure building, something ancient stirring beneath the surface, echoing in the deep shadows. There’s a weight to it—an audience, an unseen presence that bears down on them. It’s as though the world itself is holding its breath, waiting, watching. The presence of something vast and formless presses against Melia’s senses, something beyond the ocean and sky, beyond the darkness of the pit.

She feels it—an acknowledgement from the deep, the sea churning behind her, the current tugging at her like an encouraging hand. The shadows lengthen along the beach, the sand shifting underfoot, as though the world itself is leaning toward her.

This isn’t just a fight; it’s a challenge, a declaration. Melia feels the weight of eyes—human, godly, monstrous—upon her. She’ll give them a show, give them all a warning, one that echoes out to every realm.

She shifts her stance, her fingers tightening around Maelstrom’s hilt, her scales glinting in the last rays of the setting sun. A fierce, determined light blazes in her darkened eyes. The tide swells behind her, the promise of her power building, ready to be unleashed.

“Come on, Ares,” she taunts, her voice carrying over the roar of the sea, steady and challenging. “Face me. Or run. Either way, everyone here will know what you truly are.”

Flames dance along the top of Ares’ glasses, the intensity of his gaze almost setting them alight. His grin twists into something dark and feral, his voice dripping with disdain as he growls, “Oh man, you are really asking to be smashed into a grease spot, kid.”

Melia’s voice is calm, almost serene, like the rolling tide before a storm. Her chin lifts in defiance, the light catching the faint iridescence in her scales. “If I lose, you can turn me into whatever you want. Take the bolt,” she says, her tone unwavering. Her eyes, a swirling mix of ocean greens and blues, bore into Ares’ fiery stare, unblinking. “If I win, the Helm and the bolt are mine. And you leave. Go away, cousin-mine.”

Ares sneers, his lip curling as if the very notion is beneath him. But beneath the disdain, Melia catches it—a flicker of uncertainty. The God of War swings the baseball bat off his shoulder, gripping it tightly with both hands. “How would you like to get smashed, kid? Classic or modern?”

Melia lifts Maelstrom, the blade shimmering with an iridescent light, almost as if it is alive, responding to the challenge. “That’s cool, dead girl,” Ares says, nodding. “Classic it is.”

The baseball bat shifts in his hands, elongating and warping into a massive, two-handed sword. The hilt is shaped like a silver skull, a large ruby set into its mouth, glowing ominously with an inner fire. The blade pulses, as if hungering for the impending violence, its surface reflecting the dim, flickering glow of the ruby.

“Melia!” Annabeth calls, her voice tinged with concern, her expression tight. “He’s a god. Don’t underestimate him.”

Melia turns her head slightly, a small, confident smile tugging at her lips. “And I’m a demigod,” she replies, her voice steady. “If anything, he should be terrified.”

Annabeth sighs, shaking her head, her eyes a mixture of exasperation and pride. “Just… be careful, okay? Know that I stand behind you.”

“The satyrs,” Grover adds, his voice shaking but filled with determination. “We stand with you, too.”

Ellie steps forward, her gaze fierce, a grin splitting her face. “You don’t need me to say it, but I will anyway. I stand with you. And I’m pretty sure the entire ocean does, too.”

Melia’s gaze softens for just a moment, her fierce resolve giving way to something more vulnerable. Her friends’ words touch something deep within her, and her expression shifts—a glimmer of gratitude. “Thanks,” she whispers. Then, her eyes turn steely once more as she focuses back on Ares, her grip tightening on her sword. “Stay away from the water. All of you.”

Annabeth and Grover exchange a look, before they both begin scrambling further up the beach, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the impending clash. Ellie follows them, though her grin remains, her confidence in Melia unwavering.

Ares chuckles darkly, his shadow stretching across the sand like an ominous promise. “You all done saying your goodbyes?” He strides towards Melia, his black leather duster trailing behind him like a living thing. His sword hums with anticipation, the crimson gem glowing brighter as he approaches. The god’s grin is sharp, predatory. “I’ve been fighting for eternity, kid. My strength is unlimited, and I cannot die. What have you got?”

Melia steadies herself, her feet planted firmly in the cool surf. The waves lap around her ankles, and despite facing the raw power of the God of War, she draws comfort from the ocean. The sea whispers to her, its rhythm steady, ancient—reminding her that she is never alone. The water is part of her, and she of it.

A memory flickers in her mind, faint and vague. A man with heterochromatic eyes—one brown, one blue—stands before her. His voice is steady, authoritative, laced with an odd gentleness. "A warrior plans three steps ahead. Fight with your mind as much as with your skill. Watch, adapt, and strike only when the tide is in your favour."​ The memory feels distant, blurred by time, but the wisdom in his words grounds her.

She keeps her gaze locked on Ares, feeling her connection with the ocean swell within her, a powerful thrum in her veins. The god raises his blade, the massive weapon cleaving downwards in a deadly arc, aiming to split her in two. But Melia has already moved.

The sea answers her unspoken command, pushing her from the ground with a surge of power, a current lifting her into the air. She twists, her sword an arc of glistening light against the sky. She flies over Ares’ head, descending with her blade poised to strike, but Ares is ready. He twists his body, and her blade clashes against his in a burst of sparks, the force of the impact vibrating painfully up her arm. She sees the grin on his face widen, eyes blazing with manic joy. “Not bad, not bad,” he growls.

The ground beneath them shudders, the air crackling with tension. The waves grow restless, their rhythm accelerating as though echoing Melia’s heartbeat. Maelstrom pulses in her grip, resonating with the ocean’s power, its blade gleaming brighter with each passing second.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Melia says, her voice steady, defiant. She takes a step back, letting the water curl protectively around her feet. The sea is alive now, responding to her will, the tide rising unnaturally high, as if the ocean itself has joined the battle.

Ares lunges again, his sword a blur of deadly precision. Melia meets him blow for blow, her movements fluid, almost dance-like, her swordplay honed by instinct and the ocean’s rhythm. Each clash of their blades sends shockwaves rippling through the sand, the sparks lighting up the growing darkness like tiny bursts of fireworks.

“You’re better than I thought, kid,” Ares admits, his grin never faltering. But there’s a flicker of something in his eyes now—not fear, but respect. “Too bad it won’t save you.”

Melia doesn’t respond. She lets the waves rise higher, their frothing edges licking at Ares’ boots, their force growing stronger with each passing moment. The ocean is her ally, her weapon, her home. And she’ll use every ounce of its strength to end this fight.

Ares lunges again, his massive frame barreling toward her with terrifying force. Melia leaps backwards, her feet touching dry sand, and for a moment, she feels herself disconnected from the power of the sea. She needs to get back to the water, to feel its strength coursing through her once again. But Ares seems to sense this, and he moves like a predator, cutting her off, his enormous sword slicing through the air, pushing her further and further inland.

The rhythmic clash of steel against steel echoes across the beach. Melia’s muscles strain, her breaths coming in ragged bursts as she parries each blow. She can feel the weight of his strength with every strike, her hands trembling under the force. He is relentless, herding her away from the water—the one place she can truly fight him.

Melia focuses on Ares, her eyes narrowing as she watches the way his muscles shift before each attack, the way his nostrils flare with every movement. He is confident—overconfident, believing he has already won. But Melia knows better.

She lets herself be pushed back, inch by inch, her gaze never wavering from Ares’ movements. She needs to get close. Dangerous. Stupid. But necessary.

The words echo faintly in her mind, as if spoken by the same man with the mismatched eyes, his voice steady and deliberate. "When they have reach, find the pattern. Get in close," he had said, his tone imbued with both challenge and encouragement. The phrase pulses through her veins, harmonising with the ocean's distant rhythm, urging her onward.

Melia waits for an opening, her eyes sharp and focused, her body moving with fluid precision as she sidesteps, baiting Ares into making a mistake. The air between them crackles with tension, and she watches his face closely. The moment she sees the flash of irritation in his eyes, she knows it's time to act. She moves in swiftly, her heart pounding like a war drum. Ares growls, his sword swinging towards her in a deadly arc. Melia moves just in time, her body twisting to avoid the blade, her breath catching as she feels the wind of his strike against her cheek.

He twists to follow her movement, his eyes widening in surprise as she dives in close. She aims for his chest, her muscles straining, but Ares moves with impossible speed. He twists again, and before she can react, his elbow collides with her ribs. The force of the blow knocks the breath from her lungs, the world tilting as pain blossoms through her side.

The impact sends her flying. She hits the ground hard, her back slamming into the sand, and she tumbles, the world a blur of motion and disorientation. Pain flares through her chest, sharp and unforgiving, but she bites down against it, her teeth clenching as she forces herself to keep moving. She can taste blood in her mouth, metallic and bitter, but there’s no time to dwell on it. She can’t stop now—she won’t stop now.

She lands at the edge of the surf, the waves rushing up to greet her like a worried friend. The cool water laps against her back, and she draws strength from it, pushing herself to her knees, gasping for air.

Another memory surfaces, sharp yet fleeting—a woman with piercing grey eyes, eyes so similar to Annabeth’s that it stirs something deeper within her. The woman’s voice is firm but compassionate, carrying the weight of wisdom and resolve. "Little shark, fight," the voice echoes in her mind, "Get up and fight, little shark. Fight like the world depends on it—because sometimes, it does." The words cling to her, igniting a fire in her chest even as pain lances through her body.

The world comes back into focus, and she hears Annabeth’s voice, frantic and filled with panic.

“Melia!” Annabeth yells, her voice carrying over the chaos. “Cops!”

Red and blue lights flicker on the distant boulevard, flashing against the darkness, and Melia hears the slam of car doors, the rising shouts of confusion and alarm. “There, officer! Look!”

“That’s a kid…” a gruff cop’s voice says, bewilderment lacing his words. “What the heck…”

“That guy’s armed!” another cop shouts, his voice urgent. “Call for backup!”

Melia grits her teeth, her chest burning as she rolls to one side, narrowly avoiding Ares' blade as it slams into the ground where she had been. She scrambles to her feet, pain radiating through her body, but she doesn’t let it deter her. She can’t afford to let her focus slip for even a second. Her eyes catch the glint of her sword, half-buried in the sand a few feet away, and she lunges for it, her fingers closing around the hilt in one swift motion.

With fierce determination, she swings at Ares, the blade slicing through the air, barely missing his cheek. The sparks fly as Maelstrom hums with renewed vigour, its connection to the sea pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. The waves rise behind her, a silent army ready to answer her call, their frothing crests reflecting the crimson and blue lights of the approaching squad cars.

Ares laughs, his voice a deep rumble that echoes across the beach. “You’ve got fight in you, kid. But do you have enough?”

She moves back towards the surf, her feet digging into the sand as she leads Ares towards the water. She can feel the pull of the ocean, the rhythm of the waves calling to her, filling her veins with renewed energy, the tide growing stronger with each passing moment.

“Admit it, kid,” Ares taunts, his grin widening, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’ve got no hope. I’m just toying with you.”

But Melia has her own plans. She isn’t just retreating—she’s leading him in, step by deliberate step. Every inch she gives, every careful sidestep, every backward movement is a calculated part of her strategy. She’s pulling him towards something he can’t see, something she’s been planning since the moment the fight began.

Her senses sharpen, her focus narrowing until the world is nothing but her and Ares. Every nerve in her body feels alive, electric, attuned to the rhythm of the fight. She can read Ares’ movements—the slight shift in his stance, the way his muscles tense before each swing. She understands now why ADHD is a survival tool for demigods—in these moments, when every detail matters, her awareness is a weapon.

She hears the sound of Annabeth’s anxious breathing, the shaky muttering of Grover, Ellie’s foot kicking nervously at the sand. She hears the wail of the sirens, the frantic shouts of the crowd, and beneath it all, she hears the whispers of satyrs, the ghostly murmurs of spirits that have gathered to watch. Even the dead have risen to witness this clash, their presence a haunting reminder of what’s at stake.

She steps further into the water, feeling the waves wrap around her ankles, their touch reassuring. But Ares is fast, faster than she anticipated. His blade rips through the air, catching the edge of her sleeve, grazing the scales beneath. She feels the sting, but she doesn’t let it slow her.

“Drop the weapons!” a police voice booms through a megaphone, the order carrying across the beach. “Drop them now!”

Melia glances at Ares’ weapon, her vision flickering as she takes it in. One moment, it looks like a shotgun, the next, it’s a massive sword. She wonders if the mortals can see it for what it truly is, if they can comprehend the godly power in his hands.

Ares turns towards the approaching police, his expression darkening, irritation flickering across his features. Five police cars have arrived, the officers crouched behind their vehicles, guns trained on him, confusion and fear etched on their faces. Ares snarls, his lip curling with disdain.

“This is a private matter!” he bellows, his voice like a crack of thunder, echoing across the beach. “Be gone!”

With a sweep of his hand, the ground erupts. A wall of red flame bursts forth, rolling towards the patrol cars, the officers barely managing to dive out of the way before their vehicles explode in a blaze of fire. The roar of the explosions is deafening, the heat intense as the crowd screams and scatters, running from the chaos.

Ares laughs, the sound deep and cruel, reverberating through the air. He turns back to Melia, his eyes alight with a manic glee. “Now, little hero. Let’s add you to the barbecue.”

Melia’s eyes narrow, her expression hardening. She deflects his next strike, the force of the impact reverberating down her arm, her muscles straining against his strength. He swings again, his blade whistling through the air, but Melia parries, her feet moving deeper into the water. She can feel the ocean’s power building around her, the waves matching her heartbeat—the tide growing stronger, the water rising, rolling in with each pulse.

She feels it—the tension, the pressure, like a storm brewing, the electricity building before a lightning strike. She pushes the sea away, holding it back, the pressure growing, like carbonation in a sealed bottle, ready to burst.

Ares steps forward, his eyes glinting with triumph. He thinks she’s tiring. He thinks she’s losing. Melia lowers her blade, her shoulders sagging as if she can barely keep herself upright.

Wait.

The pressure builds, the ocean’s power almost lifting her from her feet.

Wait.

Ares raises his sword, his grin widening, his confidence blinding him.

Now!

She releases the tide, the force she’s been holding back surging forward. The water roars, a massive wave rising up, six feet tall, rocketing towards Ares. Melia leaps, riding the crest of the wave, her sword gleaming in the early light, her heart pounding.

The wave crashes into Ares, the force of it like a truck slamming into him. The god stumbles back, sputtering, seawater dripping from his face, seaweed tangled in his hair. His sunglasses are gone, his eyes blazing with fury. The heat radiates off of him, the very air around him shimmering with rage.

For a moment, something darker fills the air—a presence that weighs down on the beach, a cold, ancient force that seems to drain the colour from the world. It’s like hopelessness itself has descended, a suffocating, heavy presence that whispers of surrender, of giving up.

But Melia refuses it.

She grits her teeth, her muscles coiling, her entire body rebelling against the despair. Life is not hopeless. Fighting is not pointless.

She lands behind Ares, her feet splashing in the surf, and she feints towards his head, her movements swift and precise. Ares twists, raising his sword to block, but he’s slower now—disoriented, off-balance. He doesn’t anticipate her real attack. Melia shifts her stance, changing direction at the last possible moment, lunging low, her blade aimed at his ankle. Maelstrom cuts deep, the Atlantean silver biting into godly flesh.

Ares roars, the sound splitting the air, shaking the earth beneath them. The very sea seems to recoil from the force of his fury, the water blasting away from him in a massive wave, leaving a wide, wet circle of sand around him, fifty feet across.

Melia stands her ground, her chest heaving, her eyes locked onto Ares as the water surges back in, swirling around her legs. She watches as Ares staggers back, his face a mask of rage and disbelief. She has hurt him—a god. She has proven that even the mighty God of War can bleed.

Ares rises slowly, his massive hand moving from his wounded ankle. Golden ichor flows freely between his fingers, staining the sand beneath him as he glares at Melia. His fiery gaze holds hers for a long, tense moment. There is something in his eyes—something that flickers and shifts—a struggle. His divine aura falters, and Melia can sense the chaos within him. His scent changes too, oscillating between the usual coppery tang of blood and something warmer, tinged with regret. A fleeting glimmer of something. It is as though he is fighting against his own nature, but the moment is brief.

Ares’ voice booms over the sands, reverberating across the beach. "You have won this battle, godling. But beware, should you seek to best War himself," he declares, his voice carrying a strange double-layered quality, as if two different beings speak at once—one full of arrogant anger, and the other... more reserved. His body begins to shimmer, glowing with an intensity that makes Melia squint, the heat of his divine form burning against her skin.

She forces herself to look away, shielding her eyes with her arm as the light grows blinding. Ares flashes away, a searing burst of light fading into nothing, and when Melia dares to look again, he is gone, leaving only Hades’ Helm of Darkness behind. The helm rests in the sand, a chilling contrast to the now-empty space where Ares had stood moments before.

Melia lets out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding, the adrenaline of the fight finally ebbing. She sheaths Maelstrom and approaches the Helm, kneeling down to pick it up with care. The air around the Helm feels unnaturally cold, and a shiver runs up her spine as she touches it, the weight of the Underworld itself almost palpable. The heaviness of it makes her fingers ache, as though she is holding a piece of pure night, the essence of darkness itself.

She is about to turn back when the flapping of leathery wings draws her gaze skyward. Three shadowy figures descend from the heavens, their forms shifting from dark silhouettes to twisted shapes. The Furies. The three evil-looking grandmothers—their faces twisted in eternal snarls—land before her. Their black lace hats flutter in the breeze, and the fire of their whips crackles ominously.

The middle Fury—the one who had once masqueraded as Mrs. Dodds, Melia’s least favourite math teacher—steps forward. Her fiery eyes fix on Melia, fangs bared, but there is no threat in her demeanour this time. She almost looks disappointed, her expression a twisted version of someone cheated out of their dinner.

Melia holds out the Helm, bowing her head slightly. "Please ensure this gets back to Lord Hades," she says, her voice steady despite the shiver the presence of the Furies sends down her spine.

Mrs. Dodds gives a sniff, as if to say "about time," and takes the Helm from Melia’s hands. The cold aura lifts immediately, and Melia can’t help but feel relief at being rid of the chilling weight. She watches as the Furies turn, their leathery wings stretching wide. With a powerful beat, they launch into the sky, their dark forms vanishing in a swirl of shadows, leaving behind only the echo of their departing shrieks.

Melia watches them leave, and a strange warmth suddenly brushes against her cheek. She looks down to see a single asphodel bloom—pale and otherworldly—floating in front of her face. It spins slowly in the air before tucking itself behind her ear, a gesture so startlingly tender, so full of familiarity, that it brings tears to her eyes. She knows, in her gut, that Hades has received his Helm and that the asphodel is his response—a silent acknowledgement, a bargain fulfilled. It is a rare softness from the Lord of the Dead, a reminder that even in darkness, there can be gratitude.

Behind her, the waves lap gently at the shore, the sea’s rhythm grounding her. Her chest tightens with the weight of everything that has just happened, but as the beach begins to quiet, she feels a small, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. She brushes her fingers over the flower in her hair, a token she will never forget, and turns to walk toward her friends waiting at the water’s edge. The battle is over, but her journey is far from complete.

Melia turns back to the beach where Annabeth and Grover wait. They are staring at her, their faces a mix of amazement, shock, and maybe even a little awe.

“Melia...” Grover says, his voice breathless. “That was so incredibly…”

“Terrifying,” Annabeth finishes, her expression torn between awe and concern.

“Cool!” Ellie corrects, her face breaking into a wide, admiring grin.

Melia lets out a soft laugh, but there is no mirth in it—only exhaustion. The weight of everything that has just happened is catching up to her, and she feels hollow, like all her energy has drained into the ocean. She doesn’t feel cool or terrifying, just satisfied that they’ve done what they needed to do. She also doesn’t want to think about the tangle of emotions and conflicts that she’d felt from Ares, or the haunting familiarity of the asphodel bloom. Not now.

“Let’s go,” she says, reclaiming her backpack from Grover. She can feel the Master Bolt inside, its power humming through the fabric, like a sleeping storm just waiting to be unleashed. Despite everything, it looks almost innocent, just a piece of metal that has caused so much chaos.

“We have to get back to New York,” she says, “and fast. What do we have, two days left?”

Annabeth frowns, her gaze shifting toward the horizon as she considers their options. “That’s impossible,” she says, “unless we—”

“Fly,” Melia finishes for her, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

Annabeth blinks at her, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Fly?” she repeats slowly, as if she hasn’t heard right. “You mean… in an airplane? The thing you were explicitly warned not to do by the gods, unless you want Zeus to strike us out of the sky?” She points to the backpack. “And while carrying a weapon more powerful than a nuclear bomb?”

“Yep,” Melia says, popping the ‘p’. She looks completely unbothered, shrugging casually. “Pretty much exactly like that. Come on. If Uncle Z does something while we’re on the plane, carrying his precious bolt, well… that’s on him really, isn’t it?”

Grover’s mouth opens, then closes again. He exchanges a look with Annabeth, who looks like she can’t decide whether to laugh or smack Melia for her audacity. “You’re insane,” Annabeth finally says, shaking her head, though a hint of a smile tugs at her lips.

“That’s why you love me,” Melia shoots back with a wink. She can still feel the adrenaline running through her veins, and she knows they have no better choice. Besides, sometimes the best strategy is the one that no one expects. Ellie laughs, a sound that is almost dolphin-like from her surprise.

In the chaos Ares has left behind, with the remnants of the police cars smouldering and the crowd still scattering, they manage to disappear into the masses, slipping away unnoticed. The acrid smell of smoke and the faint hum of sirens fade into the background as they weave through panicked tourists and locals alike. Melia’s sharp eyes catch a gap in the dispersing crowd, and she leads them toward it without hesitation, her steps quick and purposeful.

“Do you really think this will work?” Grover asks, his voice tight with anxiety. He clutches his reed pipes, the soft clatter of their movement betraying his nerves.

“It has to,” Melia replies, glancing over her shoulder. “We’re out of time, and unless you’ve got a magic teleportation spell up your sleeve, this is our only shot.”

Annabeth groans softly, rubbing her temples. “This is breaking every rule of demigod survival,” she mutters, though she doesn’t argue further. Her eyes dart around the chaos, ever calculating, always scanning for threats.

“Breaking rules is kind of my thing,” Melia says lightly, though her heart pounds with the weight of their decision. “Let’s get moving.”

They make their way toward LAX, every step feeling heavier than the last, the exhaustion settling into Melia’s bones. The lights of the airport glow like a beacon in the distance, promising both refuge and risk. Each step closer is a step toward what she hopes is resolution, though doubt lingers at the edges of her mind like storm clouds on the horizon.

The sight of the bustling airport fills Melia with a strange mix of relief and apprehension. The chatter of travellers, the rhythmic click of suitcase wheels against tile, and the faint hum of announcements over the intercom create an odd symphony of normalcy. But she knows better than to let her guard down. They are carrying the most dangerous weapon in existence, and the gods are watching.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XVII

~~~~ The Lightning Thief ~~~~

The plane ride is a blur. Melia spends it curled up in her seat, her body folding into itself as she hugs her water bottle and the backpack close to her chest. She’s taken something to help her sleep, and the exhaustion overtakes her completely, pulling her into a deep, dreamless slumber. There is something oddly comforting about the vibrations of the plane, a constant reminder that they are moving forward, that they are making progress. She dreams of nothing—just darkness, an endless expanse that allows her to rest without fear or worry.

When they finally touch down at LaGuardia, they split up at the taxi stand. Melia knows what she has to do—this part is hers alone. Grover’s eyes are full of concern as he asks for what seems like the hundredth time, “Are you… sure about this, Melia?”

Melia gives him a reassuring smile. “Yes, Grover. I’m sure. He thinks I stole it, so I have to return it myself.” She places a hand on his shoulder. “And if something goes wrong, you guys can tell Chiron everything. It’ll be okay.”

Ellie frowns as she looks at Melia, her eyes narrowing. "I am not happy about this, Melia. I am not telling Lucia that something went wrong if it does," she says, her voice tinged with worry. Her fingers tighten on Melia’s arm for a moment, and Melia can see the determination in her eyes—a promise that she isn’t ready to let go just yet.

Melia softens, her smile turning genuine. “I know, Ellie. But it’ll be fine. I promise.”

Melia watches as her friends reluctantly climb into a cab, their faces pressed against the window, waving at her as the vehicle pulls away and disappears into the sea of traffic. She takes a steadying breath, feeling the weight of the backpack on her shoulder—and the weight of what lies ahead. Turning slowly, she faces the towering structure before her. The Empire State Building rises high into the sky, its spire piercing the low-hanging clouds, which swirl ominously around its peak as if the heavens themselves are waiting for her arrival. The wind whips around the building, tugging at her clothes, as if urging her forward.

There is no room for hesitation now. This is something she must face alone.

The lobby greets her with a flurry of activity—tourists snapping photos, businesspeople hurrying to and from elevators, their heels clicking sharply on the polished marble floors. The air buzzes with the hum of conversation and the rustling of papers, but Melia moves through it all with purpose. Her footsteps echo with quiet determination as she strides toward the security desk, her expression set in stone.

The security guard behind the desk doesn’t even glance up from his dog-eared magazine, lazily flipping a page. His uniform looks slightly rumpled, and a half-empty cup of coffee rests near his elbow. Without missing a beat, Melia stops directly in front of the desk.

“Six hundredth floor, please,” she says, her tone calm but carrying the weight of authority.

The guard lets out an exaggerated sigh, not bothering to hide his irritation. “No such floor, kid,” he mutters, his eyes still glued to the page.

Melia doesn’t flinch. She leans forward slightly, her voice dropping to a quiet firmness that commands attention. “I need an audience with Zeus.”

The guard snorts a laugh, dismissive and incredulous. “Sorry, what?” he asks, though his grip on the magazine tightens ever so slightly.

“You heard me,” Melia replies, unwavering. Her fingers subconsciously brush against the necklace resting against her collarbone—the one Amphitrite had given her—its delicate shimmer catching the harsh fluorescent light. The guard's eyes flicker toward the necklace, his expression faltering for a fraction of a second. Recognition flickers behind his gaze.

His sigh this time is heavier, more resigned. He slowly reaches beneath the desk and retrieves a sleek, black keycard, placing it on the counter between them with a faint thud. “Fine,” he mutters, avoiding her eyes. “Use this. Insert it into the elevator panel. Don’t ask questions, and don’t cause any trouble. Got it?”

Melia accepts the keycard with a quiet nod, the plastic cool and smooth against her fingertips. Without another word, she turns and crosses the gleaming lobby to the elevator bank. Her footsteps feel heavier now, the gravity of her mission pressing down on her shoulders. She steps into the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind her with a soft chime.

The hum of the elevator surrounds her. She slides the keycard into the slot, and it vanishes as though absorbed into the machine. Instantly, a new button illuminates on the panel—a brilliant golden circle etched with the number "600."

Melia presses it. The elevator hums to life, gliding upward with unnerving smoothness. The floor numbers on the panel blur past, ascending impossibly high. Muzak trickles softly from unseen speakers—“Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.” The light, cheerful tune feels absurdly out of place against the backdrop of her tightening chest and racing heart.

The elevator climbs, higher and higher, far beyond the limits of any mortal building. She watches the numbers flicker upward, her reflection staring back at her from the polished elevator doors—her face pale but resolute, her eyes hard with determination. She tightens her grip on the backpack, feeling the faint, electric hum of the Master Bolt thrumming through the fabric, a reminder of the storm she carries within.

As the numbers climb higher still, the walls of the elevator seem to hum in response, as though the air itself is becoming thinner, the atmosphere charged. She takes a steady breath, bracing herself for whatever waits at the top.

Finally, the elevator dings, and the doors slide open, revealing a sight that makes Melia’s breath catch in her chest. It is time to face Olympus.

The first thing Melia notices is the smell.

It is a thousand different scents, each distinct, some overwhelming, others barely there—tart, salty, sweet, floral, metallic—all blending into a strange, harmonious symphony. It’s a sensory overload that washes over Melia before she even takes a full step out of the elevator.

Humans have always smelled muted to her, like faded echoes of what they truly are. Sometimes, though, she comes across someone whose scent stands out—strong and vibrant—like her mum. Her mother once explained it was because some humans could see through the Mist, perceive the world beyond the mundane. Melia always remembered her mother’s advice: if she found anyone like that, someone who smelled of magic, give them her phone number. They might need help someday.

But gods and demigods, monsters and immortals—they smell different. Their essence is revealed in the scent they carry, parts of themselves unveiled to Melia without words. It is raw and powerful, like the very core of who they are reaches out to her senses.

The path ahead of her branches off in several directions. The elevator has opened up into the heart of Olympus, an open-air market filled with vibrant colours and ceaseless energy. Brightly coloured tents line the cobblestone streets, their canopies flapping gently in the high-altitude breeze. Laughter rings through the air, mingling with the melodic calls of merchants haggling over golden drachmas and enchanted trinkets.

The air is alive with movement and life. Shoppers in togas and modern clothing weave through the market, inspecting gleaming weapons and jars of ambrosia. Satyrs and dryads exchange stories in quiet corners while nymphs glide gracefully between stalls. The entire scene feels timeless, a collision of ancient tradition and modern vitality.

Above the bustling marketplace, towering structures dominate the skyline. Apartments, houses, temples, and manicured gardens spiral upward along the mountainside. In the distance, a massive mountain rises—its peak sheared off and crowned in snow. The mountain is studded with multi-leveled palaces—a city of mansions—each adorned with white-columned porticos, gilded terraces, and bronze braziers glowing with eternal flames. It is as if an ancient Greek city had risen, untouched by time, vibrant and alive.

The largest palace gleams at the mountain’s summit, casting a golden glow visible even from here. Its grandeur is undeniable—gleaming marble, towering columns, and steps that seem to ascend into the very sky. Melia knows instinctively that this is where she must go. The weight of her task feels heavier now, the path clearer but more daunting.

She begins to wind her way through the market, her footsteps steady and sure. She moves through the crowds with practised ease, ignoring the whispers and curious glances aimed her way. Some stare openly—demigods, nymphs, even minor gods—while others avert their eyes, sensing something powerful in her presence.

Melia catches glimpses of other grand structures as she walks—temples crowned with marble statues, shops offering enchanted wares, and an amphitheatre echoing with the sounds of music and laughter. A grand arena looms in the distance, its columns proud against the endless sky.

Despite the distractions, Melia keeps her focus ahead. Each step brings her closer to the peak—to Zeus’s throne room—and the confrontation that awaits. Her grip tightens on the strap of her backpack, the Master Bolt pulsing faintly within, a quiet storm waiting to be delivered.

The wind shifts, tugging at her hair and whispering through the market stalls, as if Olympus itself is aware of her presence. Melia lifts her chin, determination hardening her features. She has come too far to turn back now.

As Melia continues her ascent toward the palace, she feels the subtle yet undeniable embrace of the ocean swirling around her. It moves like a protective cloak, brushing against her skin with the gentlest of touches—a quiet reassurance that she is not alone. The salt and grime from days of travel and relentless battle are lifted, washed away by an invisible current. Her clothes, though unchanged in style, are now pristine—her jeans crisp, her T-shirt smooth, and the flannel overshirt she had taken from the Lotus Hotel freshly pressed. It’s a quiet gesture, a motherly touch from the sea itself, as if Amphitrite or even the sea as a whole wanted to make sure she looked presentable before stepping into the halls of power.

The palace looms larger with every step, and the air thickens with an almost tangible divine energy. It hums softly around her, settling on her shoulders like a weight both oppressive and awe-inspiring. This energy is different from the lively pulse of the marketplace—heavier, older, and undeniably powerful. The closer she gets, the more the palace seems to dominate the skyline, its dazzling white marble and gleaming gold in stark contrast to the dark, brooding grandeur of Hades' domain. Where the Underworld had been cloaked in obsidian and shadow, casting a sense of eternal stillness and foreboding, this palace radiates brilliance, bathed in eternal daylight.

A sharp pang of injustice twists in Melia’s chest as she remembers Hades’ solemn words—that no one in his family had aided him in recovering his Helm. There is no throne here for Hades, no temple in this grand, glittering city of gods. The realisation bites at her, stirs something fierce and protective. It feels wrong. Deeply wrong.

A quiet thought threads its way into her mind. Maybe, when this is over, she will visit the Underworld during winter break. Visit Styx, her aunt through Amphitrite, or check in on her uncle. Maybe bring a little light to that place, just enough to remind them that not everyone forgets.

Her steps lead her up a wide marble staircase to a sprawling central courtyard. Massive columns rise high into the sky, framing an entrance that seems to scrape the heavens themselves. Beyond this imposing threshold lies the throne room—a space grander than any mortal architecture could hope to be.

The moment she steps inside, the air shifts.

The throne room is vast and impossibly tall. Towering marble columns line the hall, their surfaces carved with intricate depictions of gods in battle and triumph. Above, the domed ceiling gleams with moving constellations—the night sky in motion, constellations swirling and shimmering in an endless cosmic dance. It feels alive, as though the very heavens have been captured and placed here to remind all who enter of the gods' dominion over sky and fate.

In the centre of the room, a massive hearth pit blazes with golden fire. Its flames leap high, crackling and dancing in the air, casting long shadows against the gleaming marble. Yet the fire is not menacing—it is warm, inviting. It radiates a sense of home, of belonging, and Melia feels it seep into her bones, chasing away the chill of anxiety gnawing at her resolve.

Around the hearth, the thrones of the Olympian gods stand in a grand semi-circle, each one a masterpiece of divine craftsmanship, as distinct and commanding as the god it represents. Some thrones are grand and imposing, forged from celestial metals and adorned with intricate carvings, while others are more subtle yet equally potent in their symbolism. All exude an undeniable aura of power and authority.

At the apex of the circle, towering above the rest, is the throne of Zeus—a monumental seat forged of pure celestial bronze and burnished gold. Arcs of lightning flicker and crackle faintly along its edges, the very air around it humming with static energy. It is a throne that radiates command, dominance, and the unyielding presence of the king of the gods.

Twelve thrones—massive seats built to accommodate the towering ten-foot-tall forms of the Olympians—echoing the familiar layout of the cabins at Camp Half-Blood. Each throne is a physical manifestation of its owner's identity. Poseidon's seat, crafted from deep green stone and coral, glistens with droplets of seawater that never seem to dry. Athena's throne gleams in polished bronze, adorned with carved owls and olive branches. Apollo's gleams like molten gold, radiating warmth, while Artemis' is crafted from moonstone and silver, cool and ethereal. Ares’ throne bristles with iron spikes and weapons fused into its structure, its surface scorched and battle-worn. Aphrodite’s is delicate yet alluring, draped in soft silks and entwined with blooming roses, but beneath its beauty, faint etchings of seashells and wave-like patterns glimmer. Closer inspection reveals tiny engravings of broken swords entwined with vines. Each one is a perfect reflection of the god it belongs to.

But the thrones are not empty.

At the far end of the hall, Poseidon and Zeus are locked in a heated argument, their voices cutting through the vast chamber in rapid, furious Ancient Greek. Their words clash like storms colliding, neither god willing to yield. Melia watches the tension in their stances—the way Poseidon’s grip tightens on his trident, the way Zeus’s eyes crackle with restrained lightning. The air around them shimmers with raw, divine energy, thick with the threat of another conflict.

The other ten gods sit in their respective thrones, their presence both awe-inspiring and suffocating. Yet, near the blazing hearth, a small figure flickers in and out of focus—a little girl with eyes that glimmer like flame. Hestia. She sits quietly beside the fire, offering Melia a soft, comforting smile before vanishing into the flames. Her warmth lingers, a subtle reminder that even here, in the intimidating halls of Olympus, family remains.

The first to acknowledge Melia’s presence is Dionysus. The god lets out a long, exaggerated sigh, but beneath it, there is something softer—a flicker of relief. His usually tired eyes soften as he raises his Diet Coke can in a lazy, yet genuine salute. His movement draws the attention of Hermes, who had been absorbed in fiddling with his phone. Hermes glances up, and an uncharacteristic, genuine smile spreads across his face—a rare and sincere expression that seems almost foreign on him. There is relief in his gaze, too.

Melia offers a small wave in return, feeling an unexpected swell of comfort. Despite the grandeur and power surrounding her, she is not entirely alone here. There are allies among these gods.

The ripple continues. Hermes’ acknowledgement draws the attention of Aphrodite, her presence as alluring as the soft scent of roses that surrounds her. She shifts delicately, her gaze drifting to Melia, assessing and curious. Her movement causes Hephaestus to glance up from the intricate mechanical device in his lap, his sharp eyes briefly meeting Melia’s. Apollo, lounging with an effortless grace on his radiant golden throne, notices her at the same moment Artemis does. Apollo greets her with a bright, enthusiastic wave, his smile dazzling, while Artemis gives a brief, measured nod—silent and steady, yet no less meaningful.

Athena’s movement is more subtle. Seated beside Artemis, she turns slowly, and her storm-grey eyes lock onto Melia. For a brief moment, Athena’s expression shifts—recognition flickers in her gaze, a spark of understanding. It is gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by her usual cool composure. But Melia sees it, and it leaves her wondering. Athena’s posture relaxes, as if something heavy has been lifted from her shoulders.

And then Ares turns.

As if sensing the shift in the room, the God of War’s eyes move away from the argument at the centre, and they lock onto Melia. His eyes blaze, and Melia can feel the heat of his fury even from where she stands. He glares, the intensity of his hatred palpable, and he sneers something under his breath—something about ‘crazy child,’ his voice dripping with disdain.

Demeter, who sits beside him, regards Melia curiously. Her eyes are soft, a contrast to Ares' simmering anger. She tilts her head slightly, her gaze lingering on Melia, her curiosity piqued. Next to her, on the grand golden throne, sits the Queen of the Gods herself. Hera’s eyes are sharp, and her regal presence commands attention without effort.

Hera speaks, her voice cutting through the room like a blade, and gestures toward Melia. The effect is immediate—the two arguing gods fall silent. Zeus and Poseidon turn, their gazes locking onto her. For a heartbeat, silence reigns in the hall. All eyes are on Melia, the tension crackling in the air.

Poseidon’s expression softens the moment he looks at his daughter. The anger in his stance fades, the tension easing from his shoulders. His ocean-blue eyes study her, taking in every detail. His gaze catches on the asphodel flower tucked behind her ear, and a flicker of amusement crosses his features, the corner of his lips curling slightly. There is pride in his eyes, pride and something else—a deep, unspoken love that Melia can feel across the distance between them.

Melia bows slightly towards Poseidon first, her eyes meeting his for just a moment before she turns and bows fully to Zeus. She can feel the heat of the god's gaze even before he speaks, the weight of it pressing down on her like a thundercloud ready to burst.

"Should you not address the Lord of the house first, Princess?" Zeus's voice is deep, each word rumbling through the hall like distant thunder.

"Peace, brother," Poseidon interjects, his voice a smooth wave cutting through the storm. "It is only right for the child to defer to the parent." Poseidon's eyes have a thinly veiled satisfaction as he speaks, a small flicker of triumph that he cannot quite mask. He is pleased, and it radiates from him like the cool mist of the sea breeze.

Zeus's gaze narrows, and he turns his head slightly, regarding Poseidon. "You will still claim her then?" The menace in his voice deepens, reverberating with a warning note. "You claim this child whom you sired against our sacred oath?"

Poseidon's expression turns as cold as the deep ocean trenches. "I will not hear it from you," he says, his words clipped and glacial. His gaze doesn't leave Zeus, unflinching. "Now, I would hear her speak."

Zeus's eyes flicker with irritation, the sparks in the air around him growing more erratic. He turns his attention back to Melia, his brow furrowing. "I have spared her once already," Zeus grumbles, each syllable dripping with disdain. "Daring to fly through my domain... pah! I should have blasted her out of the sky for her impudence."

"And risk destroying your own master bolt?" Hera's voice is calm, cutting through the tension with an icy precision. She speaks without fear, her regal demeanor unshaken. Her eyes rest on Zeus, her tone almost mocking as she questions his supposed wisdom. "Let us hear her out."

Zeus scowls, his lips pressing into a hard line, but the lightning around him flickers and dims slightly. He folds his arms across his chest, the sparks on his sleeves sputtering out, leaving only the crackling hum of his own barely-contained fury. "I shall listen," he says, his words sharp. "Then I shall make up my mind whether or not to cast this girl down from Olympus."

Poseidon's jaw tightens, his expression resolute. Despite Zeus's threatening tone, Melia knows her father would not let that happen, no matter what. Hera rolls her eyes, a flicker of exasperation crossing her otherwise composed face, as though she finds this drama nothing more than an inconvenience. The hint of confidence in her demeanour bolsters Melia's courage, offering a small glimmer of hope. She may have protection yet, as the Princess of Atlantis.

With measured steps, Melia approaches the centre of the throne room. She takes a deep breath, pulling the bolt from her bag. The weight of it feels substantial, almost like it pulses with its own energy, its presence humming with restrained power. Kneeling down, she lays it at Zeus's feet, her head bowed before she stands again, her eyes meeting his steadily. She begins to speak, her voice strong but respectful, recounting her journey.

Her words echo through the hall, carried on the tension that fills the air, and when she finishes, a heavy silence falls over the room. Even the crackle of the hearth fire seems to have dimmed in the wake of her tale, as if the entire palace is waiting.

Zeus regards her, his expression unreadable as he extends a hand, palm up. The lightning bolt rises, glowing with blinding brilliance as it flies into his grasp. He closes his fist around it, and the metallic points begin to flare with electricity. The bolt shifts, growing, expanding into its true form—a fifteen-foot javelin of searing, hissing energy, alive and crackling with untold power.

"I sense the girl tells the truth," Zeus mutters, his eyes narrowing as they flick between Melia and Poseidon. His expression is hard, calculating. Then, louder, his voice echoing like a storm across the grand hall, he calls, "Ares, what say you to this accusation?"

Ares rises from his throne, his movements deliberate, almost slow. He bows before Zeus, his head held high, though there is a certain wariness to his stance. His crimson armour gleams in the torchlight, and as he speaks, his voice is deep and steady.

"The girl speaks the truth," Ares says, the admission slipping from his lips without hesitation. There is something reluctant in his eyes—a flicker of unease, perhaps—but he doesn't deny her words. He knows, and she knows, that there is no hiding from this truth.

Melia is surprised at his honesty, but perhaps she shouldn't be. Ares is more than War—he embodies conflict in all its forms. And though he is fierce, deceit is not his usual weapon.

Tension hums through the air like the thrumming string of a bow pulled taut. The gods shift in their seats, eyes locked on the scene. Zeus's rage is palpable, a storm contained only by his own will. Sparks fly from his feet, spitting and popping against the marble. Ares stands still, neither flinching nor cowering, his expression almost resigned.

Melia's heart pounds, her instincts screaming for her to speak, to do something. She steps forward, her voice breaking through the charged atmosphere. "It was Grandfather," she declares, her gaze never wavering from Zeus's storm-filled eyes. She takes another step forward, positioning herself between Zeus and Ares, her chin lifting slightly. "Ares is not fully to blame. He was deceived, tricked by something greater."

The gods seem to draw in a collective breath, and Melia can feel Ares's gaze on her, searing into her from the side. She does not turn to meet it. Instead, she holds Zeus's gaze, unwavering. The King of Olympus finally looks at her—truly looks—and she sees his eyes sharpen, his storm-cloud irises narrowing. He studies her, the kaleidoscope glow of her eyes, the asphodel bloom tucked behind her ear, the set of her jaw. There is something appraising in his stare, something that lingers, as if he is seeing her for the first time.

Zeus's appearance seems to shift, his divine form flickering. Bull horns curve from his temples, eagle feathers tucked behind them. His jagged silver crown, formed of lightning bolts, spits and hisses, casting streaks of light across the marble floor. His eyes are the colour of storm clouds, shifting and turbulent, while his hair cascades in thick, black curls down his back, ending in tendrils of mist. His chiton glows white, edged in gold, and his himation—a rich, royal purple—rests across his shoulders. His golden belt gleams, adorned with carved oak leaves and amethyst quartz that glisten like stars.

Poseidon rises beside her, his movement breaking the silence, his presence a steady, unwavering support. Whatever thoughts Zeus had fallen into seem to evaporate in an instant, replaced by a hardened resolve.

"Ares," Zeus thunders, his voice a force that shakes the very foundations of the palace, echoing through the hall. "I will decide what to do with you later. Be gone from my sight."

Ares straightens, a ripple of tension leaving his shoulders. He gives a curt nod, but his gaze lingers on Melia—there is something there, something unsaid. Then, without a word, he vanishes in a blaze of fire and light, leaving only the acrid scent of smoke.

Melia exhales, the sudden quiet almost deafening. She can still feel the weight of Ares's gaze, the heat of his anger, and perhaps something more—something like confusion or reluctant respect. But there is no time to dwell on it.

Zeus turns his gaze back to her, his expression hardening. "And you," he says, his voice sharp, dismissive. "Speak not of what you do not understand. I will hear none of it."

Melia’s heart hammers against her ribs, a mixture of anger and disbelief rising like a tide within her. She steps forward, her eyes narrowing. "You will turn from a threat?" she demands, her voice rising with urgency. "Grandfather is rising! He is coming here, to Olympus—and you will do nothing?"

The air shifts, charged with the raw power of an oncoming storm. Lightning arcs across the ceiling, and Zeus's eyes blaze. "Watch your tone, girl," he warns, his voice carrying the weight of thunder. "Do not presume to challenge me. Fly again, and it shall be your last act. Do not let me find you here when I return, lest you taste this bolt." He raises the thunderbolt high, and it crackles with energy, the searing power filling the room.

A deafening crack of thunder shakes the palace, and with a blinding flash of light, Zeus is gone. The throne room falls silent, the oppressive tension finally releasing.

Melia shakes her head, frustration burning in her chest. She turns to her father, her voice still carrying that edge of disbelief. "Grandfather is coming," she insists, her eyes locking onto Poseidon's. "Will he really do nothing?"

Poseidon’s gaze softens, a shadow of worry passing over his features. He sighs, the sound like waves retreating from a rocky shore. "Perhaps he will see reason later," he says, but his words lack conviction.

Melia scowls, her voice lowering, her tone resolute. "We both know he won’t."

Poseidon’s silence is all the answer she needs. He knows it too.

“You spoke in Ares’s defence,” a voice interrupts, smooth and commanding. Melia turns to find Hera approaching, her presence regal, her gaze unwavering.

“Queen Hera,” Melia greets, bowing deeply, her movements fluid, respectful. Poseidon’s gaze sharpens, suspicion flickering in his eyes, wary of Hera’s intentions.

Hera tilts her head slightly, her gaze still fixed on Melia. “It was not his fault, not entirely,” Melia explains, her voice steady. “The voice I heard—it was powerful, deceptive. I can understand how someone could be swayed by it.”

Hera’s eyes gleam, curiosity brightening her gaze. For a fleeting moment, Melia catches sight of something—a crown of horns, a wreath of peacock feathers, lilies draped in a beautiful soft green veil. And just as quickly, it is gone.

“And yet, you resisted it?” Hera asks, her voice lilting with interest.

Melia nods, her voice steady as she explains. “The voice I heard—it was powerful, deceptive. I can understand how someone could be swayed by it.” She pauses, her eyes flickering with a mixture of disgust and determination. “But it was wrong. It felt wrong. It smelled wrong. Just... hate, anger, and the need to hurt. Blood on an altar, fires burning—there was nothing real about it. Nothing worth following.”

Poseidon’s eyes sharpen, the tension in his stance easing slightly, pride mingling with his wariness. Hera studies Melia for a long moment, her gaze softening.

“I see,” she murmurs, her gaze lingering on Melia. Her voice rises then, echoing across the room with authority. “The quest has been completed, as per the terms set. I hereby formally end this emergency council. You are all free to return to your duties.”

Her words resonate with the weight of her power, the finality of a decree that cannot be challenged. One by one, the gods begin to disappear, their forms fading from the throne room, leaving only Poseidon, Hera, and Melia.

“Poseidon,” Hera says, her tone softening, almost gentle. “Please escort your daughter off of Olympus. I believe Zeus will not return for some time.”

Poseidon’s eyes light up, gratitude and a glimmer of hope in their depths.

“Thank you, sister,” he murmurs, his voice carrying both warmth and sincerity.

Hera nods, her form dissolving in a breeze of peacock feathers and the soft rustle of fragrant blossoms.

In the now-empty throne room, Poseidon turns to Melia, his expression one of quiet relief. He takes a step forward, and before Melia can react, he pulls her into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around her protectively.

"My daughter," he whispers, his voice a soft rumble of the tide. "You were so brave. You faced them all, and you spoke your truth. I am so proud of you."

Melia feels warmth spread through her chest, her heart swelling at her father's words. She clings to him for a moment longer, her fingers gripping the fabric of his robes. "I just... I wanted to do what was right," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

Poseidon pulls back, his hands resting on her shoulders as he looks at her, his eyes shimmering like the depths of the ocean. "You have always had a strong heart, Melia. And your courage—it's something that not even the greatest of gods can claim to have."

He pauses, his gaze flicking towards the now-empty thrones, his expression darkening for just a moment before softening again as he looks back at her. "Come," he says, his voice filled with warmth, "it is time we leave this place. There is somewhere I want to take you before you return to your mother."

Melia nods, curiosity sparking in her eyes as she takes her father's hand. "Where are we going?" she asks, her voice tinged with both excitement and uncertainty.

Poseidon smiles, a twinkle of mischief in his gaze. "Somewhere I think you will find comforting," he says, his voice gentle. "Close your eyes, my pearl. Trust me."

Melia obeys, closing her eyes as her father's power swirls around them, the air shifting, the scent of saltwater filling her senses. There is a tug, as if the ocean itself is pulling her, and then—

The world changes.

When Melia opens her eyes, she finds herself standing at the edge of a winding, river-like path. The air is fresh, filled with the scent of pine and the faint mist of a cloud-like lake that stretches out in front of them. Nestled at the edge of the lake is a large house—a mansion—that seems to blend into the very landscape around it. The walls are a misty blue-grey, shimmering in the sunlight, and four large grey-white marble columns frame the entrance, reminiscent of an ancient temple. Two braziers stand on either side of the wide blue door, their flames dancing lazily in the breeze. Above the door, carved into the pediment, is a large trident that glows faintly, the glow like a reflection of the symbol that had appeared on Melia’s forehead when she was claimed. Around the trident are scenes carved into stone—the Titanomachy, the Gigantomachy, epic battles and myths that Melia recognises from the bedtime stories her mother used to tell her.

The mansion door opens with a groan the instant Poseidon's foot touches the porch, and Melia can't help but smirk at the sight. Poseidon lets out a sigh of relief, and as soon as the doors close, he shrinks down to a more comfortable size, settling at a mere six feet tall. His features soften, and he turns to Melia, placing his forehead against hers, his hand slipping into her hair.

"My girl," Poseidon says, his voice thick with emotion, both pride and a lingering sadness. "My pearl, you did so well."

Melia smiles softly, letting herself relax under her father's touch. "Thank you," she whispers, looking past him to examine the inside of the house.

Contrary to the imposing temple-like exterior, the interior of the mansion is warm, familiar, a surprise that makes Melia's chest tighten with nostalgia. The room is open and breezy, much like the beach cabin in Montauk. The wooden floors stretch beneath her feet, their worn grains leading to a large pool of salt water right in the centre, just like the one in the Poseidon cabin at Camp Half-Blood. To her left, she sees a cosy living area, complete with a plush blue couch and a deep purple loveseat circled around a wood stove. Woven rugs are scattered across the floor, adding splashes of warmth to the dark wood, and a few big stained-glass windows let in a rainbow of soft light despite there being no visible windows from the outside.

To the right, a quaint kitchen waits, painted in soft hues of pale yellow with blue accents. Wooden cabinets line the walls, and a four-seater dining table sits by a counter, its blue paint mirroring the ocean's colour.

The more she looks, the more it feels like Montauk, filled with memories she almost forgot she missed.

Poseidon chuckles, watching her wide eyes take in every detail. His hand moves, brushing the asphodel bloom tucked behind her ear before looking around the room himself.

“I met your mother on that beach,” he says, his grin turning wistful, his gaze distant as if seeing something that only he could see. “Many fond memories there. It’s a good reminder… it brings me peace.” He looks back at her, giving her a quick, almost cheeky grin. “Now, tell me, are you hungry? When was the last time you ate something?”

Melia’s lips twitch at his obvious attempt at a parental fuss. “I’m not very hungry,” she admits, “but I’d love some water.”

Poseidon nods, an amused twinkle in his eyes, his gaze shifting mischievously as he steps closer.

“Good,” he murmurs, holding her shoulders, his sea-green eyes glinting. Melia catches that look and narrows her eyes suspiciously—

And then she’s falling.

Poseidon shoves her backwards into the pool with a laugh that echoes through the house like rolling waves.

Melia comes up sputtering, hair plastered to her face, and wipes water from her eyes, only to see her father grinning down at her from the edge of the pool.

“Ancient ritual,” Poseidon declares, his grin as wide as the horizon. He leaps into the air, diving in with all the grace of the ocean itself. The impact sends waves crashing in all directions, and Melia can’t help but laugh, bracing herself as the water rushes over her, soaking her through.

“You’re ridiculous,” she tells him when he resurfaces beside her, her voice somewhere between affectionate and exasperated. “I’m disowning you.”

Poseidon’s smile is bright, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous light. “I am your father,” he says, swimming closer. He hooks his arm around her shoulders, his smile softening. “You won’t ever escape me. Not now, not ever.” But beneath the warmth in his eyes, Melia can see a flicker of something deeper—an old sadness, tinged with grief.

Melia sighs softly, letting herself float on the surface of the water. She can feel the cool embrace of it against her skin, can feel it seeping into her, comforting and familiar. “I was your daughter before, wasn’t I?” she asks, her voice quiet, as if she’s afraid of the answer. “It’s there, in my mind, but everything is so vague… blurry.”

Poseidon’s eyes soften even further, his arm tightening around her. “You were,” he says, his voice low and filled with emotion. “Mine and Amphitrite’s. If you ever wish to know more, ask me, ask your mother, or even your siblings.”

Melia nods, her eyes closing for a moment. “In time,” she says. She turns her head slightly, her fingers brushing against the asphodel flower still tucked behind her ear. “There was a girl, wasn’t there? I remember violet eyes and the smell of asphodels.”

Poseidon’s expression changes, his smile faltering slightly, his gaze turning gentle but cautious. “There was,” he confirms. “You and she were deeply in love.” His voice catches for a second, and he looks away, a heaviness settling over his shoulders. “But I do not wish to say more, not without speaking to her parents. They, too, hold her memory close, just as I do yours.”

Melia nods slowly, her heart squeezing with a bittersweet ache. “I understand,” she says softly. “And… I don’t think I’m ready to know more. Not just yet, soon but not yet.”

In the distance, a low rumble of thunder echoes across the sky, the sound muffled and distant but unmistakable.

Poseidon frowns, his eyes narrowing as he looks toward the door. “It is time to go,” he says, his voice tinged with regret.

Melia frowns as well, the weight of reality settling back onto her shoulders. She pulls herself out of the pool, water streaming from her clothes, and looks back at her father. “My mum?” she asks.

“She has been returned, as we agreed,” Poseidon reassures her. “Your uncle keeps his bargains. He never truly wished her harm.”

Melia nods, relief washing over her like another wave, but a different sort of worry still lingers. “And… will I see you again?” she asks, her voice small, vulnerable. She hates the way it sounds, hates how young and scared she feels asking it.

“Yes,” Poseidon says, the word coming without hesitation. He steps closer, cupping her cheek, his eyes full of warmth. “As long as you will have me, I will always be here. You are my little Princess of the Seas, Melia, and the Sea does not abandon its own. Take my hand and close your eyes.” He pauses, a teasing grin tugging at his lips. “And please, try not to give me any more grey hairs. I fear they will become permanent as you grow.”

Melia laughs, though it’s watery, her eyes stinging. “I don’t think I can promise that,” she says, her voice cracking slightly. “But I’ll try, at least.” She takes his hand, her fingers curling around his, feeling the strength of his grip, the warmth of his palm. “I’ll see you later, Dad.”

Poseidon’s smile softens, and he nods. “See you later, my girl.”

And as Melia closes her eyes, the warmth of the Sea envelops her, and in a rush of salt-scented wind, she is gone, leaving behind only the echo of her father’s love, the gentle sound of waves lapping at the shore of a distant, dream-like lake.

The sensation is like stepping into a small drizzle; water coats Melia's skin and clothes, and the transition happens in a blink. When she opens her eyes, she's standing in front of her mom's apartment door. The scent of peppermint, liquorice, and freshly baked cookies washes over her, pulling her heart into her throat. It smells like home.

Before Melia even has time to knock, the door bursts open. Her mother stands there, her eyes widening as her expression shifts from weary worry to pure, overwhelming relief.

"Melia! Oh, thank goodness. Oh, my baby." Sally Jackson's voice cracks, tears immediately brimming in her eyes.

She pulls Melia into her arms, crushing the air right out of her. They stand there in the doorway, Melia letting herself be engulfed by the familiar warmth, feeling her mom's hands in her hair, touching the flower still tucked there. The touch is so gentle, reverent almost, like Sally is afraid the whole thing might just disappear if she’s not careful.

"You’re here, you’re really here," Sally whispers, her voice trembling as she kisses the top of Melia’s head, her own tears flowing freely now.

Melia can feel herself trembling too, the tears burning behind her eyes. Relief weighs her down, makes her feel heavier but in a good way—a grounding way. She doesn’t bother trying to stop the tears; they spill over, and she chokes out a sob. The fear, the exhaustion, all that she had held back these past weeks comes flooding out, and her mother’s embrace is the only thing keeping her together. Sally holds her tight, swaying them back and forth gently, murmuring comforting words.

Finally, Sally pulls her inside, into the warmth of their apartment. She draws her daughter over to the couch, and they curl up close. Sally doesn't let go, her hand running through Melia's hair, her other arm wrapped around her back. The scent of home surrounds Melia, and for the first time in a while, she lets herself breathe fully.

"I just... appeared here this morning," Sally says, her fingers still brushing through Melia's hair, gently tracing the lines of the asphodel bloom. "I don't remember anything after... the Minotaur. I was so scared, sweetheart. I’ve been going out of my mind waiting all day."

"I know, Mum," Melia says softly. She takes a deep breath, feeling her mother’s warmth steady her. She tells her everything—about Camp Half-Blood, the quest, the Underworld, the gods. She speaks of the pit, the battle with Ares, of Zeus and Poseidon and Hades. She leaves nothing out: the way she could see the gods, the girl with violet eyes, but when it comes to her being reborn, Melia hesitates. How could she possibly tell her mom that this isn't her first life? The words feel heavy, too complex, and she fears the confusion or hurt it might cause. So she keeps that part to herself, unsure if the time will ever be right to share it. Her voice wavers sometimes, but she presses on, letting her mother hear it all.

When Melia finishes, silence falls between them. Sally’s arms tighten around her, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She cups Melia's cheek, her gaze searching her daughter's face.

"Melia," Sally says softly, her voice filled with awe. "My girl, how much you've grown. You've found a place, haven’t you? A place where you belong."

She smiles at Melia, pride shining through the worry still etched on her face. Melia smiles back, the corners of her lips twitching upwards, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

"Will you return?" Sally asks, her voice softer. It’s a different question—one that doesn’t need much explanation. "Will you come back home?"

Melia leans forward, touching her forehead to her mother’s. "I will always find my way home," she says. "Always back to you. Maybe with some friends, if that's okay. But..." She pauses, her lips quirking up. "I think it's time for me to sail new waters for a while."

Sally laughs gently, rolling her eyes. "I blame your other mother for your sense of humour," she says, shaking her head. She fingers the necklace around Melia’s neck. "She always had a way with puns—the worst ones, ones that would make everyone groan."

Melia grins. They both laugh softly, the sound filling the apartment. It feels good—like a piece of normalcy in the midst of everything.

Soon, Melia finds herself packing a bag for the summer, the familiar routine of gathering her things oddly comforting. The rustle of clothing and the soft clatter of objects slipping into her bag create a soothing rhythm that calms her nerves. She folds her shirts with practised ease, slipping books and supplies into place, her mind drifting as the anticipation of returning to Camp Half-Blood settles in her chest.

A sudden knock at the door jolts her from her thoughts. Her mother’s cheerful voice floats through the hallway, followed by the sound of the front door opening. Melia barely has time to process it before a familiar scent hits her—the sharp, salty tang of sea spray mingled with the electric promise of a brewing storm. It curls in the air, tugging at something deep in her chest. Her heart skips a beat. That scent is not just familiar—it’s ancestral.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Melia hurries into the living room. There, standing casually in the entryway, speaking softly with Sally Jackson, is her swimming coach.

But that’s not how Melia sees her now. The recognition sinks deep into her bones, ancient and certain. The easy smile, the storm-grey eyes flashing with barely contained amusement—this is no ordinary coach. This is her sister.

Melia groans loudly, throwing her head back as she lets herself collapse onto the couch. "You've got to be kidding me!"

Sally turns, her eyes wide with surprise. Before she can scold her daughter for her reaction, Kymopoleia lets out a laugh—not just any laugh, but one that echoes like waves crashing against rocky cliffs. It's the sound of a storm rolling in, powerful and untamed. "Oh, I’ve been waiting to see your reaction for years, sister," Kym says, her lips curled into a smirk. Amusement dances in her sea-storm eyes.

Melia buries her face in her hands. "I cannot believe you've been teaching me for years! But at the same time… it makes so much sense. Ugh."

Sally glances between them, confusion blooming on her face. But as the divine glamour surrounding Kymopoleia slowly fades, Sally’s expression shifts from confusion to awe. Without the disguise, Kym radiates raw, oceanic power—a storm given form. The resemblance between Kym and Melia is striking, yet layered. They share the same fierce eyes and proud, steady stance—undeniable echoes of Poseidon's commanding presence. Yet there’s something more delicate too, a graceful sharpness in their features, a glimmer of ancient wisdom in their expressions that can only belong to Amphitrite. They are the perfect blend of sea and storm, of tidal force and regal poise, the legacies of both their divine parents etched into their very beings.

"Neither Mother nor Father could spend much time around you without drawing too much attention," Kym explains, her tone softer now. "But for gods like me, there’s more flexibility. I could watch over you without raising suspicion. And besides… it was fun. You’re not half bad in the water."

Melia groans again, though this time there’s a reluctant smirk on her face.

Kym's smile softens into something more sincere. "But as much as I’d love to stay and chat, I’ve been sent to escort you back to camp safely. The gods aren’t about to risk you running into trouble on your way. Not after everything."

Melia rises slowly, moving over to Sally. She pulls her mother into a tight hug, burying her face in her shoulder. Sally holds her close, brushing a hand over Melia's hair.

"Be safe, my girl. Always be safe," Sally murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

Melia pulls back slightly, hesitating before speaking. "Mum... I might need to ask a favour. One of my cabinmates doesn’t have anywhere to go. She’s so young—I can’t leave her alone in the cabin. Not again."

Sally smiles gently, cupping Melia's cheek. "Of course. I’ll prepare a room for the end of the summer. If you can’t bring her yourself, just let Chiron know. I’ll make sure she’s welcomed."

Relief floods Melia, and she smiles, the tension in her shoulders easing. "Thanks, Mum."

Turning back to Kym, Melia straightens her posture. Kym places a firm but warm hand on Melia’s shoulder. "Ready?"

Melia glances back one last time at her mother, who offers a small wave and a reassuring smile.

With a deep breath, Melia nods. "Yeah. Let’s go."

Kym's grip tightens briefly in reassurance. Then, with a surge of ocean spray and a flash of silvery light, they vanish—leaving only the scent of saltwater and the lingering warmth of home behind.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XVIII

~~~~ The Lightning Thief ~~~~

Melia returns to camp to find Annabeth, Ellie, and Grover waiting for her, surrounded by cheers and the vibrant energy of celebration. The moment her foot crosses the border at Half-Blood Hill, the noise erupts around her like a breaking wave. Her fellow campers surge toward her, and before she can say a word, she is enveloped in a crush of hugs, laughter, and tears.

They are the first heroes to return alive from a quest since Luke, and it feels as if the entire camp has been holding its breath, waiting for this moment. The sheer intensity of the welcome overwhelms her. Hands clap her on the back; voices shout her name. There is relief in every face she sees, joy and gratitude radiating off them in waves, but beneath it all, Melia feels the weight of their expectations—expectations she has finally met.

Her heart swells with a strange mix of emotions: relief at being back at camp, pride in what they’ve accomplished, and an ache of something bittersweet. It’s a sense of belonging she hadn’t realized she craved so deeply, an acceptance that feels foreign and wonderful all at once. Her gaze scans the crowd and locks onto Annabeth’s face. Despite the serious façade Annabeth often maintains, there’s a smile there now, genuine and wide, the kind that reaches her storm-grey eyes. It’s a sight that sends warmth flooding through Melia’s chest.

Before she can process anything further, Ellie barrels into her, pulling her into a hug so fierce it knocks the breath out of her. “You’re alive!” Ellie exclaims, her voice wavering slightly, betraying the depth of her emotions. “You did it, Melia. We did it.”

Melia clings to her, squeezing her eyes shut as tears threaten to spill. The burning behind her eyelids feels sharp, but it’s nothing compared to the overwhelming relief in her chest. They made it back. They really made it back. “We did,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion.

The feast that follows is grander than anything Melia has ever experienced at camp. Tables overflow with food—roasted meats, fresh fruits, fragrant bread—and the air is alive with laughter and chatter. Laurel wreaths are placed on their heads, and when Melia looks to her left, she sees Ellie, beaming like she’s just won the greatest prize in the world. The sight is enough to bring a genuine smile to Melia’s face, one that feels lighter than anything she’s felt in days.

As the feast winds down, the camp begins to make its way toward the bonfire in a glowing procession, torches lighting the path. Their footsteps are light, their voices carrying on the wind as they head to the heart of the camp. When they reach the bonfire, a hush falls over the crowd as the burial shrouds are brought forward—the shrouds each cabin had made for them while they were gone.

Annabeth’s shroud is the first to be displayed, and it is breathtaking. Grey silk, embroidered with owls in intricate detail, shimmers in the firelight. It’s a piece of art, almost too beautiful to burn. Melia nudges Annabeth lightly, a teasing grin tugging at her lips. “Almost a shame you won’t get buried in it, huh?” she quips, her tone light.

Annabeth rolls her eyes, though her lips twitch upward in a small smile. “Shut up,” she mutters, but there’s no real heat behind her words. The moment feels warm, filled with the kind of camaraderie that only forms between those who have faced death together and come out the other side.

Then it’s Melia’s turn. Her shroud is brought forward, and the sight of it steals the breath from her lungs. It’s beautiful, woven in rich blues and greens that shimmer like the sea under sunlight. In the center is a trident adorned with two oyster shells that flare out like wings—the same symbol that appeared above her when Poseidon and Amphitrite had claimed her. Dolphins and sharks swim around the edges, their forms so lifelike in the flickering firelight that they seem to move, weaving in and out as if alive.

Next to her, Ellie’s shroud mirrors the oceanic colors, waves seeming to sprint across the fabric, giving it a sense of motion and life. The sight of both shrouds side by side fills Melia with a deep, indescribable emotion. It’s not just about the craftsmanship or the beauty of the designs. It’s the love and effort poured into them by their cabins, the hope stitched into every thread.

As Melia watches her shroud burn, the flames licking at the fabric, she feels a pang of sadness. The craftsmanship is remarkable, and it hurts to see it consumed. But more than that, she feels the weight of what the shroud represents. Her cabin had prepared it knowing there was a chance she might not return. Every stitch, every detail, carries that understanding, that hope mingled with fear, and the reality of it is almost too much to bear.

She glances at Annabeth, who is watching her own shroud burn with a similar expression of quiet reflection. Melia takes a deep breath, the smoke and sea air mingling in her lungs. This is a moment she’ll never forget—a moment of triumph and loss, of victory and gratitude.

When the last of the shrouds has burned, the crowd erupts into cheers once more. The tension that has lingered over the camp since their departure seems to lift entirely, replaced by a palpable sense of relief and joy. Melia finds herself surrounded by her friends, their laughter and smiles a balm to her weary soul. And for the first time in what feels like forever, she allows herself to feel it fully—the warmth, the love, the belonging. This is what it means to come home. This is what it means to be a hero. This is what it means to be family.

The fire crackles, sparks flying into the night sky, and Melia stands at the edge of the bonfire, her arm draped over Chloe’s small shoulders. Chloe leans into her side, her eyes wide as she stares into the flames. On Melia’s other side is Mylo, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. He’s quiet, his gaze fixed on the fire, and Melia can feel the tension in his small frame, the lingering fear of losing a cabin mate.

When they had first returned, Chloe and Mylo had been among the first to rush Ellie, practically tackling her in their excitement and relief. Now, though, the gravity of what could have happened seems to weigh on them. Melia feels it too—the fragility of their world, how close they came to losing everything. She tightens her hold on them, pulling them a little closer, a silent promise that she’s here, that she’s not going anywhere.

Chloe tilts her head up, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes glistening in the firelight. “Melia, are you… are you going to leave again?”

Melia’s heart clenches at the question, and she glances down at the young girl, her expression softening. She bends slightly, pressing her forehead to Chloe’s. “Not for a while,” she says, her voice gentle. “Not if I can help it. We’ve got a lot of time to make up for, yeah?”

Chloe nods, her eyes closing as she leans into Melia, and Mylo inches closer, pressing himself into her side. Melia wraps her arms around them both, feeling the warmth of the fire at her back and the warmth of her cabin mates at her front. The celebration continues around them—laughter and music filling the night—but for Melia, this moment, with Chloe and Mylo leaning on her, is what makes everything worth it. It’s the reason she fought so hard, the reason she faced gods and monsters and the unknown. It’s for them, for her family.

Ellie catches her eye from across the fire, her expression softening as she watches them. She gives Melia a small nod, a knowing smile playing at her lips, and Melia smiles back. They’re here. They’re safe. And for now, that’s enough.

Days pass, and camp returns to its regular rhythm. The once-chaotic energy settles, and the daily routines take over once more. Melia finds comfort in this return to normalcy—back to training, back to afternoons spent splashing around in the water with her cabin, back to plotting ways to make sure no camper has to sleep on the floor of Cabin Eleven. She even starts a petition, collecting signatures from her fellow campers to advocate for more bunks, and speaks to Chiron about it with unwavering determination. In her quieter moments, she trades letters with her mother, discussing their plans for the future, and burns some to Poseidon, Amphitrite, Kymopoleia, and even Hades, filled with random rambles and musings from her day.

Hades never writes back, but every time she sends a letter, the comforting scent of asphodels swirls around her, like an unseen acknowledgment. Amphitrite responds more often than Poseidon, but Melia doesn’t mind. She knows they both have responsibilities, and it isn’t about receiving a response—sometimes it’s enough just to reach out, to keep the connection open. Kym, on the other hand, writes back with the most regularity, and their letters quickly become a cherished part of Melia’s life. Kym wants to get to know her, genuinely and fully, and their correspondence bounces from the divine to the mundane—one moment, Kym is detailing the politics of the sea gods, and the next, they’re joking about silly little things, like Mylo’s latest prank or Eve’s grumbling about camp chores. Kym even offers to teach her how to form a mermaid tail instead of legs while swimming, and the prospect thrills Melia to her core.

The connection to her divine family grows steadily, a thread weaving together her mortal life and her heritage. It’s not always perfect, and there are moments when Melia feels the weight of expectations bearing down on her, but the support from her cabin mates and her celestial family helps her find balance. Camp Half-Blood becomes more than a safe haven; it’s a place where Melia can grow into herself, blending her two worlds into one.

The Fourth of July passes in a blur of fireworks and celebration, and a bittersweet goodbye. Grover succeeds in his wish, and leaves to find Pan. Despite the fact that no searcher has returned in two thousand years, Melia knows, deep in her heart, that Grover will be the first to come back. She holds onto that belief as she hugs him goodbye, whispering words of encouragement and promising they will all be waiting for him.

Cabin Three becomes a home in every sense of the word, filled with warmth, laughter, and a deep sense of family. After the quest, the cabin undergoes a transformation—not just in the physical sense but in its very atmosphere. A lingering tension that once hung over them dissipates, replaced by ease and comfort that breathe new life into the space. Designed to embody the essence of the sea, the cabin becomes more than a simple shelter; it transforms into a sanctuary, a haven that reflects their shared adventures and growing bond.

The cabin’s layout unfolds into multiple rooms, each carefully designed to cater to its residents' needs. The living room is the heart of the cabin, a spacious and inviting area where they gather at all hours of the day. Its centerpiece is a fresh saltwater pool tucked into one corner, its surface glistening with tiny ripples that mirror the gentle waves of the ocean outside. The faint scent of salt and seaweed lingers in the air, a constant reminder of their connection to the sea. The pool isn’t just decorative; it becomes a place of relaxation, rejuvenation, and even play. Chloe and Mylo often splash around on warm afternoons, their laughter echoing through the room. Ryan keeps a watchful eye on them, occasionally dipping his feet into the cool water, while Ellie practices graceful underwater flips and tricks, showing off her natural ease in the water. Melia sometimes joins her, feeling the water’s embrace rejuvenate her in a way nothing else can.

Plush rugs, their patterns reminiscent of ocean waves, soften the wooden floors, and a cozy couch stretches along one wall, piled with soft, colorful cushions that invite lounging. Ellie frequently claims the couch, her legs draped over the armrest as she flips through a book or chats with Ryan about constellations. A bookshelf lines one side of the living room, brimming with volumes about the sea—a mix of ancient myths, sailing manuals, and practical guides for sailors. Between the books, Chloe places her growing collection of seashells, each one a tiny treasure from the beach, polished smooth by the waves.

One particular treasure, a jar of bioluminescent sand collected by Ellie during a midnight swim, glows softly on a windowsill, casting an ethereal light that fills the room in the evenings. Nearby, a small telescope, a gift from Chiron after much persuasion by Ryan, stands near the largest window. On clear nights, they gather around, pointing out planets and constellations, their voices rising with excitement as Ryan spins tales of the stars. A worn map of the night sky, its edges frayed from use and covered in handwritten notes, hangs beside the telescope—a testament to their late-night stargazing sessions.

The bunk room is equally inviting. Two rows of sturdy wooden beds, each draped in cozy blankets and adorned with personal touches, create a sense of belonging. Above each bed, small shelves hold personal mementos. Melia’s shelf displays the Minotaur’s horn, a tangible reminder of her first battle, alongside the tusk of Ares’ boar, polished to a gleaming shine. Ellie had secretly grabbed the tusk for her during their quest, a silent gesture of pride in what they had accomplished together. A delicate asphodel flower, a gift from Hades himself, rests carefully in a small glass vase on Melia’s nightstand.

Chloe’s creativity shines through in her decorations. She braids flowers and seaweed into garlands, hanging them along the walls and across the doorways. Their soft greens and blues bring a fresh, sea-swept feeling to the cabin, blending seamlessly with the natural wood. Chloe loves weaving these delicate garlands into Melia’s hair, giggling as she works, and Melia wears them proudly throughout the day, her smile brighter for it. Chloe’s knack for finding beauty in the smallest details fills the cabin with a sense of joy and lightheartedness.

Every corner of the cabin tells a story. A polished piece of driftwood shaped like a trident rests above the living room door, a gift from the Naiads. A small ship-in-a-bottle, painstakingly assembled by Mylo, sits on a side table, its intricate details a testament to his growing skill and patience. Little knick-knacks and souvenirs from their adventures find their way onto shelves, creating a mosaic of memories. A piece of obsidian from the Underworld, smoothed and shaped into a perfect sphere, rests on a shelf beside the jar of sand. Ellie calls it her good luck charm, though she never explains why.

The saltwater pool, the telescope, the bioluminescent sand—all these elements make Cabin Three unique, but it’s the laughter, the conversations, and the shared moments that truly define it. Nights are spent huddled together in the living room, telling stories or planning their next great adventure. On quieter evenings, they sit by the pool, dipping their feet into the water, the sound of the waves from outside mingling with their soft murmurs.

Cabin Three isn’t just a place to sleep; it’s a haven. Every corner, every item, every detail tells a story of their time together—of battles fought, of bonds forged, of lessons learned. It’s more than just walls and a roof; it’s home.

Evenings are often the most cherished part of Melia’s day, a time when the world seems to slow, and the bonds between her and her cabin mates grow stronger. Mylo, ever the mischief-maker, is usually at the center of the cabin’s antics. His boundless energy and knack for scheming often lead to outrageous plans that leave the entire cabin in fits of laughter. One evening, he convinces Eve to join him on an elaborate escapade—a daring mission to “borrow” materials from the Hephaestus cabin for a new project. Melia’s protests fall on deaf ears as Mylo flashes his most charming grin, and even Eve, who is supposed to be the responsible one, can’t resist the lure of adventure.

The mission ends with them getting caught by one of the Hephaestus kids, a gruff but surprisingly amused older camper. Instead of reprimanding them, the Hephaestus camper is drawn into the scheme, and the group ends up collaborating on the project. By the next evening, a set of intricately crafted seashell wind chimes hangs outside their cabin, the soft tinkling sound carried by the sea breeze. The chimes quickly become a beloved addition, their gentle melody blending with the ocean waves and the distant calls of seagulls.

Melia often finds solace in walking along the beach at twilight, the sky painted in hues of gold, pink, and deepening indigo. Her steps are slow and deliberate as she scans the shoreline, her eyes searching for a small, familiar figure. She always finds Chloe crouched by the tide pools, her small hands delicately tracing patterns in the sand or reaching into the water to observe the creatures within. Chloe is endlessly fascinated by the tiny ecosystems—the scuttling crabs, the graceful sway of sea anemones, the flicker of tiny fish darting between the rocks. Her curiosity is infectious, and Melia often joins her, sitting cross-legged on the sand as Chloe excitedly points out her latest discoveries.

“Look at this one, Melia!” Chloe’s voice is filled with wonder as she holds up a shell, its iridescent surface catching the fading light. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Melia smiles, her heart swelling with affection. “It’s perfect, Chloe. You’ve got a real eye for finding treasures.”

They linger by the tide pools until the sky deepens to navy, the stars beginning to twinkle above. As they walk back to the cabin, Chloe carries her finds in a small bucket, her face glowing with excitement. She chatters on about her plans to add her new shells to their collection or turn them into necklaces. Melia listens, her own worries melting away in the warmth of Chloe’s enthusiasm.

Ryan often joins them on these evening walks, his quiet presence a grounding force. He listens attentively to Chloe’s stories, occasionally offering gentle corrections or adding his own insights about the constellations they can see reflected in the tide pools. His green eyes, calm and thoughtful, mirror the moonlight off the waves. In these moments, Melia feels a deep sense of peace—their little family together, the ocean whispering its secrets, the stars watching over them.

Back at the cabin, the atmosphere is warm and inviting. The saltwater pool in the corner glistens softly in the lamplight, and the wind chimes outside the door sing a gentle tune. Ellie stretches out on the couch, her legs draped over the armrest as she flips through a book. Eve and Mylo are huddled over another project, their heads close together as they whisper and laugh. Chloe arranges her new treasures on a shelf, each shell placed with care. Ryan sits by the telescope, adjusting its position to better view the night sky, occasionally calling out for someone to come look at a particularly bright star or planet.

Melia takes a moment to stand in the doorway, her gaze sweeping over the scene. The laughter, the warmth, the easy camaraderie—it all feels so right, so complete. She steps inside, closing the door softly behind her, and joins her cabin mates, her heart full. This cabin is more than just a place to sleep. It is a sanctuary, a home in every sense of the word.

Each evening in Cabin Three reinforces the bond they share. The pranks, the stargazing, the shared stories—they are building something together, something that feels unbreakable. And as Melia sits beside Chloe and listens to Mylo’s exaggerated tales of heroism, she can’t help but think that this, more than anything, is what makes the hardships worth it. The laughter, the love, the family they have become. It’s more than she ever hoped for, and it’s everything she needs.

The last night of the summer session came all too quickly.

The campers gather in the dining pavilion for one final meal, their voices filling the air with a vibrant energy that feels both joyful and bittersweet. Laughter echoes off the stone columns, and the clatter of plates and cutlery creates a rhythm that underscores the chatter. The night sky above is a canvas of stars, a glittering expanse that seems to stretch forever. The constellations shine bright, as if watching over them, and the gentle hum of cicadas blends with the distant sound of waves lapping against the shore. The warm, smoky scent of roasted marshmallows drifts over from the campfire, mingling with the earthy aroma of the woods and the salty tang of the sea breeze.

One by one, the campers approach the brazier to burn portions of their dinners for the gods. The act is quiet and solemn, a moment of reflection amidst the evening’s festivities. Melia steps up to the brazier, holding a piece of perfectly grilled fish in her hand. She pauses for a moment, her eyes fixed on the flames as they dance and crackle. The heat warms her face, but the weight of the gesture fills her chest with a heavier emotion—gratitude, reverence, and a hint of longing. As she lets the fish drop into the fire, she closes her eyes, her lips moving in a silent prayer.

“For my father, my mother, and my sister,” she thinks, watching as the smoke curls upward, carrying her offering to the gods. The flames flicker, a vivid burst of green and blue for a brief moment, and she swears she feels a soft, comforting breeze ruffle her hair—a subtle acknowledgment.

Later, at the bonfire, the senior counsellors gather at the front to award the end-of-summer beads. The bonfire burns high and bright, casting flickering shadows across the crowd of campers seated in a semicircle. The flames crackle and pop, sending a cascade of golden sparks into the air, while the smell of pine and wood smoke lingers around them. The energy in the air is palpable, a mix of anticipation and celebration, as the campers quiet down to hear the announcements.

Melia stands before the assembled campers, her heart pounding as Luke steps forward with a bead strung onto a leather necklace. The bead is stunning in its simplicity yet holds a powerful meaning. It is pitch black, like the deepest part of the ocean, with a sea-green trident shimmering in the center. The trident’s lines are intricate, almost alive in the firelight, and the bead seems to pulse with its own energy, as though it holds a fragment of the sea itself within it.

Luke’s voice rings out across the crowd, steady and clear. “The choice was unanimous,” he announces, his tone carrying both authority and admiration. “This bead commemorates the first Daughter of the Sea God at this camp and the quest she undertook into the darkest part of the Underworld to stop a war!”

For a moment, there is silence—a pause that feels like the stillness before a wave crashes against the shore—and then the entire camp erupts in applause. The roar of cheers is deafening, a wall of sound that sweeps over Melia, enveloping her in its warmth. Campers from every cabin are on their feet, clapping, shouting, and stamping their approval. Even the Ares cabin, normally aloof and begrudging, stands to join in the celebration, their usual animosity momentarily set aside.

Athena’s cabin pushes Annabeth to the front, and Melia catches her gaze. Annabeth’s serious façade has melted away, replaced by a radiant smile that lights up her face. Her grey eyes are glowing with pride, and she claps hard, her applause standing out even among the chaos.

But it’s Cabin Three that cheers the loudest. Eve has her arm around Chloe’s small shoulders, lifting the youngest camper so she can see better over the crowd. Ryan and Mylo jump and cheer, their voices carrying above the rest, their excitement uncontainable. Lucia claps steadily, her smile wide and proud, her reserved nature no match for the overwhelming joy of the moment. They are a family, and their pride in Melia is palpable, a force all its own.

Melia’s face warms, her cheeks flushed not just from the heat of the bonfire but from the outpouring of love and support. It’s a mix of emotions she’s still learning to navigate—pride in what she’s accomplished, gratitude for the people around her, and a deep, almost overwhelming sense of belonging. For so long, she had felt adrift, caught between worlds, unsure of her place. But here, surrounded by her friends and family, she feels anchored.

She looks to her cabin, her family, and lifts the necklace high above her head, the bead catching the firelight as it swings gently from the leather cord. She slings an arm over Ellie’s shoulder, pulling her close, and together they bask in the cheers of their fellow campers. Cabin Three’s voices rise above the rest, a chorus of celebration that echoes into the night, mixing with the crackle of the fire and the faint roar of the ocean in the distance.

The bead is more than just a token; it’s a symbol of everything they’ve faced together—the challenges, the losses, the victories. And as Melia stands there, the weight of the necklace settling around her neck, she knows this moment will stay with her forever. This is her home. These are her people. And for the first time in a long time, she feels whole.

The next morning, camp is a whirl of movement—goodbyes are called, laughter and a few tears shared. Melia wanders around. It’s hard to believe how much had happened in a single summer, and even harder to think about leaving, even if it’s only until next year. She watches the other campers packing up, running with brooms, mops, and backpacks, preparing for final inspections.

She finds herself drifting towards the arena, following the sound of metal striking dummies. When she enters, she sees Luke, practicing alone, his movements sharp, his focus absolute. He’s wielding a sword unlike any Melia’s seen before—a blade that smells of darkness, a presence that makes her skin crawl.

“Luke,” Melia greets, stepping closer, eyeing the sword warily.

Luke looks up, pausing mid-strike. His face softens slightly when he sees her, lowering the blade. “Melia. Came to say goodbye?”

Melia nods, managing a small smile. “I figured I’d say hi before we all head out. Are you… planning to stay here year-round again?”

Luke snorts, a grin touching his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know me… always here. But it’s not about me, is it? You’re going home?”

“Yeah, for now,” Melia shrugs. Her eyes shift to his sword, a chill running down her spine. “That’s new. What’s it called?”

Luke lifts it, the sunlight catching on the polished metal, highlighting the wicked edge. “This? This is Backbiter.”

“Backbiter?” Melia repeats, the name leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

“One side celestial bronze, the other tempered steel. Works on mortals and immortals both,” he explains, and there’s something in his tone that makes Melia’s stomach flip.

She frowns. “I didn’t know they could make swords like that.”

Luke shrugs, giving her a small smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “They probably can't. But it’s one of a kind, just like me.” He sheaths it, stepping closer. “I was actually going to come looking for you. What do you say we head down to the woods one last time? Look for something fun… to fight?”

Melia hesitates. Something feels wrong, a tug in her gut telling her to walk away. Father, she thinks, something is about to happen, and I’m not sure I’m equipped to deal with it.

As if in response, the sound of waves echoes in her mind, a distant reassurance.

“Aw, come on,” Luke urges, holding up a six-pack of Cokes, his smile widening, masking whatever it is that’s simmering beneath. “For old time’s sake, friend.”

Melia takes a breath, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag, but she nods. “Okay. Lead the way.”

They walk down to the woods together, side by side, but there’s a tension in the air—a heaviness that presses on Melia’s chest. They kick around for monsters, but it’s too hot, the heat cloying and sticky. They eventually settle in a shady spot near the creek, far from where anyone could see them. They sit in silence, the sunlight filtering through the trees, and for a moment, Melia lets herself relax—almost lets herself believe this is just two friends saying goodbye.

“Do you miss it?” Luke’s voice breaks the silence. “Being out there?”

Melia glances at him, her brow furrowed. “What, with monsters attacking us every three feet? Are you serious?”

Luke raises an eyebrow, waiting.

Melia sighs, looking down at the creek, watching the ripples. “I miss… some of it. The lessons, the history, the way everything felt so alive. But the danger? The constant fear? No. I don’t miss that.” She pauses. “Do you?”

Luke’s face darkens, his expression twisting, and Melia sees something raw in his eyes—something bitter and old.

“I’ve lived here year-round since I was fourteen,” Luke says, his voice flat. “Ever since Thalia… you know. I trained. I gave everything. And what did I get? One quest. One chance. And when I came back, it was like—‘Okay, ride’s over. Have a nice life.’”

He crushes the Coke can in his hand, tossing it into the creek. Melia frowns, her eyes following the can as it floats, sending ripples across the water. She curves her fingers, and the water responds, nudging the can back to shore where she can pick it up later. She won’t let the water be polluted, not while she’s here.

“The heck with laurel wreaths,” Luke mutters, his voice edged with venom. “I’m not going to end up like those dusty trophies in the Big House attic.”

Melia’s heart sinks. “You make it sound like you’re leaving.”

Luke turns to her, his lips curling into a smile—but it’s twisted, empty. “Oh, I’m leaving, all right. I brought you down here to say goodbye.”

“Luke…” Melia starts, a sudden rush of panic clawing at her chest.

But before she can say more, Luke snaps his fingers, and the ground at her feet smoulders, the earth parting. A creature emerges, black and glistening, its pincers clicking, its stinger poised. A scorpion, and it’s crawling towards her.

Melia feels her breath catch in her throat, her body tensing, every instinct screaming at her to move, but Luke raises a hand.

“I wouldn’t,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “Pit scorpions can jump up to fifteen feet. Its stinger will go right through your clothes and scales. You’ll be dead in sixty seconds.”

“Luke, why?” Melia’s voice breaks, her eyes wide, her gaze locked on the scorpion as it climbs onto her shoe, its black eyes glinting with malice.

Luke stands, brushing off his jeans, his expression unreadable. “I saw a lot out there in the world, Melia,” he says, his tone almost wistful. “Didn’t you feel it? The darkness gathering, the monsters growing stronger? Didn’t you realize how pointless it all is? All the heroics—we’re just pawns for the gods. They should’ve been overthrown ages ago, but they’ve hung on, thanks to us half-bloods.”

Melia swallows, her heart pounding as the scorpion crawls up her leg. The air around her feels thick, charged with an electricity she can’t place. Luke looks at her, and for a moment, it isn’t Luke. There’s something else, something vast and ancient behind his eyes, and it chills her to the bone.

“You could join me,” Luke says, his voice melodic, almost hypnotic. “We could do it together. I see that look in your eyes, Melia. You’re more than them. You know you are. But you’re holding yourself back. Wouldn’t you like to see what you can truly do? To spread out?”

No, she thinks, shaking her head fiercely, feeling the pull of his words, the lure of something dark and tempting. But she thinks of her family, her mother, her cabin mates, and the warmth of the sea. She thinks of Ellie and Chloe, of Mylo and Ryan. She is welcome to spread out as much as she wants, but she will do so with her family.

The scorpion reaches her knee, and Melia forces herself to stay calm. “Grandfather isn’t the answer,” she says, her voice trembling but resolute. “You’re being manipulated, Luke. Brainwashed.”

Luke’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. “You’re wrong. He showed me my worth. He showed me that my talents were being wasted.” His eyes darken, a shadow passing over his face. “Do you know what my quest was two years ago? My father, Hermes, wanted me to steal a golden apple from the Garden of the Hesperides and bring it back to Olympus. That’s it. After everything I’d done, all the training—that’s what he gave me.”

Melia frowns. “That’s not an easy quest,” she argues. “Heracles struggled with it, and he had help.” Something about that, as she says strikes a cord bringing up a deep-rooted feeling of anger.

Luke’s eyes blaze, and he shakes his head, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Exactly. Where’s the glory in repeating what’s already been done? They want us to just keep replaying their old stories, running around like obedient little soldiers. It’s useless, Melia. They don’t care about us.” He points to the scar across his face. “This is what I got for my efforts—a reminder of how little I matter to them.”

He takes a step back, his eyes dark and cold. “When I came back, all I got was pity. I wanted to pull Olympus down stone by stone right then, but I waited. I began to dream of Kronos, and he showed me there was another way. When we went on that winter-solstice field trip, I did what no one else would dare to do. I stole Zeus’ master bolt and Hades’ Helm of Darkness. You wouldn’t believe how easy it was—the gods are so arrogant. I was halfway across New Jersey before they even realized something was missing.”

Melia feels the world around her narrow, her heartbeat loud in her ears as the scorpion moves closer. She knows she has to keep her mind steady, even as her emotions swirl inside her, a storm of disbelief, sadness, and rage.

Melia’s voice trembles slightly as she presses on. “So why didn’t you bring the items to him, then?” she asks, trying to extract every bit of information she can.

Luke’s smile wavers for the first time, revealing something more fragile beneath the mask. “I… I got overconfident. Zeus sent his sons and daughters to retrieve the stolen bolt—Artemis, Apollo, my father Hermes. But it was Ares who caught me.” His expression twists, a grimace that hints at both anger and regret. “I could have beaten him, but I wasn’t careful enough. He disarmed me, took the items of power, threatened to return them to Olympus and burn me alive. Then Kronos’ voice came to me, told me what to say. I put the idea in Ares’ head about a great war between the gods. I said all he had to do was hide the items away for a while and watch the others fight.” Luke’s lips curl into a dark, bitter smile. “Ares got that wicked gleam in his eyes. I knew he was hooked. He let me go, and I returned to Olympus before anyone noticed my absence.”

Melia stares at him, her heart pounding, each word a knife twisting deeper. Luke draws his new sword, running his thumb along the blade. It glints ominously, and Melia can almost feel the dark energy pulsing from it, like it’s alive and hungry. “Afterward, the Lord of the Titans… h-he punished me with nightmares,” Luke’s voice falters, and for a moment, he looks more like a haunted child than the hero she once admired. “I swore not to fail again. Back at Camp Half-Blood, in my dreams, I was told that a second hero would arrive—someone who could be tricked into taking the bolt and the Helm the rest of the way—from Ares, down to Tartarus.”

Melia feels like the air has been sucked from her lungs, her chest tight with both anger and disbelief. “You summoned the hellhound that night in the forest,” she pushes out, her voice thin, each word feeling like it cuts her throat.

“We had to make Chiron think the camp wasn’t safe for you,” Luke says, as if explaining a simple logic puzzle. “So he’d start you on your quest. We had to confirm his fears that Hades was after you. And it worked.”

“The flying shoes were cursed,” Melia whispers, her eyes widening in realization, every horrible puzzle piece clicking together. “They were supposed to drag me—and the backpack—into Tartarus, except…”

Luke’s eyes darken, like haunted tragedies, and for a moment, there’s regret there. A regret that seems almost human. “I didn’t think you’d give them to Grover,” he admits.

Melia’s throat feels tight. The prophecy’s words ring in her ears: 'You will be betrayed by one who calls you a friend'. She’d known—or suspected—that this was coming, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Luke—the Luke she’d once trusted—is gone, replaced by someone twisted and desperate. The sting of betrayal burns in her eyes, and she struggles to breathe.

“Call off the bug, Luke,” she manages, her voice cracking. She wants to believe he’s still the boy she trained with, laughed with—that there’s still something redeemable inside him.

But Luke’s eyes harden, and he’s no longer the Luke she knew. Maybe… maybe she never really knew him at all.

“What have the gods ever done for us?” he asks quietly, his voice shaking. “Just look at Thalia. The gods let her die.” His jaw clenches, his face twisted in anguish. “Do you know how many children I’ve comforted? How many go unclaimed, even though their parent is obvious? How many leave and never come back? I have burned… so many shrouds. It feels like my hands are a graveyard, because I just keep losing.”

Melia’s eyes mist, her heart aching at the pain in his voice. “Things can change, Luke,” she blinks back her tears, her voice filled with quiet desperation.

“Yes,” Luke nods, his eyes alight with something fierce, something desperate. “This is how they will change. Kronos will bring change.”

“No—” Melia begins, her voice cracking, but Luke’s face closes off, his expression hardening to stone.

“Goodbye, Melia,” he says, his voice hollow. “You should have died in Tartarus but I truly wish you had chosen to be on my side.”

He raises his sword and slashes it through the air. Darkness ripples around him, swallowing him up, and then he’s gone.

The scorpion lunges. Its pincers snap, and Melia reacts instinctively. She swats it away with her hand, summoning Maelstrom in a flash of Atlantean silver. The scorpion leaps at her again, its stinger glinting wickedly, but Melia moves, slicing it clean in half. The pieces hit the ground, twitching, but she knows it’s too late—she feels the sharp pain in her hand, the venom burning, crawling up her veins like fire.

Sixty seconds.

Her breaths grow ragged, her vision blurring. She stumbles toward the creek, her feet heavy, her head pounding. The world feels distant, every sound muffled, her heart thundering in her ears. The rocks beneath her feet blur, shifting and tilting, and she almost falls.

Get to the water, she tells herself. She needs it—the ocean’s power, the sea’s strength.

She hears the clomping of hooves, faint and distant, echoing strangely in her mind. Her knees buckle, and she crashes to the ground, pain radiating from her side as she coughs, blood splattering the earth. She can barely hold herself up, her fingers brushing the dirt, trembling.

“The water,” a voice urges in her head—her mother’s voice, or perhaps just her own desperate thought. She is so close.

With one final effort, she pushes herself forward, her body sagging as she reaches out. Her fingers graze the cool, wet surface of the creek, and then—

Everything goes black. The world fades, the pain slips away, and all she knows is darkness, like the deepest part of the sea.

~~~~

Melia is pleasantly surprised to find herself waking. A straw is stuck between her lips, and she instinctively follows the silent order to drink, the nectar warm and comforting as it flows down her throat.

Slowly, she opens her eyes.

She is propped up in a bed in the sickroom of the Big House, her right hand bandaged like a club. Argus stands guard in the corner, his many eyes fixed in different directions, and Dionysus leans against the door frame, his frown deep and annoyed. Next to her, Annabeth sits with a determined look, holding the nectar glass.

“Hey,” Melia croaks, her throat dry.

“You idiot,” Annabeth says, her voice filled with a mix of relief and irritation, her eyes bright. “You were green and turning grey when Chiron found you. If it weren’t for your father—and Chiron’s healing…” Her voice trails off, a shudder running through her.

“Now, now,” Chiron’s voice cuts in from the foot of the bed, his tone gentle but firm. “I’d say Melia’s constitution deserves some of the credit too.”

Melia lets out a weak laugh, wincing at the pain in her chest. “You mean my stubbornness to not die?” she mumbles.

Dionysus, still leaning against the doorway, mutters in agreement, though there’s a flicker of something like grudging respect in his eyes.

Chiron, seated near the foot of her bed in human form, smiles, though he looks weary and pale. His lower half is compacted into the wheelchair, his upper half dressed in a coat and tie, giving him an air of formality despite the informality of the setting.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” he asks, his eyes gentle.

“Like my insides have been frozen, then microwaved,” Melia groans.

Chiron chuckles softly, nodding. “An apt description, considering that was pit scorpion venom. Now, you must tell me, if you can, exactly what happened.”

Melia nods, her mind still foggy, and she recounts the encounter with Luke—the deception, the scorpion, the betrayal. As she speaks, she watches the room grow increasingly tense, the lines in Chiron’s forehead deepening, and the flicker in Dionysus’s form becoming more erratic. Annabeth’s face is a storm of emotions—anger, hurt, disbelief—each one more painful to see than the last.

“I can’t believe that Luke…” Annabeth’s voice falters, her hands clenched into fists on her knees. Her eyes burn with something raw, and she swallows hard before continuing. “Yes. Yes, I can believe it. May the gods curse him. He was never the same after his quest.”

Chiron’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “This must be formally reported to Olympus,” he murmurs, “I will go at once.”

“They are already aware,” Melia croaks. “And… extremely angry.”

Dionysus finally speaks up, his voice heavy with irritation. “More than angry,” he says, his words hanging in the air like an unspoken warning. “Just about the whole country got slammed by several different natural disasters. We don’t like being tricked.”

Annabeth and Chiron wince, and even Argus’s many eyes seem to narrow, his expression grim.

“Ah,” Melia says weakly, letting out a sigh. “I’ll make sure to send Uncle H an apology.”

Dionysus snorts, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He and Chiron share a silent exchange, something almost like worry passing between them, before the god straightens, muttering something about reporting back to Olympus, and leaves the room with a flutter of his purple robe.

Chiron turns back to Melia, his gaze softening. “Be sure to reach out to your father,” he advises. “And do not rush out to find Luke. At this point, he is not an opponent you are ready to face.”

Melia’s eyes darken, a hint of stubbornness in her expression. “Will they even do anything?” she asks quietly. “I know you aren’t saying something, I know it has to do with your prophecy. The Olympian king declared the matter closed.”

Chiron sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly. “The gods have their reasons, Melia, and I cannot speak more on the prophecy. But even if they decide to do nothing, we will not sit back.” He leans forward, his eyes meeting Melia’s. “You must be careful. The Titan King wants you to come unraveled. He wants your life disrupted, your thoughts clouded with fear and anger. Do not give him what he wants. Train patiently.”

Melia nods slowly. “I’ve already made my decision,” she says, her voice steady. “I’m returning home. Outside of camp, I can still train and live a normal life… at least for now.” She pauses, her eyes softening. “And after talking to Lucia, Eve, and Ryan, I don’t want anyone else at camp to know I’m… reborn. Mylo and Chloe can find out when they’re older.”

Chiron sighs again but nods in understanding, a sad smile touching his lips. “You have grown wise, Melia. Wiser than many of your age.”

He rolls himself back, giving her one last nod. “I will be joining Dionysus on Olympus. Please, try to rest. Even with our healing, pit scorpion venom is no joke. Argus will watch over you until we return.”

He glances at Annabeth, his eyes softening. “Oh, and, my dear… whenever you’re ready, they’re here.”

With that, Chiron rolls out of the room, leaving Melia and Annabeth in a heavy silence.

Annabeth stares down at the ice in Melia’s drink, her fingers tracing the rim of the glass. “What’s wrong?” Melia asks her, her voice gentle.

“Nothing,” Annabeth says quickly, setting the glass on the table beside the bed. “I… just kept thinking about something after the quest. You… um… need anything?”

Melia takes a breath, pushing herself up, her muscles aching. “I’d like to go back to my cabin.”

“Melia, that isn’t a good idea,” Annabeth protests, her brows furrowing.

But Melia is already swinging her legs out of the bed, determined to stand. The moment her feet touch the floor, her knees buckle, and Annabeth lunges forward, catching her before she crumples to the ground. A wave of nausea crashes over her, her vision blurring.

“I told you…” Annabeth mutters, her voice filled with exasperation.

“My cabin will help,” Melia insists, her voice a whisper. “There’s a pool. It’s salt water… I just need to get there.”

Annabeth sighs, her arm tightening around Melia’s waist as she helps her take a shaky step forward. Then another, still leaning heavily on Annabeth. Argus follows at a distance, his eyes darting around, watchful.

It’s dusk, the camp bathed in the fading golden light of the setting sun. The cabins are dark, the volleyball pit empty, the lake a mirror of the fiery sky. Beyond the woods, the Long Island Sound glitters, reflecting the last light of the day.

They pause at the porch steps of the Big House, and Annabeth glances at her, her eyes softening. “What are you going to do?” she asks. “You said you had made your decision.”

“I’m returning home,” Melia admits, her voice soft. “I know it’s not what Chiron would suggest, but it’s where I need to go.”

Annabeth studies her for a long moment before nodding. “And you… who’s waiting for you?” Melia asks, curious, her voice gentle.

Annabeth points toward the crest of Half-Blood Hill. Silhouetted against the darkening sky stands a family—two small children, a woman, and a tall man with blonde hair.

“I’m going home for the year,” Annabeth says, her voice quiet, almost shy. “The way you talked about your mom…it made me think. I wrote my dad a letter when we got back. I told him I was sorry. That I wanted to try again if he’d have me. He wrote back right away. We decided we’d give it another shot.”

Melia smiles, a warmth spreading through her chest. “That took guts.”

Annabeth shrugs, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. They continue their slow shuffle toward Cabin Three. “You won’t try anything stupid during the school year, will you?” Annabeth asks, her voice teasing but laced with genuine concern. “At least…not without sending me an Iris-message?”

Melia chuckles weakly, leaning into her friend for support. “Trouble has a way of finding me,” she jokes, “but I promise, you’ll be the first to know—outside of my cabin, of course.” She pauses, her eyes meeting Annabeth’s. “And if things with your dad don’t work out, send me a message. You can always come hang out at mine.”

Annabeth smiles, her eyes softening. “Thanks. When we get back next summer,” she continues, her voice growing stronger, “we’ll find Luke. We’ll ask for a quest, and if we don’t get one…we’ll sneak off and do it anyway. Agreed?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Melia reaches out, her hand steady despite her exhaustion. Annabeth takes it, squeezing it firmly.

“Take care, Seaweed Brain,” Annabeth whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “Keep your eyes open.”

“You too, Wise Girl.” Melia watches as Annabeth walks away, up the hill to her waiting family. She hugs her father awkwardly, then looks back at the camp one last time. She touches Thalia’s pine tree, then lets herself be led over the crest and into the mortal world, her silhouette disappearing against the fading light.

Melia turns, wishing Argus goodnight before stepping through the door into her cabin. She is greeted by the sight of Ellie and Chloe, their eyes wide and filled with worry. The moment they see her, they rush over, their anxiety evident.

“Are you okay?” Ellie asks, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes scanning Melia’s face.

Melia smiles softly, her heart swelling at their concern. She nods, her body aching but her spirit lighter. “I will be,” she promises, her voice gentle. She sinks into the pool, the salt water cool and soothing against her skin. Chloe and Ellie slide in beside her, the water lapping around them like a protective embrace.

Ellie’s eyes are filled with relief, but there’s a hint of lingering fear. “I thought you’d be gone already,” Melia says, her voice tired.

Ellie shakes her head. “I pushed it back. I had the most leeway for when I needed to leave for school. None of us were going to leave Chloe alone until you were better.”

Chloe sniffs, her small body trembling as she leans into Melia’s side, her tears dampening Melia’s shoulder. “I was so scared,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I thought…I thought you might not come back.”

Melia wraps an arm around Chloe, her fingers brushing through her hair in a soothing motion. “I’m here,” she says softly, her voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Ellie nods, her eyes glistening as she reaches out to rest her hand on Melia’s arm. “We’re family,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “We take care of each other.”

Melia leans back, the exhaustion washing over her, her eyes closing as the gentle rhythm of the water lulls her into a sense of calm. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. The three of them drift into a comfortable silence, the worries of the world fading away as they find comfort in each other’s presence.

Slowly, the exhaustion takes over, and they fall asleep in the water, the warmth of the cabin surrounding them, the stars twinkling faintly through the cabin windows.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XIX

~~~~ TLT Interlude ~~~~

It has been a couple of days since camp ended, and Melia returns home with Chloe in tow. Chloe is overjoyed at not having to stay at camp, her eyes lighting up at every small thing about having a place to live—her very own room, fresh sheets, a window view. Everything fills her with wonder, and Melia can't help but smile at her enthusiasm. Chloe never goes into detail about what her life before camp was like, but the pieces she has shared leave a shadow in Melia's mind. None of it paints a good image—struggles, loneliness, neglect—leaving Melia even more determined to give Chloe a safe place to call home, either here or at camp. A place where she would always feel protected, always loved.

The weekend before school resumes, Melia decides she can't hold off on telling her mother the truth about her being reborn any longer. It has been gnawing at her for a while, the need to share, to let her mum know, and to finally seek answers about the person she used to be. The curiosity has been prickling at her, trying to make sense of the dreams—the flashes of lives long gone, of places that feel both familiar and foreign. So, she enlists the help of Kym to explain what she cannot, to help bridge the gap between her past and present, and to tell her, finally, who she used to be.

And if she is telling her mother, she knows she has to tell Chloe as well. As much as Melia had planned to hold off until Chloe was older, Chloe is part of this world, part of this family. She deserves to know.

The four of them sit on the couches around the living room, the air feeling charged with anticipation. Melia fidgets with the silver ring on her finger, twisting it nervously. “So... I've been trying to figure out how to tell you this, Mum. I'm just worried that this is going to make you think differently of me...” she trails off, her gaze dropping to her lap.

Sally's eyes soften, a gentle smile touching her lips. “Nothing you tell me will change how I feel about you,” she says firmly, leaning forward. “Doesn't matter who you love, who you are, you are my child, and I love you. And that goes for you as well, Chloe.” She turns her gaze to Chloe, her voice warm and sincere. “You shouldn’t feel worried, no matter what. You have a place here, and love. You’re part of this family now. And let me tell you, Melia doesn’t get her possessiveness over family from just her divine side.”

Melia chuckles softly, a mix of nerves and relief loosening the tension in her chest. “Thanks, Mum. But it’s not that,” she says quickly, her fingers stilling on her ring. She takes a deep breath, glancing up at her mother and Chloe. “It’s about my divine side... or my soul, I guess. I… I’ve been reborn. This isn’t my first life.”

Chloe blinks, her brows furrowing in confusion, while Sally’s eyes widen in surprise. But then, slowly, Sally’s expression shifts, understanding dawning over her features, softening her surprise.

Before Melia can even react, Sally reaches out, wrapping her arms around her and pulling her close. “That doesn’t change anything,” Sally whispers, her voice steady. “You are still you. You are still my daughter. I love you, Melia. Nothing changes that.”

Melia lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her eyes misting over as she leans into her mother’s embrace. She wraps her arms around Sally, taking comfort in the familiar scent of her mum’s shampoo, the warmth of her hold. She feels her worries begin to ebb, carried away by her mother’s love.

“See? I told you she would be understanding,” Kym says with a small smile, her eyes twinkling.

Sally looks up, her arms still around Melia, and turns her gaze to Kym. “Did you know?” she asks, her voice calm, though her eyes are searching.

Kym nods. “I did. From the moment I saw her. She looks the same, and her aura feels the same. The ocean never forgets its own,” she says.

Chloe shifts closer, her eyes wide as she watches them, clearly trying to make sense of everything.

Melia swallows, her voice coming out quieter than she intended. “Who was she? Who was I?” she asks, still unsure if she should think of her past self as someone else entirely or as an extension of who she is now.

Kym’s smile softens, and she leans forward, her gaze gentle as she looks at Melia. “You were Lysianassa, princess of Ithaca,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the name itself were something precious. “In your first life, you were raised by Odysseus and Penelope.”

Melia blinks, her breath catching as a rush of memories swirls behind her eyes—vivid flashes that feel almost like dreams. She closes her eyes, letting them wash over her.

She remembers running through halls carved of stone, her feet bare against the cold floor as she laughed, her small hand clasped in someone else’s. The corridors smelled of warm olive oil and burning torches, the walls lined with intricate carvings depicting gods and heroes. She remembers the salty breeze drifting in from the sea, tangling her hair as she ran, the ever-present hum of the waves a steady backdrop to her childhood.

She sees her father, Odysseus, seated by the hearth, his strong hands gesturing as he weaves his tales, his voice rich and golden like honeyed wine. His stories were not just words; they painted pictures in the firelight, images of roaring cyclopes, whispering nymphs, and towering cities. She remembers perching on his knee, clinging to every word, feeling as if she were sailing beside him through stormy seas and sunlit harbors. Her mother’s soft laughter would drift from across the room, her needlework abandoned for a moment as she listened, a smile lingering on her lips. At night, Penelope would hum lullabies to her, gentle and soothing, like the lapping of waves against Ithaca’s shores, wrapping her in a cocoon of love even in her father’s absence.

She remembers her brother, Telemachus—his bright eyes filled with endless curiosity, a boundless energy that made him seem untouchable by worry. He was about ten years younger than her, and from the moment he was placed in her arms as a swaddled infant, she felt a fierce protectiveness over him. She remembers his tiny fingers curling around hers, his gurgling laughter filling the halls. As he grew, she was more than his sister—she was his guide, his mentor, the one who taught him to read the constellations, to wield a wooden sword with determination, to speak with confidence. She showed him how to navigate the hidden paths of the island, how to listen to the wind and know when a storm was coming. She was his anchor when their father was gone, just as their mother was hers.

Telemachus had idolized her. She can still see his face lighting up whenever she praised him, his small feet pounding against the sun-warmed earth as he ran after her through the olive groves. His laughter rang like a melody, unburdened, unbroken. She remembers the way he would wrap his arms around her legs when he was frightened, the way he would lean against her on the beach, watching the waves and whispering his dreams of one day sailing beyond Ithaca’s horizon. She remembers the weight of it all—the responsibility, the love, the unspoken promise to keep him safe.

She remembers waiting. Always waiting. She and her mother, their hearts tethered to the horizon, longing for the sails of Odysseus' ship to break the endless blue of the sea.

She remembers a girl, a few years older than her, with hair dark as night, curling softly around her face, and eyes like vivid violet that seemed to hold the secrets of the stars. She was always there—a shadow in the halls, a protector in the night, a friend who felt more like a piece of Melia’s own soul. She remembers the way her hand felt, calloused but warm, as it clasped Melia’s, steady and unshakable.

She remembers the quiet moments—laying together under the olive trees, their fingers intertwined as they listened to the distant sounds of the waves crashing against the cliffs. She remembers the way the girl would whisper ancient myths to her, tales of heroes and goddesses, of lost cities and unbroken oaths, her voice weaving magic into the night air. She remembers the exhilaration of running side by side through fields of wildflowers, their laughter mingling with the wind, the scent of thyme and lavender heavy in the air.

But more than anything, she remembers the feeling of love, deep and unwavering, a love that was constant, that held her together even when the world around them was uncertain. It was a love that transcended time and fate, one that refused to fade even as the years stretched between them.

Tears prick at Melia's eyes, her heart aching with the weight of the memories—the life she had lived, the people she had loved and lost. She can still hear the echoes of that laughter, still feel the ghost of those fingers laced with hers.

“I remember them,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I remember Ithaca. I remember her.”

Sally rubs Melia’s back soothingly, her eyes filled with understanding and empathy. “It must be overwhelming,” she says softly.

Melia nods, her head still resting on her mother’s shoulder. “It’s strange,” she admits. “It feels like it was a dream, but at the same time, it feels so real. Like I’m two people, but also just... me.”

Kym smiles knowingly. “That’s the beauty and the curse of being reborn,” she says. “You carry the echoes of who you were, but you are also wholly who you are now. Lysianassa was you, but you are also Melia. You are both, and that is something only a few ever understand.”

Chloe, who had been quietly listening, finally speaks, her voice small and hesitant. “So... you were a princess then as well?” she asks, her eyes wide with awe.

Melia chuckles, nodding. “Apparently, I was,” she says, her voice softening as she looks at Chloe. “But more than that, I was someone who loved her family fiercely. Just like now.”

Chloe’s eyes fill with tears, and she crawls across the couch to wrap her arms around Melia, hugging her tightly. “You’re still you,” she says, her voice muffled against Melia’s shoulder. “You’re still my Melia.”

Melia smiles, her heart swelling as she holds Chloe close, her fingers brushing through her hair. “Always,” she whispers. “I’ll always be your Melia.”

The four of them sit there, wrapped in warmth and love, the echoes of the past settling into the present. Melia no longer feels the fear that had gripped her about sharing this truth. Instead, she feels a sense of completeness—a sense that maybe, just maybe, she can hold both who she was and who she is now, and still be loved just the same.

That evening, once Chloe has gone to bed, Melia sits on the balcony of their apartment, gazing out toward the water. The air is crisp, tinged with the scent of salt and damp wood, the distant murmur of the tide blending with the occasional cry of a seagull. The cool breeze brushes against her skin, carrying the taste of the ocean, sharp and familiar. Below, the moon casts a silvery glow on the waves, their rolling crests shimmering like liquid silver as they rise and fall in an eternal rhythm.

The city beyond is a blur of soft golden lights, stretching like scattered stars against the dark expanse of the skyline, but Melia’s eyes remain fixed on the water. The sound of waves, something that has always soothed her, feels different tonight—less like a lullaby and more like a whisper of something lost, something just beyond reach. A knot tightens in her chest.

She barely registers the gentle creak of the sliding door until her mother steps onto the balcony, the soft rustle of her sweater as she wraps it tighter around herself blending into the background hum of the night. Sally moves to stand beside her, quiet for a moment, before her gaze follows Melia’s out toward the horizon.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sally asks, her voice gentle, careful.

Melia closes her eyes, inhaling deeply as the cool night air fills her lungs, but it does little to ease the tightness in her chest. "I don’t know..." she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling slightly like the ripples on the water below. She turns her head, gaze dropping to her hands, where her fingers absently fiddle with the silver ring she always wears—a nervous habit, a grounding force. The metal is cool against her skin, solid and unchanging, unlike the shifting memories within her mind. "I remember so little, but every memory feels so real, Mum. It’s like... like pieces of me that I didn’t know were missing are suddenly coming back. They fit, but at the same time, they don’t, like an old song I once knew but can’t quite recall the lyrics to."

Sally listens, her face soft with concern, her eyes searching Melia’s as she reaches out, resting a warm, reassuring hand on her arm. Melia takes another shaky breath, the moisture in her eyes blurring the soft glow of the moon reflecting off the sea. "I find myself knowing how to do things, things I didn’t even realize I knew. I—I look at Chloe, and I remember Telemachus. I remember teaching him, guiding him, holding his hand when he was scared, just like I do for her." She swallows, her throat tight, her fingers curling around the fabric of her sleeve. "But at the same time, I doubt myself. I don’t even know who really taught me these things—was it me in this life, or was it Lysianassa? Did I learn them, or did she?" She shakes her head, her voice cracking. "And the memories... they feel like mine, but they also feel like echoes of someone else’s. I’m scared, Mum. I’m scared of what will happen if I remember everything. What if I change? What if I lose myself completely?"

Sally’s heart aches at the raw vulnerability in her daughter’s voice, at the way Melia curls into herself, as if bracing for the weight of something she cannot control. Without hesitation, she steps closer, wrapping her arms around Melia, enveloping her in warmth. "Oh, sweetheart," she whispers, her voice unwavering despite the storm of emotion beneath it. "You don’t have to be afraid. You are still you. No matter how much you remember, no matter what shifts or resurfaces, you will always be my Melia. Nothing can take that away. You are not just who you were—you are who you choose to be now, and that is just as important."

Melia sinks into her mother’s embrace, the steady rise and fall of Sally’s breathing grounding her like an anchor in turbulent waters. She presses her forehead against Sally’s shoulder, the warmth of her mother’s presence a stark contrast to the cold uncertainty curling in her chest. A tear slips down her cheek, its path slow and silent. "But what if I lose myself?" she whispers, her voice so fragile it nearly dissolves in the night air, as if giving it form will make the fear manifest.

Sally strokes Melia’s hair with slow, soothing motions, her fingers threading gently through the dark strands, a gesture that has always calmed her daughter since she was little. She exhales softly, her gaze distant, searching for the right words. "You won’t lose yourself, love," she murmurs, her voice steady. "The memories—they’re part of you, like the tides that come and go, shaping the shore but never erasing it. They may be echoes of another time, but they belong to you now. You are not just who you were—you are who you are, and who you will become. You can hold both without losing either."

Melia is quiet for a long moment, the sound of the waves filling the silence. She thinks of the flashes she has seen—the laughter, the warmth, the love she had once known. She thinks of the way Telemachus had looked up to her, of the way she had promised to always protect him, of the way she now feels the same fierce protectiveness for Chloe. "It’s just... it’s hard," she admits finally, her voice trembling. "I want to remember. I want to know who I was. But I’m scared that if I remember too much, I’ll lose who I am now. And I like who I am now. I like my life here. I love you, and I love Chloe."

Sally smiles, her eyes glistening. "And we love you, Melia. No matter who you were, no matter who you become, you will always be a part of this family. Chloe thinks you hung the stars, you know. And your sister, Kym, she clearly isn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. You are surrounded by people who love you, for who you are right now, and for who you were."

Melia lets out a shaky laugh, a small smile tugging at her lips as she leans back to look at her mother. "Yeah, Kym is... persistent," she says, her voice softening. "It helps. Having her around, I mean. It makes it feel less scary, I guess."

Sally reaches up, brushing a tear away from Melia’s cheek. "And you don’t have to face any of it alone," she says firmly. "We’re all here for you, every step of the way. You’re not just Lysianassa, and you’re not just Melia. You are both, and that’s okay. It’s what makes you extraordinary."

Melia smiles, a genuine smile that reaches her eyes, and she feels a warmth spreading through her chest—a sense of comfort, of belonging. She wraps her arms around her mum, holding her tightly. "Thank you," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."

Sally smiles, pressing a kiss to the top of Melia’s head. "You don’t have to worry about that, sweetheart. You’ll always have me, and you’ll always have Chloe, and Kym, and everyone else who loves you. No matter what happens."

Melia closes her eyes, the tension in her body finally beginning to ease as she lets herself be held. She doesn’t have all the answers, and the memories still scare her, but maybe, just maybe, she can find a way to be both who she was and who she is now. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

They stand there in silence for a while longer, the waves crashing gently against the shore, the scent of salt and sea filling the air. The moon is high above them, casting its glow over the water. Melia finds herself lulled by the rhythm of it—the steady rise and fall, the way the ocean never ceases, just keeps flowing, a constant presence. It reminds her that she, too, can keep moving forward, even if she’s not sure where the path leads.

Sally pulls back slightly, her hands resting on Melia’s shoulders, her gaze searching her daughter’s face. "You know," she says softly, "there’s nothing wrong with taking your time. You don’t have to force the memories to come back. Let them come in their own time. And if some don’t come back at all, that’s okay too. You’re not defined by what you remember, Melia. You’re defined by how you love, by the choices you make, by the person you are every single day."

Melia nods, her throat tightening again, but this time it’s not from fear. It’s from love, from the overwhelming comfort of knowing she is not alone, that she is accepted no matter what. She looks at her mother, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. "I want to remember, but I also want to live in the present. I want to make new memories, with you, with Chloe, with everyone I care about. I don’t want to get lost in what was. I want to be here, now."

Sally’s smile widens, her eyes filled with pride. "Then that’s exactly what you should do," she says, her voice warm. "We’ll take it one day at a time. And you’re right—there are so many new memories waiting to be made. The past is important, but so is what’s ahead of us. And I, for one, am so excited to see all the wonderful things you’ll do, Melia."

Melia feels a swell of emotion, her chest tightening, but this time it’s not fear or uncertainty—it’s hope. It’s the realization that maybe she doesn’t need all the answers right now. Maybe she can just be herself, both the girl she was and the young woman she is becoming, and that will be enough. She takes a deep breath, her gaze drifting back to the ocean, her mother’s hand still resting on her shoulder.

"Do you think it’ll get easier?" she asks quietly, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

Sally nods, her expression thoughtful. "I think it will. Not because the memories will get less confusing, but because you’ll grow stronger. You’re already so strong, Melia. Stronger than you realize. And with time, you’ll find your balance. You’ll find a way to hold both lives without losing yourself. You’ll see."

Melia leans her head against Sally’s shoulder again, the tension in her body slowly melting away. "I hope so," she whispers. "It just feels like a lot sometimes."

"I know it does," Sally murmurs, her voice soft and reassuring. "And it’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to be overwhelmed. You’re not alone in this, Melia. You have all of us, and we’re not going anywhere. No matter what comes, we’ll face it together."

Melia closes her eyes, letting her mother’s words wash over her, letting herself believe them. The fear is still there, but it feels a little smaller, a little less consuming. And in its place, there’s a growing sense of hope—a belief that maybe she really can navigate this, that she can find her way through the confusion and come out stronger on the other side.

For now, with her mother’s arms around her and the sound of the waves in the distance, it feels like it just might be enough. And maybe, just maybe, that’s all she needs.

~~~~

A couple of weeks later, both Melia and Chloe are settling into their new schools. If it weren’t for the occasional monster that Melia hunts down, the weapons practice, the lessons about her powers, or the fragmented memories in her dreams, she might almost believe she was living a normal life. There are moments—brief, delicate things—where she forgets what she is. Sitting in class as the chalk scrapes against the board, laughing with classmates over lunch, or curled up on the couch helping Chloe with her homework. In those moments, she is just a girl, a sister, a student.

But then the illusion fractures. A shadow moves wrong in the hallway, and she has to fight the instinct to reach for a weapon. A flash of a past life catches her off guard, and suddenly, she’s thousands of years away from the school library, standing on the deck of a ship that no longer exists. The two halves of her life tug at her, sometimes colliding, sometimes harmonizing, never truly separate. It’s a balancing act, and she is still learning to walk the tightrope. But truthfully, she wouldn’t change a thing. There’s a strange, chaotic beauty in this life she’s building for herself—one where the mundane and the extraordinary exist side by side, neither diminishing the other.

That weekend, Kym takes Melia and Chloe into the ocean for a swim. The salty air fills their lungs, crisp and invigorating, a reminder of the endless expanse that calls to them. The waves lap eagerly against their feet as they walk down the sandy shore, but the cold water doesn’t bite at their skin like it would for mortals. Instead, it welcomes them home, washing over them in a rush of energy. The temperature barely registers—it’s not just tolerable, it’s perfect, as if the sea itself adjusts to their presence. As the first waves curl around their ankles, their bodies respond instinctively.

Gills unfurl along their necks, opening with a slight shudder before settling, adjusting to the transition. Tiny scales shimmer along their arms and shoulders. The chill of the deeper waters does not numb them—it fuels them, making their skin hum with the life of the ocean, their senses sharpening with each breath of saltwater. Their muscles lighten, their bodies instinctively shifting to accommodate the shift from land to sea, the weightlessness of the ocean a second nature.

They move effortlessly, the ocean parting around them as they slice through its depths, their lungs expanding comfortably with each breath. The surface above them glitters in the sunlight, fractured light dancing across their skin like a thousand tiny stars. Today, they are here for something different—something special. Melia and Chloe are learning how to form a mermaid tail, a gift that most children of the sea possess. Only a few, particularly some of Poseidon's more distant offspring, have struggled with this ability. Melia, however, is determined not to be among them.

They dive deeper, Kym’s laughter a soothing melody as she guides Chloe and Melia through the transformations. Chloe, despite her nerves, picks up the technique quickly. Her mermaid tail shimmers a bright turquoise, the scales catching and scattering the sunlight in dazzling patterns, rippling like waves as she moves. Her gills, now fully open, expand and contract seamlessly as she breathes in the water like air, her body moving with an effortless grace that speaks of pure instinct. She flips her tail experimentally, her eyes widening in delight as she propels herself forward, twirling in a burst of bubbles.

Melia watches her younger sister glide through the water, pride swelling in her chest at Chloe’s success. But as she turns her gaze inward, that pride twists into something sharper—something more complicated. She can feel the transformation tugging at her, the slow crawl of scales rippling across her legs, the sensation of muscle and bone trying to reshape. Her gills flutter uncertainly, expanding in anticipation, but the shift never fully completes. It’s as if her body hesitates at the final moment, as if something deep inside her refuses to cross that invisible threshold. The more she pushes, the more the change resists, an invisible barrier holding her back.

The water around her ripples with her frustration, the currents shifting in response to her unease. Above, the surface begins to darken, faint shadows twisting beneath the waves as storm clouds gather overhead. Her breath quickens, her gills flaring wider as if trying to compensate for the tightness in her chest. She clenches her fists, feeling the surge of power pulsing beneath her skin, wild and unrestrained, yearning for release. She knows Lysianassa could do this. She knows her past self could have slipped into the transformation like breathing, could have let the sea claim her without hesitation. The knowledge gnaws at her, makes her feel trapped between who she was and who she is now, and the weight of that uncertainty is suffocating.

“Melia,” Kym calls out, her voice gentle, almost coaxing. “Relax, let the water guide you. It’s not about forcing the change; it’s about trusting in it.”

Melia closes her eyes, trying to do as Kym says, trying to let go of the frustration clawing at her chest. She feels the power begin to shift inside her, the familiar pull of the ocean, and for a moment, she thinks she’s got it—she can feel the scales beginning to spread, the merging of muscle and bone.

And then, a sudden rush of divine energy cuts through her focus. It’s unlike anything she’s felt before—a presence that carries the scent of roses, salt, and olive oil but also something warm, something ancient.

“This is where you’re hiding them, then, Kym!” a woman’s voice echoes through the water, both amused and knowing.

Melia’s eyes snap open. She turns sharply to face the source of the voice, her body instinctively shifting between Chloe and the newcomer. Her arm moves in front of Chloe in a subtle but unmistakable protective gesture. Chloe presses into Melia’s back, fingers gripping onto her sister’s arm, her small body tensed with uncertainty.

The woman swims toward them effortlessly, her presence commanding. There’s no doubt she’s one of their sisters. She carries an air of nobility that seems almost ingrained in her, her movements fluid yet powerful. At a glance, Melia can tell she’s older than Kym—her long, wavy blonde hair fans behind her, weightless in the water, the strands catching the light like threads of gold. Her eyes are strikingly blue, like the pristine waters of a Grecian shore, though the deeper edges darken, mirroring the rolling sea. Her features are mature, sculpted with the elegance of someone who has known her place in the world for a long time. While Kym has the youthful sharpness of someone in their mid-twenties, this woman carries the ageless grace of someone who has ruled tides long before Melia was even born. Though Melia knows appearances can be deceiving with the gods.

“Rhode, I was going to introduce you properly soon,” Kym says with an exasperated sigh, though the warmth in her eyes betrays her fondness.

“You were taking too long,” Rhode replies, lips curling into a teasing smile. “And with how you spoke about your little kraken here, I couldn’t resist.” Her smirk deepens as she glances at Kym, whose cheeks bloom with a faint golden hue, a blush even visible through her shimmering scales.

Kym huffs, flicking her tail with playful annoyance. “You just love making an entrance,” she mutters, though the lack of true irritation in her voice makes Melia smirk.

Rhode’s attention turns fully to Melia and Chloe, her gaze assessing but not unkind. “So, Melia and Chloe, was it?” she asks, her voice now carrying a softer, more curious tone.

Melia nods, exhaling slightly as Kym doesn’t seem threatened by Rhode’s sudden appearance. “That’s right. And this is Chloe,” she says, her protective posture easing just a fraction. She kicks forward slightly, but something feels different—a sensation that tugs at her awareness. Looking down, her eyes widen in shock. Where once her legs had been, a long, sleek mermaid tail now shimmers in the ocean light. The scales, deep sea-green with veins of silver running through them like moonlight on the water, gleam brilliantly.

A bright laugh bursts from her lips, unbidden and incredulous. “I—I did it!” she exclaims, her eyes flying to Kym, filled with a mix of disbelief and exhilaration.

Kym’s face lights up, her own tail flicking in excitement. “I knew you could,” she says, immediately swimming forward to embrace Melia in a tight, proud hug. “You just needed a distraction.”

Rhode chuckles, her gaze twinkling as she watches the scene unfold. “Well, I’m glad I could be of assistance,” she muses, her voice teasing yet affectionate. Then, she turns her gaze to Chloe, who watches her sister with wide, awestruck eyes, her own tail swishing gently behind her. “And you, little one, you did wonderfully as well.”

Chloe’s cheeks warm with a flush, and she ducks her head shyly. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice quiet but heartfelt.

Rhode smiles warmly, reaching out to gently tilt Chloe’s chin so their eyes meet. “You’re part of this family now, Chloe. Don’t ever doubt that,” she says, her voice filled with an unshakable certainty. “You belong here, with us.”

Chloe’s lips part slightly, and for a brief moment, her eyes glisten with emotion. She glances at Melia, who reaches out without hesitation, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. Chloe swallows hard but smiles, small but genuine. The three sisters—Kym, Melia, and Rhode—exchange a look, something unspoken passing between them. They may have come from different places, different lifetimes even, but here, in the vast embrace of the ocean, they are bound together.

Kym finally pulls away, eyes shimmering with excitement. “Now, how about we put those tails to good use?” she challenges, her smirk playful. “There’s a whole ocean out there, and it’s time you both learned how to truly be a part of it.”

Melia nods, determination and excitement colliding within her. She glances at Chloe, who beams back at her, her wonder evident. Together, they push forward, following Kym and Rhode into the endless blue, their tails propelling them effortlessly through the water.

As they swim, Melia can feel the ocean welcoming her. It’s as if the water knows her, recognizes her presence as one of its own. The currents guide her, cradling her in a way that feels both new and achingly familiar. She feels the power of the sea thrumming through her veins, connecting her to the vastness around her. She turns her head to look at Chloe, who is swimming beside her, her eyes wide with awe as colourful fish dart around them. Chloe’s laughter bubbles up, echoing through the water, and Melia can’t help but smile, her heart swelling with love for her little sister.

Rhode swims ahead of them, her movements effortless and fluid, like she’s always been a part of the ocean. She turns back, her voice carrying through the water. “This ocean is yours too, Melia. Don’t be afraid to claim it. You are a part of the sea itself.”

Melia takes a deep breath, her eyes closing for a moment as she lets Rhode’s words sink in. The fears that have haunted her—the fear of not being enough, of not living up to who she used to be—seem to melt away, replaced by a sense of acceptance. She may not remember everything about her past life, but that doesn’t make her any less deserving of the power she holds now. She opens her eyes, looking out at the endless blue stretching before them, and she feels a sense of belonging, of purpose.

Kym slows down, swimming alongside her, her eyes meeting Melia’s. “You are doing so well,” she says, her voice filled with pride. “It’s not about being perfect, you know. It’s about letting yourself be part of something greater, about letting the sea carry you.”

Melia nods, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She reaches out, taking Kym’s hand, and then Chloe’s. Together, the three of them swim side by side, their tails moving in harmony. The water ripples around them, and for the first time, Melia feels like she truly belongs—not just to the sea, but to this family that she’s found, to the sisters who stand by her side.

In the vastness of the sea, they are not just demigods or children of Poseidon. They are sisters, explorers of a world that is as much theirs as the land above, and for now, that is more than enough. With Rhode leading them forward, the ocean opens up before them, full of possibilities, full of wonder. And for this moment, surrounded by family and the endless blue, Melia knows she is exactly where she’s meant to be.

~~

The night is warm, a gentle breeze drifting through Melia’s bedroom window, carrying with it the scent of salt and olive groves. The rhythmic sound of the waves outside fills her ears as she drifts off to sleep, her eyelids heavy. And then, slowly, the room begins to fade away.

The sea breeze carries the salty scent of the ocean, drifting through the halls of the palace on Ithaca. The courtyard is bustling with soldiers and servants, preparing for the departure of their king. The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a golden glow over everything it touches, as if blessing this day of departure with a cruel, ironic warmth. Melia—no, Lysianassa stands by the palace steps, her heart heavy, her hands trembling slightly at her sides.

She is sixteen, on the cusp of womanhood, but today she feels much younger. The weight of what is about to happen bears down on her like a stone, and she struggles to maintain her composure. Her dark hair is braided, and her dress, a peplos, is a simple one, the hem brushing her ankles as she waits. She tries to be still, but her heart is restless, her eyes darting around the courtyard as if searching for something—or someone—to make this easier.

She spots her father, Odysseus, standing with a group of his men, his armour gleaming in the early morning sun. He looks every bit the hero that the bards sing of, but to Lysianassa, he is just her father—the one who taught her how to sail, who held her hand when she was scared of the dark. And now, he is leaving, and she doesn’t know when—or if—he will come back.

“Lysianassa,” a soft voice calls her name, and she turns to see Melania, her closest friend and confidante, standing by her side. Melania’s eyes are soft with understanding, her hand reaching out to squeeze Lysianassa’s shoulder. “He’ll come back. You know he will.”

Lysianassa forces a smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “He has to,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “He promised.”

Melania nods, her own eyes misting. She is eighteen, two years older than Lysianassa, and yet in this moment, they are both just girls, trying to be strong when all they want to do is cry. “We’ll take care of everything here,” Melania says, her voice steady. “Your mother, Telemachus… they’ll need us.”

Lysianassa nods, her gaze drifting to where her mother, Penelope, stands, holding Telemachus in her arms. The little boy is only a year old, too young to understand what is happening, his chubby hands reaching out for his father, his innocent eyes wide with curiosity. Lysianassa’s heart clenches at the sight, and she takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

Finally, Odysseus turns, his eyes searching the crowd until they find hers. He smiles, a warm, proud smile that makes her chest tighten, as if her heart itself is reaching for him, desperate to hold on. He says something to his men, then strides toward her, every step bringing him closer to the moment she has dreaded for weeks. When he reaches her, he pulls her into a tight embrace, his chin resting on top of her head, the scent of salt and leather wrapping around her like a memory she wants to cling to forever.

"My little sea star," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "I know you’re scared, but you are strong. Stronger than anyone I know."

Lysianassa closes her eyes, pressing her face against the familiar curve of his chest, her fingers digging into the fabric of his cloak as if holding him tightly enough could anchor him here, keep him from slipping away. "I don’t want you to go," she whispers, her voice breaking, the words tumbling out before she can stop them. "What if… what if you don’t come back?"

Odysseus pulls back slightly, tilting her chin up so she is looking into his eyes. They are steady, unwavering, filled with the same warmth that soothed her fears as a child when the sea howled against the cliffs of Ithaca. "I will come back," he says firmly, each word carrying the weight of an unbreakable vow. "No matter how long it takes, I will return to you, to your mother, to Telemachus. I promise you, Lysianassa. You have my word."

She nods, trying to blink back the tears threatening to spill, trying to be the strong daughter of a king, but she feels more like a little girl, standing on the edge of something vast and uncertain. She feels Melania’s presence beside her, a steady, grounding force, and she takes a deep breath. "I’ll take care of things while you’re gone," she says, her voice trembling but resolute. "I’ll help Mother, and I’ll teach Telemachus all the things you would want him to know."

Odysseus smiles, pride shining through the sorrow in his eyes. "That’s my girl," he says, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, as if imprinting the gesture into her very soul. He turns then, to Melania, and nods. "Take care of her. Both of you, look after each other. I’m counting on you."

Melania nods, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "We will, my lord. You have our word."

Odysseus gives them one last look before turning to where Penelope stands, Telemachus held securely in her arms. He takes the boy from her, lifting him effortlessly, his expression softening in a way that makes Lysianassa’s heart ache. She watches, feeling like an outsider in this moment, as her father whispers something to Telemachus, his words too quiet to hear. Then, with a reluctance that mirrors her own, he hands the boy back to Penelope, his hand lingering against her cheek for a heartbeat longer before he steps away.

The soldiers are calling for him, their voices a reminder that time is slipping away, that this moment is ending whether she is ready or not. Odysseus turns, his gaze sweeping over them one final time—Penelope, Telemachus, Melania, and lastly, Lysianassa. He raises a hand in farewell, and then he is moving, striding toward the waiting ship, his men falling into step behind him like shadows.

Lysianassa stands there, her heart a weight in her chest, her hands curled into fists at her sides. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, her eyes locked onto her father until the ship is nothing more than a speck on the horizon. The wind picks up, tugging at her braid, cool against the hot sting of tears she refuses to shed.

Melania steps closer, her presence warm beside her, her hand slipping into Lysianassa’s, fingers intertwining in a silent vow of solidarity. "He will come back," Melania says again, softer this time, as if trying to convince herself as much as Lysianassa.

Lysianassa nods, her gaze still fixed on the endless blue before them. "He has to," she whispers, her voice laced with quiet determination. "I will be here, waiting. When he comes home, I'll be waiting, and I will make him proud."

The sun climbs higher in the sky, the day beginning in earnest, but to Lysianassa, it feels as though something has ended. The world has shifted beneath her feet, and she is standing at the precipice of something unknown. But she stands tall, her hand still gripping Melania’s, her heart steady with the promise she has made to herself.

No matter what comes next, she will be strong. Just as her father asked her to be.

The image of her family becomes a hazy mirage, slipping through her fingers like water. Melia stirs in her sleep, her brow furrowed, her heart aching as she reaches out for the fading memory, her fingers brushing against the air as if trying to hold onto it for just a moment longer.

When she wakes, her eyes are wet, tears slipping down her cheeks. She sits up slowly, the weight of the memory settling heavily in her chest. The love, the warmth of her first life—it’s still there, somewhere deep within her. But now it’s tinged with the pain of knowing what comes next—the war, the loss, the years of longing and waiting and knowing that he took too long.

She wipes her eyes, her heart aching for a family that has long since passed. She draws in a deep breath, her gaze turning towards the ocean outside her window. The moonlight reflects off the water, silver and serene, its rhythmic waves whispering comfort. She listens, feeling the pull of the tide, the way it ebbs and flows like the memories that surface and slip away again.

She may not be able to go back to that time, but she can still honour the promises she made—to protect those she loves, to be strong for them, and to carry the love of her first family into this life, into her new family. The past is woven into her, inseparable, but it does not have to weigh her down. It can be her foundation, the tide that carries her forward instead of pulling her under.

Slowly, Melia rises from her bed, stepping out onto the balcony, the sea breeze brushing against her face. She closes her eyes, letting the wind carry away the lingering sadness, and she whispers softly, her voice carried by the night air, “I will make you proud, Father. I promise,” she speaks in ancient Greek, the words slipping from her lips like a prayer to the sea.

The wind seems to shift, curling around her like an embrace, as if the ocean itself has heard her vow. For a moment, she imagines that somewhere, beyond the horizon, her father hears it too.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XX

~~~~ The Lightning Thief ~~~~

Before Melia knows it, winter break is upon her. She stands in her room, staring at her half-packed suitcase, feeling OL a mix of excitement and trepidation. She glances over at Chloe, who is folding up her favourite sea-green hoodie and placing it into her own bag. Chloe's eyes are practically sparkling, her enthusiasm barely contained as she chatters away about what Atlantis might look like.

“Do you think they have palaces? Like, big ones with coral walls and windows that look out into the ocean?” Chloe asks, her voice brimming with excitement. “Oh, and do you think we'll see dolphins? I hope there are dolphins.”

Melia smiles at Chloe, though the expression feels slightly forced. “I'm sure there will be dolphins,” she answers, her voice a little distant.

Chloe pauses, catching the slight strain in her sister's voice. She looks over at Melia, her brows furrowed in concern. “You okay, Mel?” she asks gently, moving closer.

Melia takes a deep breath, her gaze dropping to the folded clothes in her suitcase. “Yeah, I’m just... trying to wrap my head around all of this,” she admits. “I mean, Atlantis. It’s not exactly the kind of winter break most kids have.” She forces a small laugh, trying to lighten her own mood, but it falls flat.

Chloe tilts her head, watching her sister closely. “Is it about what Aunt Kym said?” she asks, her voice softening.

Melia swallows hard, nodding slowly. She remembers the way Kym had explained it, how the ancient laws of Olympus prevented their divine parents from inviting their children to Atlantis directly. But Melia was different—she was a Princess of Atlantis, not just a demigod. She was more divine than mortal, and as such, some of the rules didn’t apply to her. It was a loophole that allowed Poseidon to extend the invitation to her entire cabin if only Melia and Chloe this time.

But it had hit her harder than she expected. Melia always knew she was different, that she carried more of her parents' divinity compared to most demigods. She had felt it in the way her powers surged, in the way she could call the ocean to her with ease, in the whispers of the sea that never seemed to leave her. She had always felt it—the difference, the otherness. But hearing it said aloud, hearing that she was more divine than human, had shaken her.

“I knew I was different,” Melia says quietly, her fingers tracing the edge of her suitcase. “But hearing it like that... it’s like I’m not even a part of the same world as everyone else. Like I’m more... more god than human. And that’s scary, Chloe. It makes me wonder where I really belong.”

Chloe’s eyes widen slightly, and she moves closer, wrapping her arms around Melia in a tight hug. “You belong here,” Chloe says firmly, her voice muffled slightly against Melia’s shoulder. “You belong with me, and Aunt Sally, and Aunt Kym, and everyone else who loves you. It doesn’t matter if you’re more divine or more mortal. You’re just Melia, and that’s who we love.”

Melia feels her chest tighten, her throat closing up with emotion. She hugs Chloe back, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. “Thank you, Chloe,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I needed that.”

Chloe pulls back, her expression brightening into a smile. “Besides, you’re gonna be the coolest Princess Atlantis has ever seen,” she says, her voice full of conviction. “And I bet all the dolphins will love you.”

Melia laughs, a real laugh this time, and she ruffles Chloe’s hair. “You think so?” she asks, her smile widening.

“I know so,” Chloe nods, her eyes shining.

The sound of a knock at the door interrupts them, and Kym’s voice calls out, “You two ready to go? We don’t want to keep the ocean waiting.”

Chloe lets out an excited squeal, grabbing her bag and rushing towards the door. “Coming, Aunt Kym!” she calls, her voice filled with excitement.

Melia takes a deep breath, closing her suitcase and standing up. She looks around the room for a moment, her gaze lingering on the small reminders of her mortal life—the photos on the nightstand, the books stacked haphazardly on her desk. She feels the pull of both worlds, the human and the divine, and for the first time, she doesn’t feel the need to choose. She can be both. She can belong to both.

She grabs her suitcase, a sense of determination settling in her chest. As she follows Chloe out of the room, she whispers to herself, “Atlantis, here we come.”

The moment they say goodbye to Sally, Kym places her hands on their shoulders and teleports them away, leaving behind nothing but a swirl of water. The sensation is disorienting yet exhilarating—Melia feels herself being pulled through the currents, the familiar world dissolving in a rush of bubbles and sea salt. Then, just as quickly, they reappear, and her breath catches in her throat.

They arrive at the outskirts of Atlantis. Melia blinks as bubbles drift upwards, her mermaid tail instinctively swishing through the water behind her. She feels the weightlessness of the sea embrace her, the gentle current brushing against her scales. To her right, Kym's tail glimmers in shades of silver and green, while Chloe, on her left, is staring wide-eyed at her own shimmering tail, her awe reflecting Melia's own.

Melia takes it all in, her gaze sweeping over the underwater metropolis sprawled before them. If she had thought Olympus was grand, it was nothing compared to the sheer scale of Atlantis.

A magnificent castle dominates the centre of the city—larger, more intricate than any structure she'd seen. Made of blue and silver marble, it rises like a vision, its turrets covered in vibrant coral and swaying seaweed. Massive columns stand tall, encrusted with barnacles and shells, while braziers illuminate the water around them in soft reds and golds, their flickering light like beacons even in the sea.

The surrounding city is a patchwork of buildings and wonders—tall high-rises made from glistening sea-glass reflect the shimmering light. There are grand temples of white marble and smaller apartments carved from rock, their exteriors softened by flowing strands of seaweed. Melia can see expansive gardens and cultivated reefs, rows of colourful coral tended by merfolk. The arena on one side of the city is a massive structure, while across from it, an even larger amphitheatre seems alive with movement.

She catches sight of various sea creatures darting through the streets—sharks, dolphins, even a pod of hippocampi—all moving harmoniously alongside the people of Atlantis. Merfolk, nymphs, and other creatures of the sea fill the pathways, each one going about their day, their forms blending seamlessly with the city’s colours and shapes.

"Welcome to Atlantis," a familiar voice calls warmly.

Melia turns to see Poseidon behind them, a proud smile on his face as he watches their awestruck expressions. His eyes are filled with warmth, the fondness unmistakable. There’s something about the way he looks at them—like he’s genuinely happy to share this part of himself with them.

Poseidon guides them toward the castle, his hand resting gently on Melia’s back to keep her from wandering too far. Kym swims alongside Chloe, making sure she stays close as well. Despite the gentle pressure of Poseidon's hand, Melia's head swivels constantly, her eyes struggling to take in everything at once.

The streets are filled with life—merfolk stop and bow as they pass, their curious eyes following the group. Melia notices how small she feels among the towering columns and the grandeur around her. Even the people of Atlantis seem larger, some twice her height, their forms elegant and imposing.

She catches sight of gardens filled with vibrant colours—flowers she’s never seen before, glowing softly under the water’s embrace. Statues carved from coral and stone stand proudly in various courtyards, each one depicting gods, goddesses, or legendary heroes. Melia wants to pause and study them, but Poseidon keeps her moving, a soft chuckle escaping his lips at her clear fascination.

"Father, everything is so beautiful," Melia whispers, her voice barely audible through her wonder.

Poseidon chuckles again, his voice rumbling like a distant wave. "It is, isn't it? There’s much to see, and you’ll have plenty of time to explore. For now, let me take you to your rooms."

They enter the castle, swimming down long, elaborately decorated hallways. The ceilings are high, adorned with mosaics depicting sea myths, the colours vivid and alive. Melia notices sea nymphs peeking out from doorways, their eyes wide with curiosity, whispering among themselves as the group passes by. She tries to smile at one of them, and the nymph giggles before disappearing behind a column.

They pass through gardens, each one more enchanting than the last—filled with sea anemones that sway gently, their colours glowing softly, and schools of fish darting playfully through the water. In one garden, Melia spots a group of dragonfish, their eyes glowing as they watch her intently from the shadows.

"The guards," Poseidon murmurs to her as they swim past. "To the royal suite. You have nothing to fear from them."

Melia's eyes widen as she stares at the dragonfish. Their forms seem to blend into the darkness, their glowing eyes tracking their every movement. "They're... really cool," she says, awe in her voice.

Poseidon smiles, amused. "They are loyal and fierce protectors. They’ll watch over you."

He continues to lead them deeper into the castle, naming the rooms they pass—his own, Amphitrite’s, Triton’s, Benthesikyme’s, Rhode’s, and Kymopoleia's. Melia listens, trying to commit each name and door to memory, though her mind is still overwhelmed by everything she’s seeing.

Finally, they reach the end of the hallway. Poseidon stops in front of a door, turning to Melia with a smile. "This is your room," he says, his voice softening. He places his hands over her eyes, a playful glint in his gaze. "No peeking."

Melia lets out a small laugh, her heart pounding with excitement. She can feel the door being opened, the water shifting around them, and then Poseidon steps aside, his hands dropping from her eyes.

When she is finally allowed to look, Melia's eyes widen in shock.

Her mum's entire apartment could fit inside—and there would still be space. The room is immense, larger than anything she has ever imagined as her own. To her left, a grand bed dominates the space, a silver canopied structure that seems to have grown from a coral reef, as if the ocean itself had sculpted it for her. The bedposts are made of gnarled and twisted dark wood, each reaching from floor to ceiling, resembling ancient sea trees. The wood branches out near the headboard, forming two nightstands, each adorned with their own clamshell lights that give off a soft, pearly glow.

Across the room, up three wide steps, is an office area. A desk and chair made of the same dark, ocean-worn wood as the bed sit in front of large glass doors that lead out to a balcony. The light from the ocean filters in through the glass, casting wavy reflections across the room. Two towering bookshelves frame the window, already filled with books of varying sizes—some with worn leather bindings, others covered in shimmering materials that make them seem alive in the soft underwater light. Plush rugs of seafoam green and deep blue are scattered around the room, adding to the warmth of the space.

In the corner closest to the door, next to the office, is a loft. The loft forms an air pocket, creating a cosy conversation pit filled with pillows and blankets in soft pastels and ocean hues. Underneath the loft is what looks like her own personal pearl farm—oysters arranged neatly in beds of sand, their soft glow giving the area an ethereal light. Melia can't help but stare at the soft shimmer of the pearls, her fingers itching to reach out and touch them.

Opposite the main door, two single doors lead to different areas. The door on the right reveals a closet already filled to the brim with clothing. Melia can see garments of all types—some shimmering with scales, others in flowing fabrics that seem to ripple like water when touched. The door on the left leads to a bathroom, the countertops made of dark blue marble, the sink resembling a large shell. In the centre, a huge tub sits half-sunken into the floor, its shape reminiscent of a tide pool, with bits of coral decorating its edges.

"Did the phrase, 'too luxurious,' cross your mind even once while building this?" Melia mutters, her eyes wide as she takes it all in. The grandeur is overwhelming, the sheer size of it all—it is lovely, certainly, but so much more than she had imagined. The scale of it makes her nervous.

Poseidon blinks at her reaction, a strangely pleased smile spreading across his face. He looks like he is preening, as if her awe is exactly what he had hoped for.

"Trust me," another voice chimes in, full of warmth and humour. Amphitrite swims in gracefully, her presence immediately calming. She smiles knowingly. "This was him holding back."

"Holding back how?" Melia sputters, her eyes widening as she turns to look between Poseidon and Amphitrite.

Poseidon's expression shifts, and he almost looks like he's pouting now, his proud demeanour faltering. "It needs more decoration," he mumbles, sounding almost petulant. "More furniture and fabrics and pearls and—"

"I think I'm good," Melia squeaks quickly, her hands coming up defensively.

Amphitrite laughs, a gentle, melodic sound that seems to ease the tension in the room. She swims closer, her hand running soothingly down Poseidon's arm, her gaze warm and affectionate. Poseidon huffs, clearly put out, but he doesn’t argue further, though there is a slight sulkiness to his posture.

Chloe is equally stunned. Her eyes are wide with wonder as she tries to take in everything at once before her attention is caught by something else.

Chloe swims over to be in front of a large woven tapestry that hangs on the far wall, depicting a view out across the seas from atop a cliff, a single olive tree standing proudly with asphodels blooming at its base. The colours are rich—the deep blues of the ocean meeting the pale blue sky, the green of the olive tree, the delicate white of the flowers.

"Did you make this, Lady Amphitrite?" Chloe asks, her voice filled with awe as her fingers hover just above the fabric, careful not to touch.

Melia swims closer, her scaled hand reaching out toward the tapestry as a strange feeling begins to swell within her. Memories and emotions rush forward, overwhelming her senses, the image before her stirring something deep inside.

"No," Amphitrite says softly, her voice almost a whisper. She moves closer, resting a gentle hand on Melia’s back. "It was a gift from Lysianassa. She wove it with Penelope after she was gifted Maelstrom."

Melia's breath catches, her hand brushing the edge of the tapestry as the memories crash over her like a wave. "I... I remember weaving this," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. Her eyes glisten as she traces the outline of the flowers. "It took me so long to get it right. It was always missing something until Melania suggested the flowers." Her voice trembles as the memory of her past self, of Penelope’s patient guidance, of Melania’s laughter, fills her mind.

Amphitrite’s hand remains steady on her back, her touch grounding Melia as she struggles to hold onto the memory without losing herself in it completely. "It is one of my most treasured belongings," Amphitrite admits, her voice gentle, her gaze on the tapestry filled with nostalgia. "Kymopoleia told me you were remembering more bits and pieces, so I thought a few tangible things might help."

She pauses, her own voice laced with a hint of uncertainty, her tail flicking slightly in the water. "We have never had someone remember the way you are before. Usually, it is just dreams that can be dismissed as demigod visions or mere déjà vu. But you—you are different."

Melia doesn’t know what to say. Her emotions are a tangled mess—gratitude, confusion, fear, and a strange kind of sorrow all swirling within her. She turns to look at Amphitrite, her eyes shimmering. "Thank you," she manages to whisper. "For keeping it. For... for bringing it here."

Amphitrite smiles, her eyes softening as she cups Melia's cheek. "You will always have a place here, my dear. No matter what happens, no matter how much you remember or forget, you will always be part of this family. If you want, I can show you other things we have kept from your past lives"

Melia swallows thickly, her chest tightening with emotions she can barely name. She nods, her eyes glancing back at the tapestry, feeling the weight of her past and present converging in this one room. It’s overwhelming, but it’s also... comforting, in a way. A reminder that she is not alone, that she carries pieces of her past with her, but that they do not define her entirely.

“I think I would like that…wait, lives? As in plural?” Melia asks, her brow furrowed, her voice trailing off as she glances between her divine family. The sudden realisation that there might be even more to her than she imagined sends a small thrill of anticipation through her, mixed with a tinge of apprehension.

Amphitrite nods gently, her gaze softening as she takes in Melia’s bewildered expression. “Did they not tell you?” she asks, her eyes flicking over to Poseidon and Kymopoleia, her tone carrying a gentle hint of reproach. “I understand why they might not have, though. It’s a complicated matter, and the gods are forbidden from speaking about certain things.”

Melia glances back at Chloe, now intently watching her, her curiosity palpable. There’s a moment of silence, a pause where she feels as though the air itself is suspended, waiting for the next word.

“Can you tell me, then?” Melia asks, her voice just above a whisper, as if she’s afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter the delicate balance of the moment. Chloe swims to be against Melia’s side, Melia’s arm hooking around her shoulders.

Amphitrite’s smile is warm but touched with melancholy. She looks at Melia, truly looks at her, as if seeing someone who isn’t entirely there yet. “Your second life was much more recent,” she begins, her voice smooth and almost lyrical, each word floating through the water with an air of nostalgia. “You were alive in the early 1700s. The Golden Age of Piracy, I believe mortals call it now.”

Melia blinks, her eyes widening as something shifts inside her, like the turning of a key in a long-forgotten lock. Suddenly, she’s not in Atlantis anymore. Instead, the world blurs and changes around her, and she’s standing on the deck of a ship, feeling the salted wind whip at her face. Memories flood her senses—the taste of the salty sea spray on her lips, the unyielding pitch of the ship beneath her feet as it slices through storm-churned waves, the thrill of the vast unknown stretched out before her.

She remembers standing at the helm, her hands gripping the wheel as a storm looms on the horizon, lightning dancing across darkened skies, and beside her—a woman. The woman is radiant, her black hair swept up by the wind, her vivid violet eyes filled with mischief and determination. Melia’s chest tightens with a sense of deep, profound love. She knows this woman—Melania. Though that should be impossible she was someone she knew in her first life, not her second. She remembers the way Melania would stand beside her, one hand on her shoulder, pointing towards the horizon with excitement in her eyes as she whispered promises of freedom and new adventures.

“I remember…” Melia whispers, her voice shaky as she pulls herself out of the half-dream, half-memory that envelops her. She blinks, her vision clearing as she meets Amphitrite’s gaze, which is filled with understanding and compassion. Her cabin mates watch her, their eyes wide and filled with awe. “I remember the ship, the storms… and Melania?” she continues, her voice thick with emotion. “We sailed together, didn’t we?”

Amphitrite nods, her smile deepening. “Yes, my dear. You both found each other again in that life. You sailed across the seas, daring to go where few others would. The two of you were inseparable. And you, Lysianassa—” She pauses, correcting herself, “—Melia—became quite the legend in your own right.”

Melia swallows hard, her heart pounding. The thrill of battle rushes through her—the deafening roar of cannons, the crackle of musket fire, the clash of blades. She remembers laughter amidst the chaos, Melania’s laughter, a beacon in the storm. She remembers the smell of smoke and gunpowder, and the golden glint of a standard—an eagle emblazoned on it, a symbol of something she cannot fully recall but feels in her bones.

“There was something about an eagle as well,” Melia says, her hand moving to rub at her forearm, her fingers tracing the phantom sensation as if something should be there, something missing but ever present. A mark, perhaps—a symbol, like a ghost imprinted on her skin. It feels almost as though an energy lies dormant beneath the surface, something connected to that memory, just out of reach.

Amphitrite hesitates, her eyes flickering with a strange mixture of caution and sympathy. She seems to need to gather herself, concentrating as if she’s pushing against some unseen barrier. “There was,” she finally says, her voice quieter, as if the words themselves are heavy with significance. “But that is one of those things we cannot speak about. It is… forbidden. Even for me.” Her gaze holds Melia’s, conveying an unspoken apology.

Melia’s heart sinks slightly, her curiosity burning hotter now that she knows there are limits, boundaries she’s not yet allowed to cross. The phantom sensation on her forearm doesn’t fade, the mystery of it gnawing at her. She clenches her jaw, nodding, though a flicker of frustration shows in her eyes. “I understand… I think,” she says softly, her voice edged with both resignation and determination. “I guess there’s still a lot I have to uncover on my own.”

“It’s overwhelming,” Melia admits after a moment, her gaze dropping to where her mermaid tail floats gently in the water. “It’s incredible, but it’s also… a lot to take in. I’m not just remembering who I was—I’m remembering a love, a life I lived, and it’s… beautiful, but it’s also sad. Because it’s gone now. And I’m here, and she’s…”

“You’re here now,” Amphitrite interjects, her voice gentle but insistent. She moves closer, her eyes meeting Melia’s, filled with a fierce kind of love. “And your story isn’t over, my sea star. The love you shared, the life you had—it shaped you. It’s part of you, but it doesn’t define everything you are. You have a new life now. New people who love you, and a chance to continue your story however you choose.”

Chloe, who has been listening quietly, swims forward, her small hands reaching out to touch Melia’s arm. “I think it’s cool,” she says earnestly, her wide eyes looking up at Melia. “You’re like… a real-life hero from one of those old stories. And you’re my sister now. That’s the best part.”

Melia’s heart swells, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She reaches out, pulling Chloe into a gentle hug, holding her close. “Thanks, Chloe,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. She turns her gaze back to Amphitrite, Poseidon, and Kym, a determined light in her eyes. “I think… I think I’m ready to learn more. To remember. But I also want to keep moving forward.”

Amphitrite smiles, her eyes shimmering with pride. “And that is all we could ever ask for, my dear. Come now,” she says, interlocking her and Poseidon’s arms together, “it is time for an early dinner. We wish to introduce you to your other siblings, they have been annoying Kym for monopolising your time.”

Poseidon leads them through long hallways and arched doorways, down twisting corridors, until they reach a smaller, more intimate dining room set off from one of the palace gardens.

Two figures are already waiting there—one of them easily ten feet tall, her presence commanding even in the cosy setting. Poseidon gestures to her. "This is Benthesikyme."

Benthesikyme looks regal, her dark green eyes devoid of pupils, like rushing water that could sweep you away at any moment. Her gaze lands on Melia, and her full lips twist into a smile that exudes both warmth and mischief—a smile that, for an instant, reminds Melia of the playfulness in Poseidon's eyes when he'd thrown her into the pool that first time.

She wears her hair in a wavy bob, adorned with pink highlights that catch the light. Her dress is long, a white off-the-shoulder with a beautiful geometric green and yellow shawl draped elegantly over her shoulders. The gold jewellery adorning her neck, wrists, and ears gleam as though made from sunlight itself. She smells faintly of coffee, salt, and something almost leathery—an unexpected and intriguing scent.

"And this," Poseidon continues, "is Rhode." He seems completely unaware that Melia and Chloe have already met her.

Rhode smiles, her warm eyes meeting Melia's. Her attire is similarly striking—a soft blue chiton paired with an orange himation, the edges embroidered with delicate wave-like patterns. A gold chain encircles her forehead, crowned by a sun emblem that seems to shimmer with an inner glow. Even the smallest tilt of her lips transforms her whole face, illuminating it from within.

"Look at them!" Benthesikyme coos, her voice deep and touched with an accent that makes it seem almost musical. "You didn’t say they were this adorable," she says, turning to Kym with a teasing smile.

Kym gives her sister a half-hearted glare, her scales tinting her blush slightly. Rhode’s smile widens at this, her eyes sparkling with mirth as she adds, "She's mostly teasing. The truth is, neither Kym nor our parents have been able to stop talking about you and your friends since meeting you." Her voice is soft, carrying a gentleness that immediately puts Melia at ease.

"I’m not sure that’s any better," Melia says dryly, managing to draw a genuine laugh from Rhode—a sound that reminds her almost of dolphins chittering, playful and joyful.

Poseidon takes the head of the table, Amphitrite leading Melia to the second seat on his right, across from Benthesikyme. Chloe takes the seat to Melia's right, directly across from Rhode, and Amphitrite settles beside Benthesikyme. The empty chair between Poseidon and Melia catches her eye, and she notices the fleeting shadow that darkens Poseidon’s gaze as he looks at it.

It’s a small moment, one that quickly passes as Benthesikyme launches into questions about Melia’s experiences at camp. The questions come rapid-fire, but her genuine interest makes it impossible for Melia not to be swept up in the conversation. Before long, everyone at the table is engaged—sharing stories, laughing, teasing. The room is filled with warmth, and Melia feels herself relaxing, letting the current carry her along.

Midway through the meal, the doors open, and the room falls silent. A merman enters, easily ten feet tall, and Melia feels the sudden shift in atmosphere like a ripple through the water. The tension is immediate.

"Triton," Poseidon’s voice rumbles, his displeasure obvious, his eyes darkening.

"Father," Triton says, inclining his head stiffly. "Mother, Benthesikyme, Rhode, Kymopoleia." His gaze flicks over Melia and Chloe, and Poseidon lets out a low growl, the sound vibrating through the water.

Amphitrite’s eyes narrow, sharp and assessing. Rhode sighs. The water around them begins to shimmer with heat—a clear sign of Poseidon's growing irritation.

"Father," Melia speaks up, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife, her eyes blazing with indignation—directed not only at Triton but at Poseidon, too, for letting it get this far. She catches a glimpse of Chloe beside her, her little sister’s wide eyes filled with worry. "You were going to tell me about the plans for tomorrow."

Poseidon tears his gaze away from Triton, his jaw tightening as he looks at Melia. There’s a brief silence, and then Amphitrite steps in, her voice soothing yet firm. "Yes. Since I will be the one giving the tour, I’d like to know what places you wish for them to see—given how little time they have here." Her hand rests on Poseidon’s arm, her touch grounding him. Slowly, the boiling water around them eases, the tension in the room gradually ebbing away.

Melia glances toward Triton, noticing the mixture of emotions that seem like sadness and wariness that flickers briefly in his eyes before it vanishes, his face settling back into a cold, blank mask. He swims forward, taking the empty seat between Poseidon and Melia, his presence heavy and imposing.

Melia eyes him curiously as he settles in, trying to read the man who is supposed to be her brother. His skin is a deep, shimmering green, adorned with intricate golden-edged scales that run along his arms and sides. Two powerful emerald tails move beneath him, their presence commanding, almost predatory. Wicked-looking yellow spines line his back, giving him a dangerous air. The conch horn hanging from his waist catches Melia’s attention—an elaborate instrument, intricate and regal. His black hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, a golden crown with an aquamarine gemstone perched on his head, glinting in the ambient light. There’s something proud—almost arrogant—in the set of his features, an expression that seems etched into his face.

And despite the saltwater that surrounds them all, Melia catches a distinct, almost overpowering scent of salt and sulfur wafting from Triton—a sharp tang that makes her nose twitch.

She can feel the unease in her chest—the instinctual recognition that there’s tension here that runs deep, beyond anything she can understand. But despite that, she sits taller, keeping her gaze steady, even as her stomach twists.

Benthesikyme, ever the one to break the silence, shifts her attention back to Melia, pointedly ignoring Triton. She resumes her questions, her tone light and cheerful, pulling Melia back into the conversation. Melia forces herself to respond, pushing aside the anxiety gnawing at her, the sense of something unsaid hanging in the water.

Rhode’s gaze meets Melia’s briefly, and there’s something in her eyes—a soft sort of apology. Rhode’s presence feels like a balm, and when she smiles at Melia, Melia finds herself relaxing again, if only slightly.

The conversation around the table resumes, although an undercurrent of tension remains, woven into every word exchanged. Triton says nothing, his silence heavy, his gaze cold. But Melia keeps her head held high, refusing to be cowed by his presence. She has fought monsters, ventured to the underworld, sailed through storms in her past lives—a surly brother won’t intimidate her.

The next day, while getting ready to head out into the city, there is a knock at the door. Melia swims over, opening it to be met with the sight of a woman around Rhode’s height, with reddish-brown hair and tanned skin. Spiral shells are braided into her hair, and her earrings match, spiralling delicately. Her eyes are like the clear water closest to the beach—bright, calming, yet carrying depth and mystery.

She wears a short necklace of marbles, and her dress appears to be made of sand, with intricate, darker patterns that depict shells, crabs, and seals. She smells like a beach on a warm day mixed with the sweetness of a fruity drink, a scent that instantly evokes nostalgia and relaxation.

“I... I am Psamathe,” she introduces herself, her hands fidgeting slightly, her gaze hesitant yet hopeful.

“Chloe’s mum,” Melia says, her voice tense, her eyes narrowing slightly as a surge of protectiveness for Chloe rises within her.

“Yes,” Psamathe says, her voice softening. “I was hoping to be able to show her around the city while the Queen shows you around,” she explains, glancing at Melia with an apologetic smile. “And to thank you for opening up your cabin and home to her. I tried to help her, but my power was limited. I want her to know... to know that she still has a place with me, if she'll have it.”

Melia studies her for a moment, her eyes searching Psamathe’s expression. She sees the vulnerability there—the genuine hope and fear that Chloe might reject her, and the deep love that clearly fuels her intentions. After a moment, Melia nods, her voice softening. “It’s up to Chloe,” she says, moving aside and gesturing for Psamathe to enter. “Come in.”

Psamathe steps inside, her gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the details—Chloe's belongings scattered about, evidence of the little life she had built with Melia. The moment Chloe sees her mother, her face lights up with pure joy, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Without hesitation, Chloe rushes over, throwing her arms around Psamathe. The two of them share a quiet moment, Psamathe’s arms wrapping tightly around her daughter, her eyes closing as she whispers something Melia can’t hear.

It doesn't take much for Chloe to eagerly agree to spend time with her mother, her enthusiasm evident as she hugs Melia tightly before swimming off with Psamathe. Melia watches them go, a soft sigh escaping her lips. She knows this is good for Chloe—to have a chance to connect with her mother. But a part of her can’t shake the small twinge of anxiety, a quiet whisper of worry.

Amphitrite arrives shortly after, her gentle smile full of reassurance as she takes Melia's hand. “Come, little one,” she says warmly, her voice filled with a quiet strength that Melia finds herself leaning into. “Today, it’s just us. There are so many places I’d like to share with you.”

They swim out into the city together, Amphitrite leading Melia through a labyrinth of streets and corridors, each one seemingly more vibrant than the last. They visit a small café tucked away beyond the palace grounds—a cosy place with colourful coral tables and cups made of polished shells, where the owner greets Amphitrite with a warmth that surprises Melia. They stop at a music stand in one of the bustling squares, where an Atlantean musician plays a shimmering underwater harp, its strings glowing with iridescent light. Amphitrite introduces Melia to the vendor, and they exchange smiles, the familiarity between Amphitrite and the people around her palpable.

As they move through the city, Melia becomes acutely aware of how Atlanteans regard them. Their eyes widen at the sight of Amphitrite, and they offer respectful nods or bows from a distance, but no one dares approach. They stay back, watching with a mixture of awe and something akin to reverence. It leaves Melia puzzled, her brow furrowing as she glances toward Amphitrite.

“Do not worry,” Amphitrite says, her voice gentle as her fingers brush through Melia's hair, readjusting the delicate circlet she had placed on her head that morning. The circlet features a central pearl, modest in size, with tiny blooming flowers around it, the band forming a gentle wave that frames Melia's dark hair. It is a simple adornment, yet its significance is immense.

“Your day-to-day crown,” Amphitrite had explained with a soft smile.

“They keep their distance due to me, not you,” Amphitrite adds, sensing Melia’s unease.

Melia frowns slightly, glancing back at the people they pass, their respectful distance remaining unbroken. “But... they seem to love you,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with confusion. “Why would they avoid coming closer?”

Amphitrite’s lips press together for a moment, a faint blue flush colouring her cheeks. “It is... not unusual for a situation like this,” she says, her voice thoughtful. “You are a new child, Melia. Atlantean instincts demand that a child stays close to their caretakers until they are old enough to smell like an individual—independent from the family unit. Until that happens, encroaching upon the space of the family is seen as deeply disrespectful.”

Melia blinks, her expression softening as she processes this new information. The hovering, the distance—it all makes sense now. She looks up at Amphitrite, feeling an unexpected warmth bloom in her chest.

They continue to the outskirts of the city, to the edge of sprawling fields that shimmer in the underwater light. Here, Amphitrite brings her to the pearl harvest—rows of mussels cultivated with the utmost care. Amphitrite's excitement is infectious as she shows Melia how the pearls are formed and harvested, her eyes lighting up with joy as she explains the process.

“These pearls are unique,” Amphitrite says, holding one up, the light catching its iridescent surface. “They are the ocean's gift—treasures that come from time, care, and patience.” She smiles, her eyes softening as she looks at Melia. “They remind me of you, little pearl.”

Amphitrite gathers a few pearls, and with a flick of her fingers, she spins the water around them, weaving a delicate veil. The silvery-white fabric shimmers with the pearls glistening like dew on a spiderweb. She places the veil on Melia’s head, attaching it to the back of her circlet, her expression proud.

“They suit you well,” Amphitrite murmurs, her eyes shining with warmth. “You are beautiful, little pearl.”

Melia pouts slightly, her cheeks flushing as she glances at her reflection in a nearby window. She can't deny it—the veil does look beautiful. “Can you teach me how to do that?” she asks, deciding not to argue with Amphitrite. She has a feeling that arguing with the sea about gifts is a losing battle. “Or at least... re-teach me?”

Amphitrite blinks in surprise, her eyes widening before they soften with delight. “You would like to learn to weave from me?” she asks, her voice touched with emotion.

“Yes,” Melia replies, glancing back out at the city. The lights are beginning to dim as the day winds down, the townspeople retreating to their homes and families. “Although, I suppose there isn’t enough time now.”

“No,” Amphitrite agrees, her gaze thoughtful. “But I would love to teach you, truly. Benthesikyme and Kymopoleia have never enjoyed weaving, so it is usually only Rhode who joins me at the loom.”

Melia smiles, warmth spreading through her chest at the thought of sitting beside Amphitrite, weaving. “Oh? Has Triton not tried his hand at weaving?” she asks, teasing.

Amphitrite's eyes twinkle with amusement, her lips curving into a conspiratorial smile. She leans in closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “Triton cannot weave to save his life,” she whispers, her tone filled with playful mischief.

Melia bursts into laughter, her voice rippling through the water, light and joyful. It feels good—sharing this moment, free from the burdens of her past and the responsibilities weighing her down.

“But come now,” Amphitrite says, her own smile softening as she reaches for Melia’s hand. “Let us return to the palace. Tomorrow, we will explore the castle in its entirety.”

Later, Melia is woken by Chloe, her small hands shaking her gently awake. The two of them spend the early morning exploring Melia’s room, uncovering little quirks in the walls—patterns and indentations that hint at secret passageways they can’t access yet. They give up eventually, turning their attention to the hallway beyond, and then the garden.

The garden is vast, filled with vibrant coral of every colour, their branches twisting in intricate patterns. Schools of fish dart between the coral, their scales catching the soft morning light filtering down from above. It is here that Amphitrite finds them, hidden deep within the coral reef, their laughter echoing softly through the water.

“Come now, little ones,” Amphitrite says warmly, her voice like a gentle current nudging them forward. “You must eat before we begin our tour.”

Chloe eagerly swims off to join Psamathe for the day, her excitement palpable as she waves goodbye. Melia remains by Amphitrite’s side, curiosity bubbling inside her as they head deeper into the palace.

Somehow, the palace feels even larger than the city itself. Melia is sure they must have seen everything after crossing the last walkway, only for Amphitrite to lead her back to the main hall and through a doorway she hadn’t even noticed before. They swim down... and down... and down... until they reach an underground section that feels like an entirely different castle waiting to be discovered.

Amphitrite laughs softly at the expression of disbelief on Melia's face, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

“This is where we hold familial court matters,” she explains, her voice carrying a touch of pride as she gestures to the vast room they’ve entered. The space is enormous, with intricate mosaics covering the floors and walls—depictions of ancient battles, mythical sea creatures, and the rise of Atlantis. “This part of the palace is also where those who cannot fight will convene for safety, should the need ever arise.”

Melia’s gaze sweeps over the room, her eyes widening as they take in the grandeur. Two thrones sit on the far side, carved from blue-grey stone, their plush blue seating beckoning her with an odd sense of familiarity. A third, slightly smaller throne sits beside the largest, while four others are placed beside Amphitrite’s.

“When you were born again, we brought your throne back out,” Amphitrite says, her voice gentle as they swim toward it, her hand resting on Melia’s shoulder.

Melia trails her fingers over the armrest of the throne, feeling a hum of energy beneath her fingertips. The cushions are adorned with images of pearls, sharks, dolphins, and asphodels, each stitch meticulous. The throne feels... familiar, almost like an extension of herself, and it stirs something deep within her—a memory she can’t quite grasp.

“I didn’t realise I had a throne,” Melia whispers, her voice filled with awe and disbelief.

Amphitrite smiles, her hand brushing tenderly through Melia’s hair. “You are a Princess of Atlantis, Melia. It is only right that you have a place here—a place that is entirely yours.”

“But... I’m mortal,” Melia says softly, her voice trembling, her gaze dropping. The unsaid meaning hangs between them—she has already died twice. What does it mean to have a throne when mortality looms over her?

“Well...” Amphitrite's gaze softens, her eyes filled with a deep affection. She reaches out, cupping Melia's cheek, her thumb brushing lightly against her skin. “Yes, you are mortal, but that does not make you any less deserving. This is your home, my dear, and it will always be your home, no matter what. Mortal or not, you have a place here.”

Melia looks up at her, Amphitrite’s eyes filled with warmth and certainty. The weight of her past lives still lingers heavily within her, but in this moment, standing here beside Amphitrite, she feels a sense of belonging that she hadn’t allowed herself to believe in. She is not just an outsider, not just someone passing through—she has roots here, a connection that runs deep.

Perhaps, she thinks, as her gaze sweeps over the throne that is hers, one day she will grow into it. One day, she will feel worthy of it. And until then, she will keep moving forward—step by step, mystery by mystery, until she finds all the pieces of herself that she has lost.

The next day, Melia finds out she is to be introduced to a select portion of her father's court, and suddenly, nerves hit her fully, along with vague memories of being introduced officially to Odysseus’s court. The comparison makes her chest tighten—a distant familiarity mixed with the realisation that this was different, but no less significant.

The first few hours of the morning are spent scrambling to find something appropriate for her and Chloe to wear, as Chloe will be joining her for the introduction as her retainer. The preparation becomes a flurry of hurried decisions and second guesses, Melia constantly glancing at herself in the mirror, feeling the weight of expectation and the unfamiliar yet ancient customs. The sense of history behind every piece of clothing, every accessory, adds to the gravity of the occasion. She wonders if she looks regal enough, if she can live up to the title bestowed upon her.

Finally, she is dressed in a white chiton that flows gracefully around her, the fabric light and elegant. Over it, she wears a long sea-green himation, embroidered with intricate waves that shimmer subtly with every movement. The himation wraps around her neck like a scarf before draping down her back, adding a sense of regal presence. A leather belt, carved with wave-like patterns, is wrapped around her waist, drawing the chiton in to accentuate her form. With delicate hands, Amphitrite places the crown onto her head, being careful not to tangle the tiny pearls woven into her hair. The crown itself feels both heavy and reassuring, like a reminder of her connection to the sea and her divine heritage.

Chloe wears a similar ensemble, her chiton flowing around her like seafoam, soft and comforting. Her himation is embroidered with small shells and crabs, the edges lined with the warm colour of sandy beaches. She fidgets slightly, her excitement visible despite the nerves in her eyes. Melia notices her fingers brushing over the embroidery on her belt, a gesture she remembers seeing herself do as Lysianassa, a way to ground herself, and realises she has been doing it as well. The connection between her past and present selves feels almost tangible, a thread weaving through her life that gives her strength.

Once dressed, the two of them are guided to a small waiting room in the castle. Inside, Poseidon is already standing, talking quietly with Amphitrite. Their voices are hushed, but Melia catches glimpses of his tone—warm, almost affectionate, like he is trying to soothe Amphitrite’s worries. It strikes her how human they seem in this moment—just parents, concerned for their child.

Poseidon looks magnificent, dressed in a deep blue chiton that mimics the colour of the ocean depths, with white waves swirling along the edges. Over it, he wears a sea-green himation, embroidered with threads of silver and white. The three-point crown rests atop his head, adorned with shells and pearls that catch the light, shimmering like the surface of the sea. He looks every bit the god of the oceans—proud, imposing, and utterly in his element.

Amphitrite, on the other hand, is the image of elegant grace. Her dress is a deep blue, almost navy, and the delicate pearl shawl draped over her shoulders gives her an ethereal glow. Her crown is a work of art, with three points interlaid with aquamarine stones and shells that match her eyes, and she wears silver cuffs on both wrists—beautiful yet unassuming. There is a sense of quiet power about her, an aura that commands respect without needing to demand it.

Upon their entry, Amphitrite approaches Melia, bending down to adjust the circlet on her head, her gaze searching Melia's face. There is warmth in her eyes, and a hint of nervousness that she tries to hide.

“If at any point,” Amphitrite says quietly, her fingers gently readjusting Melia's circlet, ensuring it sits perfectly, “you want to leave, just signal to one of us. I believe Kymopoleia taught you the sound the young make to catch their caretaker’s attention.”

Melia nods, then makes the noise, a soft click-whine, in response. It’s a sound that comes from deep within her throat, something primal and almost musical, resonating through the water. The sound seems to carry an instinctual weight, like a call that reaches beyond words.

Poseidon stiffens, his head tilting slightly, and even Amphitrite's eyes flutter as she recollects herself. The reaction is immediate, instinctual, and Melia feels a pang of realisation—this sound, this call, is something deeply ingrained in their very beings. It makes her feel both powerful and vulnerable at the same time—powerful because she can evoke such a response, and vulnerable because of the deep, almost childlike need it implies.

“Emergencies,” Amphitrite emphasises, tapping Melia’s nose gently, her expression serious despite the slight curve of her lips. “Only for emergencies, little pearl.”

“Sorry,” Melia says sheepishly, her cheeks warming. Kym had warned her about the strength of the noise, but she hadn’t quite believed it until now.

Kym had tried to explain that her caretakers would instinctively recognise the sound from her, even though she was mortal-born. How others wouldn't be affected the same way, she didn’t know—instinct, Kym had said. It made a strange sort of sense, the kind that Melia could accept without fully understanding, though she could already imagine Annabeth’s frustration at such an answer. It was a comforting mystery, one that made her feel more connected to her divine family, even if she couldn't fully explain it.

Poseidon chuckles, his expression softening, and he steps forward to offer his arm. He uses his other hand to gently draw Chloe to his side, his presence a comforting anchor for both of them. “You will be fine,” he says warmly, his eyes twinkling with a mix of pride and mischief. “You have already managed to endear yourself to some of the pantheon. I have no doubt you will do so here as well.”

Melia arches a brow, her lips twitching upward. “No one’s told me exactly who I’m meeting,” she says, her voice laced with a hint of dry humour as she tries to hide her nervousness. Chloe fidgets next to her, her small hand resting against Melia’s arm, and Melia places her hand over Chloe’s, squeezing gently in reassurance.

Poseidon doesn’t answer, though Amphitrite gives him a look that could burn through stone. Before either can say more, the doors open, and they are ushered forward.

“Melia,” Poseidon says, his voice resonating through the water, “welcome to my Court.”

The room they enter is grand but surprisingly intimate, the walls adorned with intricate mosaics depicting scenes of the ocean—the tides, sea creatures, ancient battles fought beneath the waves. Melia’s eyes widen as she takes it all in, and she feels Chloe press closer to her, her young eyes wide with wonder. The mosaics seem almost alive, the light refracting through the water creating the illusion of movement. Fish swim across the walls, and the waves seem to crash and recede, telling stories of the past.

Court, Poseidon had said it so casually, like it wasn’t a room full of the most important deities that called the sea their home. Melia glances up at Amphitrite, who’s already donned her mask of regal composure, and she can’t help but think that the Queen would have a few choice words for Poseidon once they were done. A gleam of exasperation shines in her eyes, but she smooths her expression as they step further inside.

“This is my daughter,” Poseidon announces, his voice carrying authority and pride, “Princess Melia Lysianassa Jackson.”

He looks so proud of himself, Melia finds herself wondering if she could manage a food sacrifice underwater. She remembers how Kym had tossed a grape at him before; perhaps another one might knock some sense into him now. The thought makes her lips twitch, a half-smile forming as she turns to face the room.

She takes a deep breath, then offers a formal greeting—a bow from the waist, her arms sweeping out gracefully, allowing her instincts to guide her. The memories of Ithaca are there, hazy but present, enough to remind her how to carry herself with the poise expected of a princess. She lets herself slip into that role, drawing on the echoes of her past life, her chin held high, her gaze steady.

One by one, Poseidon introduces her to the prominent members of his court. Each one is more striking than the last—deities with skin like coral, hair like seaweed, and eyes that shimmered like the ocean depths. They regard her with curiosity, some with warmth, others with a reserved kind of politeness. Chloe stays close by her side, her awe-filled gaze darting around the room, her presence a steadying comfort.

Rhode is the first to step forward, her smile gentle and her eyes sparkling with warmth. She reaches out to touch Melia’s arm, a soft greeting that speaks of acceptance. “Welcome, dear sister,” she says, her voice like the soothing rush of waves on the shore. There is a kindness in her eyes, a genuine warmth that makes Melia's tension ease just a bit.

Benthesikyme follows, her towering figure imposing yet her expression soft as she bends slightly to meet Melia’s eyes. She speaks few words, but there is something in her gaze—a sense of understanding, a recognition of Melia’s uncertainty. She touches Chloe’s hair, her fingers brushing against the embroidery on her himation. “It suits you, young one,” she murmurs, her deep voice resonant, and Chloe beams up at her, her eyes bright with pride.

Kymopoleia stands back, her eyes filled with pride as she watches Melia move through the introductions. She offers her a subtle nod of encouragement, her lips curving upward when Melia looks to her for reassurance. The silent support from Kym is a steady presence, grounding Melia as she faces this new chapter of her life.

Chloe eventually dashes off, her excitement getting the better of her as she goes to spend more time with her mother, Psamathe, who stands at the edges of the court, watching with a soft smile. Melia watches them go, a part of her relieved that Chloe has her mother to guide her through this unfamiliar world.

Melia remains at the centre, surrounded by the grandeur of Poseidon’s court, her nerves easing as she draws strength from the people around her. Despite the formality, despite the unknown, she feels a flicker of something warm—of belonging. The deities before her, these beings of immense power and age, aren’t looking at her as a mere mortal or a demigod. They are seeing her, accepting her, for all that she is.

Benthesikyme places a large, warm hand on her shoulder as she moves to stand beside her, offering silent solidarity. “The ocean holds many secrets, little one,” she says softly, her voice like the distant rumble of waves. “You are part of those secrets, a piece of its history that has found its way back. Embrace that.”

Melia nods, her throat tight with emotion.

Poseidon watches her with a proud gleam in his eyes, and Amphitrite stands beside him, her hand resting gently on his arm, her expression one of quiet pride. As the formalities continue, Amphitrite makes a point of introducing Melia to the lesser members of the court, the ones who handle the day-to-day affairs. Their faces blur together slightly in Melia’s mind, but she takes in their names and smiles, trying to remember the ones who seem particularly warm or interested in her.

And that, Melia thinks as she takes another breath, is enough for now. In this place, in this moment, she feels not only like a demigod or a mortal. She feels like a princess—a true daughter of Atlantis. She feels a sense of belonging that she hadn’t realised she’d been yearning for, and it brings a smile to her lips. Whatever challenges may come, whatever memories may resurface, she knows she will face them with the strength of those who love her, those who stand by her side.

With one final look around the room, she steps forward, her heart steady, ready to embrace whatever comes next.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XXI

~~~~ Sea of Monsters ~~~~

The night before the last day of school, Melia drifts into a restless sleep, her mind heavy with unease. The moment her eyes close, she finds herself in a nightmare that feels too vivid, too real to be just a dream.

She stands on a deserted street in a small beach town, the kind painted in pastel hues and sunny optimism, now shrouded in darkness. The sky churns with storm clouds, the wind howling like a living thing, pulling at her clothes and whipping her hair across her face. Palm trees bow under the gale, their fronds scraping the ground like desperate fingers. The air smells of salt and ozone, heavy with the promise of rain. Somewhere nearby, the ocean roars, its waves crashing violently against the shore, a deep and mournful sound.

She knows this place. Florida, her mind whispers, though she’s never been here. Normally, she’d need to be in the water to feel this kind of connection, but now it’s as if the town itself is alive, breathing its identity into her. The sensation is disorienting and unsettling.

A sharp sound cuts through the storm—the clatter of hooves against pavement, fast and frantic. Melia turns, her heart lurching, and sees Grover sprinting toward her. His human shoes dangle from his hands, the way they do when he needs to run at full speed. His goat legs are caked with wet sand, and rain streaks his fur, plastering it to his body. His wide, panicked eyes dart around as if searching for an escape.

"Grover!" Melia shouts, her voice barely cutting through the storm’s fury. But he doesn’t hear her. He clops past boarded-up tourist shops and surfboard rental stands, his breath ragged, his terror palpable. The wind howls louder, bending the palm trees until they seem ready to snap. Still, Grover runs, driven by a fear so raw it seeps into Melia’s bones.

"Have to get away," he mutters, his voice a broken whisper carried on the wind. "Have to warn them."

Melia tries to move, to follow him, but her feet refuse to cooperate. It’s like she’s stuck in place, her body weighted down by invisible chains. She watches helplessly as a shadow emerges at the end of the street. It’s enormous, monstrous, and wrong. The growl that rumbles from it vibrates through the air, low and guttural, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

Grover veers into an alley, disappearing into a dead-end courtyard surrounded by empty shops. Melia struggles against the paralysis gripping her, her frustration building. The scene around her blurs and distorts, the colors washing out, the edges of buildings smearing like wet paint. But Grover remains painfully vivid—his trembling frame, his ragged breaths, his desperate glances over his shoulder. She follows him into the courtyard, her body moving sluggishly, as if she’s wading through knee-deep water.

He huddles behind a rack of wedding dresses inside a deserted bridal boutique. The lace and satin look ghostly in the dim light, and the place smells of dust and damp fabric. Grover’s entire body shakes, his hands gripping the edge of the rack as if it’s his last anchor. Whatever he’s hiding from, Melia can’t see it. The thing looms just beyond her perception, a shadow at the edge of her awareness.

The shadow passes by the boutique’s front window, massive and menacing. Grover freezes, his eyes wide with terror, holding his breath as if even the smallest sound might doom him. Melia’s heart pounds, her instincts screaming at her to act, to protect him, but her body remains sluggish and unresponsive.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the courtyard in a stark, blinding light. The shadow grows sharper, its edges jagged and monstrous. A split second later, the storefront explodes inward. Glass shatters in a deafening roar, shards flying in every direction. The force of the blast sends Melia sprawling, the ground rushing up to meet her. She lands hard, her ears ringing as the storm’s fury swirls around her.

A voice booms through the chaos, deep and guttural, shaking the very air. "MIIINE!"

Melia wakes with a start, her chest heaving, her heart slamming against her ribs. The room is quiet, the soft glow of morning sunlight filtering through her window. She blinks, disoriented, the dream—no, the nightmare—still vivid in her mind.

“Melia,” her mum calls from the hallway, her voice soft and warm. “Time to get up.”

The door creaks open, and Sally peeks her head in, her smile bright despite Melia’s rumpled state. “Last day of school! You should be excited!” she says cheerfully.

Melia forces a smile, sitting up and brushing her tangled hair out of her face. “Coming,” she replies, her voice hoarse.

As Sally retreats, Melia swings her legs over the side of the bed, her mind still replaying the dream. Grover’s voice lingers in her thoughts, his words etched into her memory.

Have to get away. Have to warn them.

Warn who? From what? The questions churn in her mind as she pulls on her clothes. The sense of foreboding from the dream clings to her like a second skin, refusing to be shaken off. She pauses before heading to the kitchen, her hand instinctively making the ancient gesture Grover had taught her for warding off evil—a quick flick of her fingers. It’s a small thing, almost silly, but it brings her a sliver of comfort.

Something big is coming. She can feel it.

When Melia heads to the kitchen, she finds Sally bustling around, making breakfast. Blue waffles and blue eggs—a tradition in their household for celebrations, no matter how small. The smell of blueberries fills the air, mingling with the familiar warmth of their home. Sally turns as Melia enters, her grin bright but not quite reaching her eyes. There’s a tightness in her shoulders, a tension that’s almost imperceptible but unmistakable to Melia.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Sally says, placing a plate in front of her. Chloe is already at the table, her legs swinging beneath her chair as she munches on a waffle. Her eyes sparkle with excitement, and syrup glistens on her cheek, unnoticed in her enthusiasm.

“Morning,” Melia responds, sliding into her seat. She gives Chloe a warm smile, reaching over to gently wipe the syrup off her cheek with a napkin. Chloe grins at her, a gap-toothed smile that makes Melia’s heart swell. The scene feels warm and familiar, grounding her in the moment. But even as she watches Chloe’s carefree joy, the undercurrent of unease in the room grows stronger.

Sally moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, but her movements are automatic, her gaze distant. Melia notices how her mother’s hands tremble slightly when she sets the coffee pot down. After a few moments, Sally sighs, setting the dish towel aside as she turns to face them. Her expression is serious, and the look in her eyes makes Melia’s stomach twist.

“Something happened at camp,” Sally begins, her voice measured but heavy. “Chiron didn’t want me to tell either of you, but you would have figured it out eventually.” She pauses, taking a deep breath. The silence stretches, and Melia sets her fork down, her appetite vanishing.

Sally sits at the table, her eyes flickering between Melia and Chloe. “Someone poisoned Thalia’s tree,” she says quietly. “The border protecting camp is failing, Melia. Chiron doesn’t think it’s safe for you there anymore.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Melia feels a chill settle over her, her thoughts racing. The camp…unsafe? The one place she’d always thought they could return to, no matter what?

Across the table, Chloe has gone still. Her legs stop swinging, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth. Her wide, dark eyes fill with fear, and Melia’s chest aches at the sight. Without hesitation, she reaches out and takes Chloe’s small hand in hers, squeezing it gently.

“We’re not truly safe anywhere,” Melia says softly, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside her. “But I have to go. I think Grover’s in trouble. And I won’t abandon them.”

The weight of her words hangs heavy in the air. Sally’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she blinks them away, her jaw tightening as she nods. Chloe clings to Melia’s hand, her grip firm despite the tremor in her fingers.

“I’ll pack my bag early,” Melia continues, her tone resolute. “And bring it with me. I don’t know what’s going to happen today, but…something’s coming. I can feel it.”

Sally exhales shakily but nods again. “Okay,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. She stands and rounds the table, pulling Melia into a tight hug. Chloe doesn’t hesitate to join, wrapping her small arms around Melia’s waist and pressing her face into her side.

“I’ll pack mine too,” Chloe says, her voice trembling but filled with resolve. She looks up at Melia, her expression determined despite her young age. “I can be ready fast.”

Melia’s heart aches with pride and sorrow. This year with Sally and her has done wonders for Chloe’s confidence, but she’s still so young—only eight years old, and already facing things no child should have to. She strokes Chloe’s hair gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“You’re so brave,” Melia whispers. “But don’t worry. We’ll get through this, all of us.”

Chloe nods, her small face determined, and Sally gives her an encouraging smile. “Go on then,” Sally urges, her voice gentle but firm as she nudges Melia in the direction of the hallway. “And make sure to let me know you’re safe. Both of you.”

Melia nods, hugging both Sally and Chloe tightly one last time before heading to her room. She gathers her things with quick, efficient movements, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts. As she slings her bag over her shoulder, she pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

She steps out of the apartment, her heart heavy. She feels the weight of Sally and Chloe’s eyes on her as she walks down the hallway. The door clicks shut behind her, and the sound seems to echo in the silence. Melia takes another deep breath, squaring her shoulders before heading out to catch the Number Two train.

Meriweather College Prep is a “progressive” school in downtown Manhattan. The word “progressive” doesn’t mean much to Melia Jackson. She doesn’t hate the place, but she doesn’t love it either. It’s just another box to check in her strange, dual life—half mortal, half divine, and entirely chaotic. The train ride to school offers little solace. She gazes out the window, her thoughts still tangled in the remnants of her dream, Grover’s voice echoing faintly in her mind. Whatever is coming, she knows it’s going to be bad. She always knows.

The scent of owl greets her the moment she steps off the train. It’s sharp, earthy, and familiar, curling around her like a protective cloak. The scent follows her as she walks the crowded halls, silent and reassuring. Melia knows Annabeth is close by, though the why of it nags at her. It’s not like Annabeth to hang around without a reason. That unspoken question lodges itself in the back of her mind, a pebble she can’t quite shake loose.

Midway through the day, a new scent joins the mix. It’s acrid, sour, and wrong. The stench of rot and decay hits her like a slap, setting every nerve on edge. Melia stiffens, her senses sharpening. It’s the unmistakable scent of monsters. She tracks the source, scanning the schoolyard with narrowed eyes.

There, standing with Matt Sloan, the local bully, is a group of six unfamiliar faces. They’re too rigid, too intense. Their eyes gleam unnaturally, and their movements are deliberate, calculated. The air around them seems to ripple, a faint distortion only someone like Melia would notice. Her heart sinks. These aren’t regular kids.

Sloan’s laughter echoes across the yard as he introduces his new “friends.” The newcomers grin, their teeth unnervingly sharp. Melia feels their gazes lock onto her, like predators eyeing prey. She lets her face remain neutral, betraying nothing, but her fingers itch for Riptide. This is bad.

By the time gym rolls around, Melia’s unease has only grown. It’s a free-for-all dodgeball day, the kind Sloan thrives on. Naturally, he’s picked as team captain, and just as naturally, Melia is placed on the opposing team. Sloan’s “friends” are on his side, of course. Melia glances at them from across the gym, her instincts screaming. They’re too eager, too focused on her. Whatever they’re planning, she’s ready.

The whistle blows, and the game begins. Balls fly fast and hard, but the newcomers aren’t throwing like normal kids. Their throws are impossibly fast, the dodgeballs whistling through the air like missiles. One slams into the wall near Melia with a loud bang, leaving a dent. The other students scatter, diving for cover, but Melia stays calm. She moves like water, dodging with practiced ease. The newcomers watch her every move, their grins widening.

Then it happens. Their bodies start to change. Muscles bulge grotesquely, their already tall frames stretching until they tower over everyone at eight feet. Their skin darkens, tattoos of snakes, hula girls, and Valentine hearts twisting and writhing over their biceps. Their teeth grow sharper, their eyes wilder. They’re no longer pretending to be human. They are Laistrygonians—cannibalistic giants.

“Hello, Melia Jackson,” growls one of them, the leader. Sloan had called him Joe Bob. His voice is deep and guttural, like a storm rolling in.

Screams erupt as the other students finally realise something is wrong. Chaos fills the gym as kids scramble for the exits. Melia’s heart pounds, but she doesn’t hesitate. She uncaps Riptide, the celestial bronze sword springing to life in her hand. The familiar weight steadies her.

“Feel free to introduce yourselves,” she says coolly, her smile tight and sharp. “You monsters love to talk.”

Joe Bob snarls, grabbing a dodgeball and hurling it at the gym doors. The ball smashes into the doors with such force they should have slammed shut, trapping everyone inside. But something stops them. A wedge, maybe? No, something smarter. Someone smarter.

Thanks, Wise Girl, Melia thinks, a smirk tugging at her lips. Annabeth is here, and she’s already working to keep the mortals safe. The exits remain clear, the students fleeing in droves. It’s just her and Annabeth now, standing against the giants.

Joe Bob sneers, his eyes narrowing. “Daughter of the Sea God,” he growls. “Do you think it’s that easy? We’re not just here to kill you. We’re here for lunch!” He lunges, but Melia is faster.

She moves like lightning, her blade flashing as it arcs through the air. Riptide slices clean through Joe Bob before he can react. He disintegrates into a pile of ash, his roar of surprise cut short. Across the gym, another giant falls, turning to dust as Annabeth’s dagger flashes. Her movements are precise, deadly.

“No!” wails one of the remaining giants, their voice echoing in despair. Fury twists their features as they charge, their rage filling the gym like a physical force.

They throw the smoking metal balls in their hands—balls that aren’t dodgeballs at all but burning spheres of molten bronze. The heat pulses through the gym as Melia dives out of the way, her body slamming into the floor before rolling into a crouch. She barely manages to dodge as one of the spheres whistles past her, the air around it warping with heat. The ball crashes into the gym wall behind her, exploding in a burst of molten shards. Pieces of the wall are blown outward, and dust clouds the air in the aftermath.

Melia scrambles to her feet, her breath coming fast as she surveys the chaos. The gym is a war zone now, the screams of students fading as they flee the carnage. Her grip on Riptide tightens, the celestial bronze sword gleaming in the flickering light. She readies herself for the next attack—but then, out of nowhere, a bronze spear whistles through the air, flying over her head with deadly precision.

The spear strikes the nearest giant square in the chest. The force of the impact sends the monster stumbling backward, its grotesque form collapsing into a pile of ash. Melia spins toward the source of the throw, her eyes locking onto a figure in the gym doorway.

It’s Lucia. She’s wearing her signature motorbike leather jacket, her expression sharp and focused. Her spear still vibrates from the throw as she strides into the room, exuding calm confidence. Her eyes meet Melia’s, and she nods once before charging forward to retrieve her weapon.

“Lucia!” Melia calls, relief flooding through her. In the chaos, the sight of her friend’s familiar face is like a lifeline.

Lucia doesn’t reply, but the determination in her eyes speaks volumes. She spins her spear with practiced ease, her movements fluid as she lunges toward another giant. Melia takes a steadying breath and shifts her focus to the last remaining giant. Her legs pump hard as she sprints toward it, every step filled with purpose. The giant roars, swinging a molten sphere in her direction, but Melia is faster.

She leaps, the air rushing past her as she raises Riptide high. The celestial bronze blade arcs downward with all her strength, cutting cleanly through the monster’s chest. The giant doesn’t even have time to scream before it disintegrates into ash, swirling around her in a fine cloud.

The gym falls silent, save for the distant wail of approaching sirens. Melia’s chest heaves as she lowers Riptide, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. She scans the room, taking in the piles of ash and the shattered remains of the gym. The Laistrygonians are gone. For now.

“Melia,” a familiar voice says, pulling her attention. She turns to see Annabeth appearing beside her, pulling off her Yankees cap. Her storm-grey eyes are sharp with urgency, her face streaked with dirt and scratches. Her blonde hair, usually so pristine, is tangled from what looks like days of running.

“Annabeth,” Melia says, relief and concern mingling in her voice. “What happened?”

Annabeth shakes her head, her expression tight with worry. “We need to get out of here,” she says quickly. “The Mist will handle the mortals, but we can’t stick around. Let’s move.”

Melia nods, already grabbing her bag. Across the gym, Lucia is heading for the gaping hole in the wall, her spear in hand. The three of them don’t waste a second, sprinting through the ruined gym and out into the open air. The sound of police sirens grows louder, their flashing lights visible down the street. Melia ducks into a nearby alley, leading the way as they slip past the chaos.

She pauses to glance back at Annabeth, noting the tension in her friend’s shoulders. “What happened?” she asks again, her voice quieter this time. “Are you hurt?”

Annabeth exhales sharply, rolling her shoulders as if to dispel some of the tension. “I’m fine,” she says, though the tightness in her voice suggests otherwise. “But I’ve been having dreams, Melia. Bad ones.” Her storm-grey eyes meet Melia’s, filled with an intensity that makes Melia’s stomach twist. “Have you been dreaming too?”

Melia hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. About Grover,” she says. “He’s running from something. He sounded… terrified.”

Annabeth’s expression hardens, her eyes narrowing. “Grover?” she repeats. “No. I’ve been dreaming about Camp. The borders are failing. Something big is happening, Melia, and it’s not good.”

Melia’s heart sinks at the words. “My mom told me the same thing,” she admits. “Chiron contacted her. He said the border was under attack. He wanted me to stay here, to keep Chloe safe, but…” She trails off, biting her lip.

Annabeth’s eyes darken, her jaw tightening. “We can’t stay here,” she says firmly. “If the borders fail, nothing’s going to be safe.”

Lucia steps forward, her calm, steady presence grounding them both. “I’ll go get Chloe,” she says, her voice confident. She flashes Melia a smirk. “Don’t worry, Princess. I’ve got this.”

Melia swallows the lump in her throat, gratitude and anxiety warring within her. “You’re sure?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lucia rolls her eyes playfully, nudging Melia’s shoulder. “I’m sure. You focus on saving the world or whatever it is you’re about to do. You really have that worried older sister act down,” she teases.

Melia sticks her tongue out at her, earning a laugh from Lucia as she hops back on her motorbike, the engine roaring to life.

Melia watches her friend disappear into the distance, the weight of the situation settling heavily on her shoulders. She turns back to Annabeth, her expression grim. “Let’s go.”

Annabeth’s eyes gleam with determination. “Do you have any drachma?” she asks, her voice suddenly excited. “I have a specific taxi in mind.”

Melia glances at her. She reaches into her pocket, feeling the cool metal of the drachma there. “You’re talking about—”

Annabeth nods, her grin widening. “Yep. We’re calling for the Gray Sisters.”

“Stêthi,” Annabeth shouts in Ancient Greek. “Ô hárma diabolês!” Stop, Chariot of Damnation!

The words roll over Melia like a chill, making her skin prickle and crawl with the sensation of something otherworldly, ancient, and powerful. She takes a step back instinctively, her heart pounding, as Annabeth tosses a gold drachma into the street. Instead of clattering onto the asphalt, the drachma sinks right through, disappearing as though the street has swallowed it whole.

For a heartbeat, everything is still. Then the asphalt darkens, bubbling ominously. It melts into a rectangular pool about the size of a parking space—a red liquid, thick like blood, rippling with a heat that makes Melia’s stomach churn. Suddenly, a car erupts from the ooze, spraying droplets everywhere, and Melia has to shield her face from the splatter.

A growl rumbles in the back of Melia’s throat. She can’t help it. The whole vehicle—a rusty, beat-up taxi with a dented roof and cracked windows—radiates an aura of power, old power, ancient and wild. It makes the hairs on her arms stand on end. This is a car that has seen millennia, carried passengers from times long past. It feels wrong, unnatural, like it belongs in a different world entirely.

She shoots Annabeth an incredulous look, a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. Wasn’t Athena’s daughter supposed to be a master of strategy and planning? Because this plan seems anything but sensible.

The passenger window of the taxi rolls down, creaking loudly, and an old woman sticks her head out. Her grizzled hair sticks up in all directions, covering most of her face, and her voice is muffled and slurred, like she’s just come from the dentist. “Passage? Passage?” she mutters.

“Two to Camp Half-Blood,” Annabeth says, not missing a beat. She opens the cab’s back door and waves Melia forward, her face completely calm, as if this is a perfectly normal situation.

Melia glances at Annabeth, her lips pulled into a tight line. “Seriously?” she whispers, but before she can object any further, she shoves Annabeth in first. If this is Annabeth’s brilliant plan, then she can be the one to sit in this damn “Chariot of Damnation” first.

Melia slides in after her, cautiously closing the door behind them. “Done!” the woman up front screams, her voice shrill enough to rattle the car windows, and she yanks herself back into the seat, rolling the window up.

Of the three sisters in the front, the driver, who looks just as ancient and wild as the rest, cackles, “Long Island! Out-of-metro fare bonus! Ha!” She slams her foot on the accelerator, and Melia’s head snaps backward, slamming against the headrest as the taxi shoots forward, gaining speed like a bullet.

The wind howls through the broken window seals. Melia can feel power rolling off the three women, something dark and deep, a smoky presence that seems to swirl around their feet and fill the cab with a swirling mist. Melia grimaces, pulling her feet up for a moment before realizing that balancing her weight on her rear for this whole ride would be a lost cause. She lets her feet fall back down, resigning herself to the unsettling sensation.

Melia has always avoided taxis—this ride is only confirming why. Taxis are for tourists, the kind who don’t know better. In Manhattan, you walk, take the subway, or catch a bus. Who willingly gets into a car, especially one summoned from a bubbling pool of who-knows-what?

She glances over at Annabeth, who is hanging on for dear life, her knuckles white as she grips the seat. Melia shoots her a look that says, Why-did-you-do-this-to-me? You-lived-on-the-streets-for-a-year-you-should-know-better.

Annabeth rolls her eyes at Melia, because of course she does. “Hey,” she says, shouting over the roar of the engine, “Gray Sisters Taxi is the fastest way to camp!”

“We’ve had famous people in this cab!” the sister on the right exclaims suddenly, her voice crackling with excitement. “Jason! Remember Jason?”

“Don’t remind me!” wails the driver, swerving violently to avoid a group of cosplayers in colorful costumes trying to cross the street. “And we didn’t have a cab back then, you old bat! That was three thousand years ago!”

“Give me the tooth!” the sister on the left snaps, her bony hand reaching for the driver’s mouth, but she is swatted away. The sister in the middle looks utterly exhausted, her shoulders slumped, her expression weary—for a second, Melia can’t help but relate.

It doesn’t take long for the argument to escalate. The three sisters claw at each other, demanding their shared eye and tooth, their screeching voices filling the cab like the wail of banshees. “No!” the one in the middle shouts, her voice cracking. “You had it yesterday!”

“But I’m driving, you hag!”

“Excuses!” another shoots back. “Turn! That was your turn!”

Melia yelps as the cab swerves at seventy miles an hour, throwing her sideways into Annabeth. The two of them are crushed against the door, their bodies pressed together as the taxi shoots up the Williamsburg Bridge, climbing at an alarming speed. The sisters are still yelling, their hair flying wildly, mouths open in screams that seem to pierce right through Melia’s skull. She refuses to look out the windows, especially since it’s painfully clear that their driver isn’t bothering to do so either.

Suddenly, the sister with the eye snatches the tooth from the driver, shoving it triumphantly into her mouth. The driver lets out a furious screech, the car swerving again, this time towards the edge of the bridge. Melia feels her stomach drop as they careen towards the railing, the city below flashing in her peripheral vision.

Horns blare, and curses echo through the air. Melia can’t tell if it’s because of their deranged taxi or if this is just another typical day in New York City. Either way, her heart is pounding in her chest, each beat like a drum.

“‘Ivit back! ‘Ivit back!” the driver screeches, her voice grating against Melia’s ears.

Melia can’t take it anymore. “You’re going to kill us!” she shouts, her voice cracking with exasperation. “If anyone’s interested, we’re about to die! And let me tell you, I don’t think anyone else here would survive falling off this bridge!”

The sisters ignore her, too caught up in their bickering. The car jerks violently as the driver yanks the wheel, the tires screeching as they barely miss the edge of the bridge. Melia clenches her teeth, her grip on Riptide tightening even though it wouldn’t help against a plummet into the East River.

Annabeth looks over at her, her expression a mix of terror and exhilaration. “This is the fastest way to camp!” she repeats, as if trying to convince herself.

Melia groans, leaning her head back against the seat. “I swear, Wise Girl, if we survive this, I’m never letting you pick the travel arrangements again.”

Annabeth just laughs, the sound almost hysterical, and Melia can’t help but let out a shaky chuckle of her own. The absurdity of it all—hurtling through New York City in a deathtrap driven by three squabbling ancient sisters—is almost too much. The fear and adrenaline mix in her chest, leaving her feeling strangely light, almost giddy.

“Hang on!” the driver cackles, her bony fingers twisting the wheel as they swerve off the bridge, zooming towards Long Island at breakneck speed. “Camp Half-Blood, here we come!”

Melia shuts her eyes, deciding to just hold on and trust Annabeth’s instincts—because if she thinks about it any longer, she might just jump out of the cab and take her chances with the fall.

“The Gray Sisters know what they’re doing. They’re really very wise,” Annabeth tries to assure Melia. It really should work, coming from a daughter of wisdom. Yeah. It doesn’t.

The sister on the right grins, showing off her newly acquired tooth. “Of course we’re wise! We know things!”

“How late the subway is going to make you!” the driver brags, still swatting at her sister. “The capital of Tuvalu!”

Funafuti, Melia’s brain supplies for some reason. How she knows that, she has no idea. Maybe it sank?

“The location you seek!” the middle one adds, then flinches back as her sisters pummel her from either side, screaming, “Be quiet! Be quiet! She didn’t even ask yet!”

“What location? What do—?”

“Nothing! You aren’t seeking anything, just as you said!”

“Tell me,” Melia demands.

“No!” they all scream.

What follows is NOT her fault, no matter what Annabeth says. The sisters, in their arguing, actually end up fighting each other, and their shared eye flies into the back seat with them. Which means no one driving can see.

NOT her fault!

Annabeth is totally right about what comes next, though.

Melia picks up the eye, holding it in her hand. It’s wet and gross, but she doesn’t flinch. “Nice girl!” the driver cries, as if she can still see Melia through it. “Give it back!”

“Not until you tell me. What is the location I seek?”

“No time!” the middle sister cries. “Accelerating!”

The taxi lurches forward, and Melia feels her stomach flip as they speed up, the landscape around them becoming a blur. She refuses to look out the window, knowing she would see something that might make this harder for her. The cab hurtles through the city streets at breakneck speed, weaving in and out of traffic like a snake. Horns blare, pedestrians scream, and the entire vehicle rattles as if it’s moments away from coming apart at the seams. The need to know burns inside her, wild and insistent, a call she can’t ignore.

The Gray Sisters seem completely unfazed by the chaos, their bickering growing louder as the car speeds up, the wheels barely skimming the ground. Melia can feel the vibrations of the road beneath her, the whole vehicle shuddering as they make a sharp turn that almost sends her crashing into Annabeth. Her fingers grip the eye tighter, the wet, jelly-like texture making her stomach churn, but she holds on.

“Melia! The cab will explode into a million pieces, and us along with it! Give them back the eye!” Annabeth demands, her tone sharp with panic.

Melia ignores her. Her mind is locked on the sisters’ words, on the promise of knowledge. She can feel it just out of her grasp, and she needs it.

Melia grins sharply, even though they can’t see it. “Roll down the window.”

“No!” the sisters scream, their voices rising in pitch, a mix of fury and fear.

Annabeth fumbles with the handle, and the window rolls down with a creak.

“30, 31, 75, 12!” the sisters shriek.

The numbers settle into Melia like an itch under her skin. She knows what it means, she does, but she doesn’t understand. It’s a location, coordinates maybe, but she’s missing something vital, and it frustrates her to no end. “Where is that? What do they mean?” she presses, her voice tinged with desperation.

“That’s all we can tell you!” the sister on the right screeches. “Now give us the eye! Almost to camp!”

She isn’t wrong. Melia can see the road starting to change, dirt replacing pavement, the trees thinning toward the hill. Thalia’s tree looms in the distance, marking the boundary of Camp Half-Blood.

“Melia!” Annabeth says, her voice more urgent now. “Give them the eye. Now!”

Melia takes a deep breath and decides, reluctantly, that listening to Annabeth is probably the best course of action—since she tends to be right more often than not. By a lot. It’s really annoying sometimes. She tosses the eye back to the driver.

The old lady snatches it up, shoving it back into her empty socket like someone putting in a contact lens. She blinks, her vision snapping back into place. “Whoa!” She slams on the brakes, and the taxi spins four or five times in a cloud of smoke, squealing to a stop in the middle of the farm road at the base of Half-Blood Hill.

Melia groans, rubbing her bruised arms. The spinning had made her stomach lurch, and her head still feels like it’s trying to catch up to her body. “Do we pay now?” she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Out! Out!” the sisters cry, their bony hands flailing as they gesture for them to leave.

“Let’s go,” Annabeth says, her tone determined as she shoves the door open.

Melia crawls out of the cab after Annabeth, the sharp scent of rotten eggs and singed hair hitting her like a wall. Her instincts kick in immediately, her hair standing on end as a low growl escapes her throat. The air feels charged, electric, and dangerous, like a thunderstorm waiting to break.

The wind whips around them, carrying dust and ash from the scorched earth. The dust swirls up, obscuring their vision for a moment, and Melia’s skin prickles with unease. When the wind dies down and the dust clears, her eyes widen at the sight before them.

Two massive bronze bulls stand menacingly at the edge of Camp Half-Blood’s boundary, their eyes glowing with a smouldering red light. Steam hisses from their nostrils, and their metallic hides gleam in the sunlight, marred only by faint scorch marks that suggest previous battles. The air vibrates with the grinding of their gears and the deep, rumbling snorts that escape their mechanized bodies.

“Why is it always bulls?” Melia mutters under her breath, her fingers tightening around Riptide’s hilt. The celestial bronze sword feels reassuring in her grasp, its familiar weight grounding her amidst the chaos.

The bulls’ hooves strike the ground, each impact sending tremors through the earth. They paw at the dirt, preparing to charge, their movements precise and mechanical. The tension in the air is palpable, the kind that makes Melia’s skin crawl.

Annabeth draws her knife, her grey eyes narrowing as she takes in the scene. “Automatons,” she says, her voice a mix of awe and exasperation. “Of course, it had to be automatons.”

She glances at Melia, her expression fierce. “Ready?”

Melia nods, taking a deep breath. Her heart pounds in her chest, adrenaline surging through her veins. “Let’s do this.”

The scene around them is pure chaos. Campers scatter across the hill, some running in terror, their screams echoing through the smoke-filled air, while others lie motionless, dazed from the battle. The metallic clang of weapons and the bulls’ deafening roars create a cacophony that drowns out coherent thought. The acrid scent of burning wood stings Melia’s nose, and her heart clenches at the sight of Thalia’s tree. Its branches droop, the once-vibrant needles now a sickly yellow, and even from this distance, Melia can feel the strain in its magic. The protective barrier around Camp Half-Blood is faltering.

Annabeth’s gaze flicks to the injured campers, and without needing to speak, Melia understands. “Annabeth, start aiding the injured! I’ll back up Clarisse!” she shouts over the noise, her voice cutting through the chaos. Annabeth nods, determination flashing in her eyes. She pulls on her invisibility cap and vanishes, leaving Melia to charge uphill alone.

Melia’s eyes lock onto Clarisse, who’s trying to rally a small squadron amidst the mayhem. Clarisse’s voice booms as she shouts orders, her half-broken spear gripped tightly in her hands. “Shield wall! Lock up!” she commands, her tone unyielding. The campers scramble to obey, but their movements are clumsy, their fear palpable. The bulls don’t wait. One of them charges, its massive head plowing through the line of shields with terrifying ease. Campers are thrown like rag dolls, shields clattering to the ground as bodies slam into the dirt.

Melia’s heart races as she takes in the scene. Small groups of campers drag the injured to safety, their faces etched with panic. A handful of archers, their hands trembling, take aim at the bulls, their arrows bouncing harmlessly off the automatons’ bronze hides. Among them, Melia spots Ryan, his face a mask of determination as he looses an arrow. The arrow bursts into a mist of water on impact, a seemingly futile effort against the searing heat of the bull’s flank—but it’s not. The mist lingers in the air, swirling with purpose.

A moment later, Eve charges into the fray. Her twin bronze axes gleam as she swings them in a wide arc, cutting through the mist. The water clings to the blades, gathering around them in shimmering tendrils as if alive. Eve’s movements are fluid, her strikes precise as she channels the water into a devastating attack. She leaps, her axes colliding with the bull’s side in an explosion of steam and sparks. The impact rings out, a metallic scream that reverberates through the battlefield and makes the ground tremble.

The bull staggers, its movements jerky as it tries to regain its balance. Steam pours from the gash in its side, and gears grind noisily within its chest. Eve doesn’t hesitate. She spins, her axes slicing through the air, the water enhancing each strike as she presses her advantage.

Melia feels a surge of hope at the sight. “Nice work, Eve!” she calls, her voice carrying over the chaos. Eve glances back briefly, her expression fierce and confident, before turning her attention back to the bull.

With renewed determination, Melia charges toward the second bull, Riptide flashing in the sunlight. The automaton’s red eyes lock onto her, and it snorts a jet of steam before pawing the ground, preparing to charge. Melia braces herself, her grip on Riptide tightening.

“Bring it,” she mutters, her heart pounding as the bull lunges forward.

The other bull roars, a terrifying, guttural sound that shakes the earth beneath them. It bears down on Clarisse, who’s scrambling to her feet after the brutal scattering of her squad. Melia’s legs burn as she pushes herself harder, adrenaline flooding her veins. She reaches Clarisse just as the bull lunges, grabbing the strap of Clarisse’s armour and yanking her backwards with all her strength. The momentum sends them both reeling, and Melia uses the opportunity to swipe at the bull’s flank with Riptide. The celestial bronze slices through the automaton’s metal hide, leaving a deep rend, but the sheer heat emanating from the bull’s body sears her skin in return. Melia hisses in pain, her scales bubbling to the surface of her arm as the flesh turns an angry red, the stench of burnt skin curling into the air.

She lets go of Clarisse, stumbling to catch her balance as she moves away from the bull. Her vision blurs for a heartbeat, pain throbbing up her arm, but she forces herself to stay upright. There’s no time for weakness now—not when the camp is in chaos, not when lives are at stake.

“Melia!” Clarisse’s voice cuts through the haze of pain. She’s already turning, her eyes wide as she takes in Melia’s injury.

“On your left!” Melia shouts back, her eyes catching the other bull—the one that had momentarily been distracted by Eve’s attack—now charging towards them, its glowing eyes locked onto Clarisse. Clarisse reacts instantly, diving to her right, her body rolling across the uneven ground just as the bull charges past where she had been standing moments before. The automaton barrels ahead, missing its mark, its momentum carrying it downhill.

Clarisse scrambles to her feet, her eyes meeting Melia's with a fierce nod of gratitude. There’s no time for words, but the understanding passes between them like lightning—a shared determination to protect their home, to stand against whatever threat dares to endanger their friends.

Melia steadies herself, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she adjusts her grip on Riptide. The battle isn’t over. The bulls are still rampaging, and Thalia’s tree—the very heart of their camp’s protection—is still in danger. She sets her jaw, her eyes blazing onyx black as she charges back into the fray.

With her pulse pounding in her ears, she takes in the scene around her—campers regrouping, archers trying to keep a safe distance while still drawing the attention of the raging automatons. Eve is back on her feet, axes raised, her stance filled with resolve as she calls out to a group of campers to draw their fire. Melia’s eyes dart to Ryan, whose face is scrunched in concentration as he takes aim at one of the bulls’ exposed joints, trying to exploit any weakness.

She pushes forward, ignoring the sharp ache in her arm. She can feel the energy of the ocean pulsing through her veins, a reminder of who she is, of the power that flows within her. With a fierce cry, she charges at the nearest bull, her movements fluid as she weaves between bursts of flame and thrashing limbs. She leaps, drawing water around her, and brings Riptide down hard on the bull’s back, sparks flying as celestial bronze meets enchanted metal.

The automaton jerks violently, its roar deafening as it twists, trying to dislodge her. Melia holds on, her muscles straining, her body feeling the intense heat radiating off the bull. She knows she can’t stay here long, not without sustaining more serious burns, but she needs to buy the others time.

“Now!” she shouts, her voice carrying across the battlefield. She sees Ryan and the other archers release a volley of arrows, each one striking true, hitting the bull in the weak spots she’s exposed. The automaton shudders, its movements becoming erratic, and Melia uses the moment to push off, landing unsteadily on the ground as the bull begins to topple, its legs giving out beneath it.

Steam and smoke billow from the bull as its mechanical body collapses with a thunderous crash, gears and bolts scattering across the battlefield. Melia stumbles, her arm throbbing, but she grits her teeth and forces herself to stay focused.

A cheer rises from the campers, but Melia barely has time to catch her breath before her attention snaps to the other bull. It’s still rampaging.

Clarisse is already moving, her spear raised as she charges the bull, her voice a fierce battle cry. Melia forces herself to follow, her body aching but her spirit unbroken. She won’t stop. She can’t stop.

As she and Clarisse close in on the remaining bull, Melia catches a glimpse of Annabeth in the distance, still working to help the injured campers, her movements quick and efficient. The sight gives Melia strength. They’re all in this together, fighting for each other, for their home.

With a final burst of energy, Melia lunges at the bull, her blade aimed at a vulnerable joint. Clarisse strikes at the same moment, her spear driving deep into the automaton’s side. The bull shudders, its roar echoing across the battlefield, looking as if it might turn on the two of them. But before it can, Eve leaps into action, her axes glowing faintly with water swirling around their edges. She slams both axes directly into the bull’s head, denting and cracking the metal. The automaton collapses, its body crumbling into a heap of bronze and gears.

Silence falls over the battlefield, the only sounds the laboured breathing of the campers and the crackling of the dying fires. Melia stands there, her chest heaving, her body trembling with exhaustion. She turns to Clarisse, who is equally battered but still standing tall, a fierce grin on her face with Eve beside her, sweat rolling down her temple and a triumphant gleam in her eyes.

“Not bad, Melia,” Clarisse says, her voice hoarse but filled with grudging respect.

Melia manages a tired smile. “Let’s get everyone checked over,” she says, her voice filled with quiet determination.

Melia takes a moment to breathe as Clarisse heads off to check on her squadron. The adrenaline coursing through her veins leaves her jittery, and the pain in her arm is now a dull throb with the immediate danger passed. She pulls out her bottle of water, uncaps it, and slowly pours the cool liquid across her burns. The sensation brings a sigh of relief as the worst of the pain eases. She feels the energy in the water mingle with her own, soothing the angry red marks, at least for now. Her gaze lifts to survey the hill. The once-green slope is scarred, flames licking the earth in patches, smoke rising into the air like dark, sorrowful tendrils.

Melia clenches her jaw and focuses on the water. She reaches out, drawing the nearby moisture into a swirling current, guiding it toward the blaze. The water surges over the flames, steam rising in hissing clouds. It takes effort, more than she expects, but eventually, the fires sputter out, leaving behind scorched earth and blackened grass. The once-vibrant hill now lies marred, a grim reminder of what had happened.

“Hey, Beckendorf!” she calls, her voice carrying across the field as she catches sight of the tall blacksmith. His face is smudged with soot, his eyes sharp as he jogs over, his hammer still clutched in one hand.

“Melia! Good to see you back in one piece,” he says, his eyes flickering to the burns on her arm.

Melia offers a small smile, nodding toward the destroyed automaton bull. “These bulls could be put to good use. Think you and your crew can fix them up?”

Beckendorf’s eyes light up with interest as he inspects the fallen bull, his fingers running over the mangled gears and bronze plating. “Fix them, huh? Use them as guards?” He hums thoughtfully, a spark of excitement in his expression. After a moment, he glances back at her, a grin spreading across his face. “I like the way you think, Melia. We could definitely do something with these.” He pats her shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie. “We’ll take it from here. It’s good to see you again.”

“You too, Beckendorf,” Melia says warmly. She watches as Beckendorf waves over a few other Hephaestus campers, already barking orders and outlining a plan. Turning away, Melia starts up the hill, her gaze scanning the camp as she moves. The chaos is settling, but an air of unease still lingers, like a storm cloud refusing to dissipate.

As she walks, her mind whirls with thoughts of the battle, of the bulls, and of the cracks in Camp Half-Blood’s defences. The scars on the hill are physical, but the unease in her chest tells her the real damage may run deeper. Whatever is coming, she knows they’ll need to be ready. And she’ll do whatever it takes to protect her home.

As Melia makes her way up the hill, her gaze is drawn to a scene that stops her in her tracks. Eve is seated on a low rock near the camp path, her normally confident posture slightly slouched as Drew Tanaka, one of the Aphrodite campers, tends to a scrape on her forehead.

Drew’s hands move with surprising gentleness, her usual sharp and cutting demeanor softened with an expression of genuine concern. She leans in close, examining the scrape with a careful intensity. For once, Drew’s voice is low and soothing, lacking its usual biting edge as she murmurs something Melia can’t quite hear.

What catches Melia’s attention even more is Eve’s expression. There’s a softness there, a look of adoration that Melia has rarely seen from her. Eve leans forward, closing the small distance between them, and presses a tender kiss to Drew’s lips. Drew’s eyes widen briefly before her cheeks flush a delicate pink, and a small, genuine smile tugs at her lips.

Melia quickly averts her gaze, giving them their moment. Yet, she can’t suppress the small pang that settles in her chest. It’s not jealousy, exactly—more a longing, an ache for something similar. The sight stirs memories within her, fragments of warmth and love from her past lives. Lysianassa and Melania, their connection unshakable, their love fierce and enduring. It’s a bittersweet ache, a reminder of something she’s lost and a yearning for something she’s yet to find.

Pushing the thought aside, Melia focuses on the path ahead. The top of the hill comes into view, and with it, Thalia’s tree. The sight makes her heart clench. The pine tree, once vibrant and full of life, now stands sickly and frail. Its branches droop, the needles faded to a dull, ashen green. The protective aura that had always surrounded it—the comforting sense of safety that marked Camp Half-Blood—is gone. In its place is a heavy, oppressive atmosphere that makes the air thick and hard to breathe.

Clarisse approaches from the tree’s shadow, her spear resting against her shoulder. Her expression is grim, her eyes scanning the damaged landscape. She gestures for Melia to follow her. “We need to get to the Big House and let Tantalus know what’s happened,” she says, her voice tight with frustration.

Melia’s brow furrows in confusion. “Tantalus? Who’s that?” The name feels foreign, wrong, and a sinking feeling takes root in her chest.

Clarisse’s mouth twists in annoyance. “The new activities director. He’s running things now.”

Melia stops in her tracks, her eyes widening. “What happened to Chiron? And where’s Argus?”

Clarisse’s expression darkens, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Argus got fired. Chiron…” She hesitates, her eyes flickering with something like regret. “You’ve been gone too long, Melia. A lot has changed. It’s because of Thalia’s tree. Just… get to the Big House. You’ll understand soon enough.”

The unease in Melia’s stomach deepens, but she nods and follows Clarisse down the hill. As they descend, the camp’s atmosphere feels heavy, charged with tension. Campers who would normally be laughing and lounging by the volleyball court are huddled in small groups, speaking in hushed tones. Their eyes dart toward the woods, their faces pale with unease. Satyrs and dryads, usually carefree, are armed, their bows strung and their postures rigid with readiness. Even the air feels different, weighted with fear and uncertainty.

As they near the Big House, Melia spots Annabeth waiting by the steps. Her blonde hair is windblown, and her grey eyes are filled with worry. The moment she sees Melia, she steps forward, her gaze searching Melia’s face. “Chiron’s inside,” she says softly. “He… he’s packing.”

The words hit Melia like a punch to the gut. She pushes past Annabeth, the familiar creak of the Big House’s front door sounding louder than ever in the tense silence. Annabeth follows close behind as they make their way to Chiron’s quarters. The sound of 1960s lounge music drifts faintly through the hall, a stark and surreal contrast to the dread hanging over the camp.

When they enter, Melia’s heart sinks. Chiron is there, his saddlebags open, his hands carefully packing a Latin-English dictionary. He looks up at their approach, his eyes softening as he takes them in.

“Ah, Annabeth, Melia,” he says, his voice warm but weary. “It’s good to see you both. And my, Melia, you’ve grown.”

Melia tries to muster a smile, but her eyes are fixed on the saddlebags. “Clarisse said you were… leaving,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Chiron’s smile turns sad, a glint of dark humor in his eyes. “Fired, actually. Someone had to take the blame. Lord Zeus was most upset—the tree he created from the spirit of his daughter, poisoned. Someone had to be held accountable.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” Annabeth exclaims, her voice breaking. “Chiron, you had nothing to do with this!”

Chiron sighs, his shoulders sagging. “Nevertheless, some on Olympus do not trust me. Not under the current circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” Annabeth demands, her eyes glistening with tears.

Chiron’s expression darkens, his hands pausing over his saddlebags. “The poison used on Thalia’s tree… it’s not something from this world. It’s from the Underworld, from the darkest pits of Tartarus. A venom I have never seen before. It’s powerful, and it’s killing the tree.”

Melia’s face hardens, her fists clenching at her sides. “We know who’s responsible, don’t we?” she says, her voice low with anger. “Kronos. And yet, Zeus refuses to believe it.”

Chiron nods grimly. “It’s a complicated matter, Melia. The gods are divided, and some are wary of making accusations without proof. But the fact remains—the tree has only a few weeks left unless we find a way to reverse the poison.”

“Is there a way?” Annabeth asks, her voice trembling.

Chiron hesitates, his eyes distant. “There is one source of magic powerful enough to reverse the poison. But it was lost centuries ago. It’s a foolish thought…”

“No,” Melia says firmly. “Tell us. We’ll do whatever it takes. We can’t just sit here and let the camp die.”

Chiron looks at her, his eyes filled with both pride and sorrow. “You have the heart of a hero, Melia. But you must be careful. This could be a trap—a ploy by the Titan Lord to draw you out.”

Annabeth steps closer, her voice breaking. “Chiron, please. You told me the gods made you immortal as long as you were needed to train heroes. If they dismiss you…”

Chiron smiles sadly, brushing a tear from Annabeth’s cheek. “Stay with Melia, child. Keep her safe. Remember the prophecy. Swear you will do your best to keep Melia from danger,” he insists. “Swear it—”

“No,” Melia growls, her eyes fierce. “Don’t make her swear that. We all know there’s always a risk. We can’t afford to let fear hold us back.”

Chiron and Melia stare at each other, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air between them, before Chiron finally assents with a solemn nod.

“Very well,” he says, his voice tinged with resignation. “Perhaps my name will be cleared, and I shall return. Until then, I go to visit my wild kinsmen in the Everglades. It’s possible they know of some cure for the poisoned tree that I have forgotten. In any event, I will stay in exile until this matter is resolved… one way or another.”

Annabeth stifles a sob, her eyes misting with emotion. Chiron pats her shoulder, his touch gentle, his expression tender yet firm. “There, child. I must entrust your safety to Mr. D and the new activities director. We must hope… well, perhaps the camp won’t be destroyed quite as quickly as I fear.”

“Clarisse said it was Tantalus,” Melia interjects, her brow furrowing.

Chiron confirms it with a somber nod, his gaze falling slightly.

“The guy who tried to—sorry, who succeeded in cutting up his own kid and feeding him to the gods?” Melia asks, her voice thick with disbelief, wanting to make sure she has it right.

Annabeth looks sick, her face pale, her expression filled with disgust. Chiron sighs, but he nods, confirming the grim truth.

“Who thought that was a good idea?” Melia asks, her voice rising with incredulity.

“We must not question Lord Zeus,” Chiron says, though his voice lacks any true conviction.

“I’m questioning,” Melia replies, her tone defiant. “I’m most definitely questioning.”

A conch horn blows across the valley, the low, mournful sound echoing as it signals for the campers to assemble for dinner.

“Go,” Chiron urges gently, his eyes softening as he looks at both of them. “You will meet him at the pavilion. I will contact your mother, Melia, and let her know you’re safe. No doubt she’ll be worried by now. Just remember my warning—you are in grave danger. Do not think for a moment that the Titan Lord has forgotten you!”

Melia’s heart clenches, but she nods. There is nothing more to say. Within moments, Chiron turns, and with each heavy step, the best teacher Melia has ever had disappears over the hill, the silhouette of his equine form fading against the twilight.

She and Annabeth stand there until he vanishes from sight, an emptiness settling in Melia’s chest.

The sun is setting behind the dining pavilion, casting an orange and pink glow over the camp as the campers begin making their way up from their cabins. Annabeth quietly moves to join her siblings, her shoulders set with determination, while Melia makes her way to her own cabin—joining Eve, Ellie, Mylo, and Ryan. They wait together, their movements calm but watchful, with Lucia and Chloe still to arrive in a few hours.

Campers filter into the pavilion in clusters, their voices low, the weight of the day’s events lingering in the air. Clarisse enters with her cabin, her arm in a sling and a nasty-looking gash on her cheek, her expression fierce despite her injury. Beckendorf leads the Hephaestus cabin, his voice low but animated as he discusses plans for salvaging the wrecked automatons. Melia catches snippets about wiring and metalwork as the group passes. Demeter, Apollo, Aphrodite, Dionysus—they all file in, the tension etched across their faces like a shadow. Naiads rise from the canoe lake, their ethereal forms shimmering in the fading sunlight, while dryads melt out of the trees, their movement as silent and eerie as whispers. From the meadow, a dozen satyrs approach, their eyes wary, their hands gripping makeshift weapons.

The Hermes cabin brings up the rear, Travis and Connor Stoll leading their contingent with forced grins. Even their usual mischievous energy feels dulled, their grins not quite reaching their eyes.

At the head table, Mr. D sits with a sour look on his face, his posture radiating irritation. He keeps as much distance as possible from the only other occupant. And that occupant… Melia’s gaze hardens as she takes in the sight.

A pale, gaunt man sits next to Dionysus, his thin frame clad in a threadbare orange prisoner’s jumpsuit with the number 0001 stitched over his chest pocket. His sunken eyes dart around the room, hollow and angry, as his bony fingers tap irritably on the table. His grey hair looks like it was hacked off with a dull blade, and his very presence feels like an intrusion—an affront. The stench of rot and decay seems to cling to him, like a whisper of the deepest, darkest pit of the Underworld.

Melia wrinkles her nose. Her gut churns with unease. Tantalus—because who else could this possibly be? —looks around the pavilion with an air of disdain, as if he is judging every camper unworthy of his presence.

“You,” Tantalus says suddenly, his voice rasping and thin. His bony finger points directly at Melia. “The forbidden child.”

Melia squares her shoulders, her expression turning cold as her eyes lock on his unwaveringly. “My name is Melia,” she says, her voice low and steady, underlined with a growl that echoes faintly in the silence—a sound that is mirrored by the other children of the sea around her.

Tantalus’ thin lips curl in distaste. “If it was up to me, a broken oath child would have no place at camp,” he says, sighing as if he truly believes his words.

Melia arches a brow, her sharp teeth glinting as she lets a hint of her true nature show. “Oh? Then why are you here? I don’t think a man who cut his own child into pieces to feed him to the gods should be around children either.”

The pavilion falls silent, the tension thick enough to cut. Every camper’s attention shifts to the head table, wary eyes fixed on Tantalus. Even the naiads and dryads pause, their movements still as they observe the unfolding confrontation.

Tantalus’ hollow eyes narrow, his lips pulling back into a snarl. “I,” he begins, puffing out his chest, his voice dripping with false authority, “have permission from Lord Zeus himself. And while you might have permission, those monsters you call siblings… well, they do not belong here. Do not push me, girl.”

Melia’s eyes darken, the black depths shimmering with an eerie glow, promising the horrors of the ocean’s depths. “Speak of my siblings that way again,” she says, her voice calm but carrying a weight that makes the pavilion shiver, “and I assure you, I will make Uncle Hades’ punishment look kind.”

Around the edges of the pavilion, pomegranate blossoms begin to bloom, their ruby-red petals opening ominously. The fire at the center crackles louder, snapping like an angry whip, while the waves on the beach crash against the shore with a fury that sends salty spray into the air. The sweet scent of sea salt is gone, replaced by the sharp promise of a wrathful ocean.

“You would’ve thought,” Melia continues, her voice softening, the dangerous edge in her tone unmistakable, “someone would have learned the rules of hospitality by now.”

Tantalus’ eyes narrow further, his thin frame trembling slightly with barely restrained rage. His lips curl as if he wants to retort, but he seems to think better of it. The silence stretches taut, until Melia’s sharp smile returns.

“I guess an ancient dog would have trouble learning new tricks,” she adds, her tone dripping with mock sweetness.

A few campers snicker, the tension in the pavilion easing slightly as amused glances are exchanged. Tantalus’ fury is palpable, but whatever venom he wants to spit dies on his tongue as he takes in the wary, distrustful stares of the campers. Their loyalty to Chiron is evident despite Chiron’s problems he is theirs, and this man—this fractured shell—is no Chiron.

Even the announcement of the chariot races, meant to excite and inspire, is met with muted enthusiasm. The darkness hanging over the camp is too thick, too present. Melia watches with no small amount of satisfaction as Dionysus taunts Tantalus with mock sympathy, offering him a goblet of wine that turns to dust before his eyes.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XXII

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

The night air outside the cabin is cool and calm, a stark contrast to the evening's earlier tension. Inside the sea cabin, warm lights flicker gently, casting a golden glow over the cozy interior. The faint scent of salt and seaweed drifts through the slightly open window, carried by the soft rustling of waves in the distance. It’s a peaceful backdrop to the lively, familial atmosphere within.

Eve sits on the floor near her bed, stretching her arms with a grimace as she tries to ease the ache from the fight earlier. Across the room, Chloe and Mylo are laughing, making a game out of unpacking Chloe’s things. Chloe squeals as Mylo snatches her pillow and starts tossing it between his hands like a volleyball. She retaliates by chucking a stuffed dolphin at his face, the soft toy bouncing harmlessly off his head.

“Hey, easy!” Ryan calls from his bed, where he’s carefully restringing his bow. He gives the younger two a mock-stern glare. “You break something, and Melia’s going to make you go swim laps.”

Chloe sticks out her tongue, but she settles down, hopping onto her bunk and busying herself with folding a sea-green blanket. Mylo, looking properly chastised, begins stacking her books neatly on the small shelf near her bed.

Melia watches the chaos from her own bed, sitting cross-legged with her back against the wall. Her eyes flicker around the room, taking in the warmth and liveliness. It’s moments like these that remind her of why she fights so hard to protect this place, these people. She exchanges a glance with Lucia, who’s lounging nearby, propped against the side of a bunk with her arms crossed. Lucia’s eyes twinkle mischievously as she nods toward Eve.

Melia’s grin spreads slowly. “Sooo, Eve,” she starts, her voice dripping with feigned casualness. She leans back on her hands, her posture relaxed but her eyes gleaming with mischief. “I couldn’t help but notice that someone had a rather… affectionate reunion today. With a certain someone who just might have dyed red streaks in her hair?”

Eve’s eyes widen, and a blush blooms across her cheeks so quickly that even the warm cabin light can’t hide it. She almost drops the hairbrush she’s holding. “Shut up, Melia,” she mutters, glaring half-heartedly at her.

“Oh, come on!” Melia continues, her grin widening as she sits up straighter. “I swear I saw hearts in the air when Drew leaned in. I mean, you two were really just going for it. And in the middle of a battlefield, no less! Very dramatic, very… cinematic.”

Chloe giggles from her bunk, her wide eyes darting between Melia and Eve. “Is Drew your girlfriend now?” she asks innocently, her voice full of curiosity.

Eve groans, her blush deepening as she fumbles for words. “I… we’re just… it’s not official,” she stammers, brushing a hand through her hair in an attempt to look nonchalant. “And it wasn’t exactly a battlefield. We were just—”

“Just smooching in front of the entire camp,” Lucia chimes in, her grin matching Melia’s. She nudges Eve lightly with her elbow. “I mean, hey, you’ve got guts. Nothing says ‘I like you’ like a public make-out session during a monster attack. Very romantic.”

“You guys are the worst,” Eve mutters, burying her face in her hands. Her voice is muffled, but the small smile tugging at her lips betrays her embarrassment.

“Aww,” Ellie coos from across the room, where she’s perched on her bed hugging a pillow. “Drew was worried about you. That’s so sweet.” She bats her eyelashes dramatically, earning another round of laughter from the cabin.

“Okay, okay, enough,” Eve says, raising her hands in mock surrender. Her blush remains, but her smile has grown, soft and genuine. “You all are terrible friends.”

“Oh, please,” Melia says, leaning forward, her teasing tone fading as her grin softens. “You love us. And we’re happy for you. Seriously, Drew seems… nice.” She gives Eve an encouraging smile, one laced with sincerity.

Eve rolls her eyes but returns the smile, though a hint of shyness still lingers. “Yeah, yeah. I guess she is kind of nice. When she’s not being, you know, Drew.”

Lucia snorts, kicking her feet up onto the bed frame. “Well, if she gives you any trouble, you know we’ll have to intervene. Sibling code and all that.”

Eve laughs, the sound light and genuine. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Thanks, guys.”

The warmth in the cabin settles into a comfortable rhythm as the teasing fades, replaced by easy chatter and quiet companionship. The sound of waves continues in the background, a constant reminder of the bond they share. In this moment, surrounded by her siblings, Melia feels at peace.

The cabin hums softly with the ever-present sounds of the sea—a soothing backdrop of distant waves and faint echoes of marine life. The bioluminescent lamps cast a gentle glow, illuminating the younger campers nestled in their bunks. Chloe, already cocooned under her blanket, peers up at Melia with wide, expectant eyes.

“Can you tell us a story?” Chloe asks, her voice tinged with both eagerness and drowsiness.

Melia looks around the room, catching the curious gazes of Mylo trying to feign indifference, while Ryan and Ellie look at her with open curiosity.

“Alright,” Melia says, settling herself at the foot of Chloe’s bed. Her dark hair cascades over her shoulders like liquid night, catching the bioluminescent light. “But this isn’t just any story. This one is about The Siren, a ship that ruled the seas with grace and honour, and her fearless crew.”

“The Siren?” Ellie asks, her voice brimming with curiosity. “What kind of ship was it?”

Melia’s eyes gleam as she leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Oh, The Siren wasn’t just a ship—it was a masterpiece born of the ocean’s will. Her hull curved like a leaping dolphin, sleek and swift, painted in the deep blues and greens of the sea. Silver patterns danced across her sides, shimmering like fish scales in the sun. Her figurehead was a carved siren, her arms outstretched and her gaze fierce, daring the waves to test her mettle. And her sails? Woven from a fabric so fine, they mirrored the rippling surface of the water itself.”

Chloe gasps, her fingers clutching her blanket tightly. “She sounds beautiful!”

“She was,” Melia agrees with a solemn nod. “But The Siren wasn’t just about beauty. She had purpose. Her crew lived by a code—they never attacked without cause. Ships flying the Royal flag or carrying slaves? Those were their targets. They believed in honour, protecting the balance of the seas and those who respected it. To them, the ocean was sacred, and anyone who defiled it faced their wrath.”

The younger campers exchange looks of admiration, drawn into the story with every word.

“So, what happened?” Mylo finally asks, his voice betraying his growing excitement.

Melia’s expression shifts, turning serious. “Let me tell you about the day they faced their greatest challenge. They were sailing through uncharted waters, chasing whispers of a Royal ship transporting captives. The Siren glided through the waves, her crew ready for anything. But as the sun set, the sea turned restless.”

She pauses, letting the tension build. The campers lean closer, hanging on her every word.

“The water began to churn, waves rising higher and higher. The sky darkened, black as the deepest trench. Then we heard it—a low, guttural roar that seemed to shake the ocean itself.” Melia’s eyes glow faintly as she tells the tale, not noticing her shift to using first person.

“A sea monster?” Chloe whispers, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and fascination.

Melia nods gravely, her eyes shadowed with memory. “Not just any sea monster. It was Cetus, the terror of the seas. Its body was vast, stretching longer than The Siren herself, its tarnished bronze scales catching the faintest light. Its mouth was a cavern of jagged teeth, capable of rending a ship to splinters, and its glowing, pale eyes promised destruction. The legends say Neptune himself sent Cetus to enforce the sea’s laws.”

Ellie shivers, pulling her blanket higher. “What did you do?”

“We didn’t run,” Melia says firmly, her voice steady. “No ship could outrun a creature like Cetus. Instead, we prepared to face it. My first mate—she was fierce, with eyes like the stormy sea—rallied the crew. We readied our harpoons, aiming for the creature’s eyes, its only weak spot. But brute force wasn’t enough to win that battle.”

“What happened?” Chloe asks, her knuckles white as she grips her blanket.

“As the Cetus surged from the depths, water poured off its massive form in crashing waves. It roared, shaking the sea and sky alike. The Siren tilted dangerously as the beast slammed into the waves beside us, its massive jaws snapping mere feet from our hull. I shouted orders, controlling the seas around the ship to keep her steady.”

The campers are silent, their breaths held.

“The first volley struck true, piercing the Cetus’s shoulder and enraging it further. It lashed out, its tail slamming into the ship and splintering part of the deck. We fought back fiercely. My first mate climbed the rigging with a spear in hand, leaping onto the beast’s back to drive the weapon into its scales. The crew pulled together, working as one, using the very waves the Cetus created against it.”

Melia’s voice grows more intense, her hands gesturing as if reliving the battle. “The fight raged for hours, the sea a battlefield of foam, fire, and gunpowder. At one point, the Cetus’s jaws clamped down on the ship’s figurehead, snapping the carved siren in half. I thought all was lost.”

“What did you do?” Ellie asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I took the helm directly,” Melia says, her voice steady with determination. “I steered The Siren straight at the beast, daring it to face us. Just as it lunged, I shouted to the crew to release the sails. The sudden burst of speed carried us over the Cetus’s back, and we raked it with cannon fire. That’s when Melania struck the final blow—piercing its glowing eye and sending it thrashing back into the depths.”

The campers exhale collectively, the tension in the room lifting slightly.

“We survived,” Melia says softly, her gaze distant. “But not without loss. The Siren was damaged, her figurehead gone, her hull rent in places, but her spirit remained. We repaired her, stronger than ever, and carried on our mission. The Cetus? It retreated, but I like to think it respected us in the end, for our honour and our resolve.”

The cabin falls silent, the weight of the story settling over the young listeners. Chloe speaks first, her voice filled with wonder. “You were so brave.”

Melia smiles, reaching out to gently ruffle Chloe’s hair. “Bravery isn’t just about fighting monsters. It’s about knowing when to fight and when to honour what’s right. That’s what The Siren and her crew stood for.”

The younger campers murmur their agreement, their admiration evident as they settle back into their bunks. Their eyes grow heavy with sleep, the rhythmic sounds of the sea lulling them into dreams. Melia leans back against the bedpost, her gaze distant.

The story may have been woven from fragments of memory and imagination, but something about it feels true—like a ripple from a life long past, carried through the tides of time. As the cabin quiets, Melia closes her eyes, the echoes of The Siren and her crew lapping gently at the edges of her mind.

The morning light filters through the underwater-themed curtains, casting rippling reflections across the cabin walls, like sunlight on the ocean floor. The sea cabin slowly stirs to life, the tranquil silence giving way to a symphony of aquatic sounds, as each of its inhabitants wakes up and lets their divine traits show in full.

Ryan is the first to rise, as he stretches, his yawn ending in a low, rumbling noise like the distant roar of an ocean wave. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cool wooden floor, and he lets out a soft series of clicks that sound almost like a dolphin’s call—a way to greet the morning, one that doesn’t need words.

Chloe blinks her eyes open next, her hair an unruly tangle that shimmers faintly with traces of sea green. She sits up, rubbing her face, her lips parting to release a gentle hum that reverberates like the echo of a conch shell. She looks over at Ellie, still half-buried under her blankets, and clicks her tongue, the sound a clear, high-pitched noise that makes Ellie groan and pull her pillow over her head.

“Nuh-uh,” Ellie mutters, her voice muffled, though she follows up with a series of gurgling noises that sound almost like bubbles rising through water—a wordless protest against the morning. Chloe responds by sending a small splash of water from the bottle beside her bed, a tiny wave that floats through the air and lands right on Ellie’s face.

“Blrglgh!” Ellie splutters, sitting up abruptly, her eyes narrowed but her freckles glowing like tiny sea stars. Chloe just giggles, the sound melodic, like a water sprite’s laugh.

Eve yawns and stretches from her top bunk, her fangs briefly glinting in the soft morning light, before she lets out a sigh that shifts into a low purring growl. She rolls over and peeks over at Lucia, who is already awake. Lucia's scales shimmer faintly in the light, and when she speaks, it’s not in words but in a series of clicking and trilling sounds that form an unmistakable greeting.

“Mornin’,” Eve responds, her voice still thick with sleep as she offers a toothy grin. Lucia just shakes her head, muttering something that sounds like a bubbling stream.

Melia is the last to sit up, her black hair tousled and her eyes still heavy with sleep. She takes a deep breath, inhaling the salty sea air that fills the cabin, and lets out a long, almost musical sigh. She glances around, her eyes catching on Mylo, who is sprawled out in his bunk, his mouth slightly open as he snores. She cups her hands around her mouth and lets out a sharp trill, the sound bouncing off the cabin walls.

Mylo jolts awake, blinking in confusion, his scales shimmering as his body catches up with his mind. He lets out a series of grumpy gurgles that translate perfectly into annoyance.

“Time to get up, sleepyhead,” Melia says, her voice carrying a playful lilt. She swings her legs out of bed and stands, stretching her arms above her head, her spine popping in a satisfying series of cracks. She walks over to where Chloe is sitting, the young girl already running her fingers through her sea-salt-sprayed hair, and she ruffles Chloe’s head, earning a series of happy clicks in return.

One by one, the cabin members shuffle toward the bathroom area, their chatter growing more animated, though much of it remains in the form of sounds that echo their aquatic heritage—growls, trills, hums, and chirps. The sounds overlap, a chorus of aquatic noises that feels more natural within the safety of their cabin.

Ryan is the first under the shower, turning on the water and humming contentedly as the warm water cascades over his skin. Eve and Ellie follow suit, the two of them pushing each other playfully to get the next free showerhead. Melia takes her turn beside them, tilting her head back under the water and letting out a satisfied sigh.

“Pass the soap,” Lucia calls, her voice mingling with a series of clicks as she holds out her hand. Chloe hands it over, before she ducks under the stream of water herself, her scales shimmering like polished shells.

Ellie scrubs her hair with vigour, her eyes closed as she lets out a series of chirps that sound almost like a bird’s call—an echo of the mornings spent in the waves. Ryan makes a purring noise as he washes his face, and Mylo, still half-asleep, lets out a series of low grumbles that make Chloe giggle.

Once they’re done, they move back into the main cabin, the air thick with steam and warmth. Lucia brushes her hair, her scales glowing faintly, while Eve sits cross-legged on her bunk, drying her hair with a towel as her eyes flicker with that predatory gleam that’s unmistakably divine. As much as they can all will themselves dry, the act of drying off after a shower is refreshing, and when they have the time they prefer to dry like this. Mylo and Ryan exchange a look, both of them making quiet, wordless noises—a silent conversation between cabin mates.

As they finish getting ready, the cabin falls into a comfortable rhythm—Eve helping Chloe with her hair, Lucia fastening the leather straps on her boots, Ellie humming a tune that sounds like a lullaby carried on the waves. Melia watches them all, her heart swelling with affection for her family, the cabin filled with the warmth of their presence.

The days between their arrival and the chariot race blur into a mixture of unease and routine, with Camp Half-Blood’s usual hum of activity overshadowed by the growing tension in the air. The failing border feels like a constant weight, pressing down on every camper. Even the youngest seem to sense the shift, their playful laughter quieter, their movements more careful. And Tantalus—his very presence is a shadow no one can ignore. Whenever he prowls near, an older camper subtly positions themselves between him and the younger ones. No one speaks of it aloud, but the unspoken agreement among the cabins is clear: Tantalus is not to be trusted.

The time after breakfast before lessons start, the cabin often lounge around at the edge of the water. Where Drew Tanaka, has taken to joining them. Her lilac-hued scales around her eyes and on the back of her arms shimmer faintly in the sunlight as she lounges at the edge of the group, sharp-eyed and seemingly uninterested—except for the way her gaze softens whenever Eve speaks. It’s subtle, but Melia catches it, and she files the observation away with a smirk.

“Drew, you’re practically a sea demigod at this point,” Melia teases one morning, gesturing to Drew’s scales. “Are you sure you’re in the right cabin?”

Drew flicks a piece of fruit at her with practised precision. “Aphrodite is the goddess of love and beauty…and the sea, don’t forget. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, thanks.”

“Sure,” Melia replies, her grin widening. “You’re just here because Eve’s here.”

Eve’s head snaps up, her face darkening. “Melia!”

Drew, for her part, looks completely unbothered. She leans back on her hands, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Maybe I am. What’s it to you?”

The cabin erupts into laughter, Ryan shaking his head with a knowing look. Even Eve can’t help but laugh, though her face remains flushed.

In the afternoons, the Poseidon Cabin splits off to their respective duties. Mylo and Ellie head to the forge, helping Beckendorf with the repairs on the bulls, while Ryan works with the satyrs to reinforce what’s left of the camp’s defences. Melia and Chloe often stick together, training or practising their swimming techniques in the canoe lake, Melia wanting to make sure the youngest of her cabin and the girl she sees as a sister can protect herself if needed. Drew sometimes joins them, though she stays on the shore, her sharp wit cutting through the tension like a blade.

Silena Beauregard, the Aphrodite Cabin’s counselor, stops by the Poseidon Cabin one afternoon. She’s a striking figure, her dove-like feathers glinting in the sunlight as she approaches. Melia has seen her flying with the Pegasi so often she’s convinced Silena will sprout wings of her own any day now if she hasn't already and just keeps them hidden.

“Drew behaving herself?” Silena asks with a teasing smile, her eyes twinkling as she glances at the other girl.

“Of course,” Melia replies, her tone mock-serious. “She’s an absolute delight.”

Drew snorts. “I’m right here, you know.”

Silena laughs, a warm sound that lightens the mood. “Just checking in. And Melia, I’ve been meaning to thank you. Drew seems more comfortable with you all.”

“She fits in fine,” Melia says, glancing over at Drew, who’s busy pretending not to listen. “We’ve got plenty of space for her. Besides, she keeps Eve in line.”

Silena raises an eyebrow, her smile turning knowing. “Does she now?”

The days pass like this, a mix of camaraderie and preparation for the chariot race. The Poseidon Cabin spends their evenings together, brainstorming designs for their chariot. Mylo sketches out elaborate plans, his fingers stained with charcoal, while Ellie offers improvements based on their combined aquatic strengths. Chloe watches with wide eyes, absorbing every detail, while Ryan reads aloud from an old book on Roman engineering techniques.

Evenings are also when the camp’s unease feels most tangible. The campfire burns lower than usual, and Tantalus’s presence casts a long shadow. Whenever he approaches, a ripple of tension moves through the campers. The older demigods close ranks around the younger ones, their stances protective, their eyes watchful. Melia notices it every time—how Clarisse places herself like a wall when Tantalus nears, how Beckendorf positions his bulk between the younger Hephaestus kids and the man. It’s a silent agreement, unspoken but deeply understood.

That night, Melia dreams of Grover, the first concrete vision she’s had since the last day of school.

He’s wearing a wedding dress.

It doesn’t fit him very well. The gown is too long, the hem caked in dried blood. The neckline keeps slipping off his shoulders, and a tattered veil barely hides his face.

Melia gives it two out of ten stars. It has all the pieces of a wedding dress but looks more like a zombie bride costume. Honestly, she thinks Grover could do better.

Dress-up thoughts aside, her friend is standing in a dank cave, dimly lit by flickering torches. A cot leans against one wall, and an old-fashioned loom dominates the other. Despite everything, Melia’s fingers itch to take the loom home; the half-woven length of white cloth gleams in the firelight, its fine threads mesmerising.

Grover is staring directly at her, panic in his eyes. “Thank the gods!” he yelps. “Can you hear me?”

Melia nods, but her movements feel sluggish, as though the dream itself is weighted. The air is thick with the mingling stench of sheep, goat, and something monstrous, underscored by an unsettlingly sweet warmth. Growls, grumbles, and bleats echo from behind a refrigerator-sized boulder that blocks the room’s only exit, as though something much larger waits in the cavern beyond.

Her chest tightens. She knows where this is. She knows.

“Melia?” Grover’s voice trembles, pulling her focus back. “Please, I don’t have the strength to project any better.”

“What’s going on?” she asks, voice taut.

Before he can answer, a monstrous voice bellows from beyond the boulder, “Honeypie! Are you done yet?”

Grover flinches and calls back in falsetto, “Not quite, dearest! A few more days!”

“Bah! Hasn’t it been two weeks yet?”

“N-no, dearest. Just five days. That leaves twelve more to go.”

Melia looks at him like she’s watching a soap opera crash into a train wreck, the kind of moment so absurd you can’t look away.

The monster growls, perhaps trying to do the math Grover has fudged. Finally, it snarls, “All right, but hurry! I want to SEEE under that veil, heh-heh-heh…”

Grover turns back to her, desperation etched across his face. “Don’t look at me like that—you have to help me! No time! I’m stuck in this cave. On an island in the sea.”

“Do you know where?” Melia asks.

“I don’t know exactly! I went to Florida and turned left.”

“What? Into the sea?”

“It’s a trap!” Grover cuts her off. “It’s the reason no satyr has ever returned from this quest. He’s a shepherd, Melia! And he has it. Its nature magic is so powerful it smells just like the great god Pan! The satyrs come here thinking they’ve found Pan, and they get trapped and eaten by Polyphemus!”

The name sends a shiver down Melia’s spine, dredging up memories buried deep. The Cyclops Odysseus blinded, the spark that ignited events leading to her first death. Flashes of a storm, the taste of blood filling her mouth, the scent of asphodels. The roar of waves crashing against jagged rocks fills her mind, and for a moment, she feels her chest constrict as though she’s back there, her heart pounding with the same desperate terror her past self must have felt.

“I almost got away,” Grover says, snapping her back to the present. “I made it all the way to St. Augustine.”

“But he followed you,” Melia finishes, “and trapped you in a bridal boutique. You clever satyr.”

“That’s right,” Grover says. “My first empathy link must’ve worked then. Look, this bridal dress is the only thing keeping me alive. He thinks I smell good, but I told him it was goat-scented perfume. Thank goodness he can’t see very well. His eye is still half-blind from the last time somebody poked it out. But soon he’ll realise what I am. He’s only giving me two weeks to finish the bridal train, and he’s getting impatient!”

Melia swallows down laughter. Her friend is terrified. They’ll laugh about the absurdity later.

“I’ll come to rescue you,” she promises. “Where is his island?”

“The Sea of Monsters,” Grover laments. “And, o-oh, before I forget. Um, Melia, I’m really sorry about this, but this empathy link…well, I had no choice. Our emotions are connected now. If I die…”

“You’re not going to die,” Melia says firmly, though fear coils in her gut, memories of the Sea of Monsters stirring anew. The storms, the treacherous waves, the cries of a crew. The blinding fear of monstrous shadows beneath the water’s surface—things far older and hungrier than mortals dared imagine.

“But if I do…you might not die, but you might…live for years in a vegetative state. But, uh, it would be a lot better if you got me out of here.”

“You’re not going to die,” Melia repeats, her tone hard as stone.

The monster’s voice booms again, calling for dinner.

Grover whimpers. “Wait!” Melia calls. “You said ‘it’ was here. What?”

Grover’s voice grows fainter; his image flickers. “The Fleece…” he whispers before the dream fades like smoke.

Melia bolts upright in her bunk, her breath ragged. Her heart pounds like a war drum, her body trembling with leftover adrenaline and fear. She can still smell the damp cave, the sheep, the monster’s sickly sweet breath.

Lucia’s concerned face looms above her, eyes swimming with worry.

“You okay?” Lucia asks.

“I’m good. Let’s get ready for the race.” Melia says, calming her racing heart.

Melia shakes off the remnants of her dream as she climbs out of bed. Her skin feels clammy, and the air outside the cabin isn’t any better. When she opens the door, she’s met with a wave of heat and humidity so thick it clings to her like a wet blanket. The stench hits next—an overpowering cocktail of bird droppings, salt, and something metallic, sharp enough to make her nose wrinkle. Fog hangs low across the camp, swirling around the ankles of passing campers like sluggish ghosts.

It doesn’t take long to find the source. The trees around the camp are infested with birds, their fat, grey-and-white forms perched on every available branch. These aren’t ordinary pigeons; their metallic feathers glint dully in the overcast light, and they emit a screeching sound that’s eerily similar to submarine radar pings. It’s relentless, grating against her ears like a saw on steel.

Campers with sharper hearing shuffle by wearing earplugs, their faces set in murderous glares. A few mutter curses under their breath, and Melia doesn’t blame them. She follows the noise to the main path, where Dionysus stands amidst a cluster of younger campers. For once, the god looks more irritated than indifferent. His usual wine-stained demeanour is replaced with a sharp, cutting glare directed at the birds, though his attention constantly flickers to the little ones clustering around him. Despite his obvious disdain for the chaotic morning, he keeps the children close, his eyes tracking each of them to make sure none wander off.

Melia bites back a smirk. Maybe she’d offer him a more expensive bottle of wine at the next campfire. Even gods deserve a break sometimes.

The racetrack, newly built in a grassy field between the archery range and the woods, offers a brief reprieve from the stench of birds. Beckendorf and the Hephaestus cabin have outdone themselves. The bronze bulls, their mechanical joints gleaming, have plowed a perfect oval track in record time. Rows of stone steps have been set up for spectators, though a noticeable divide forms between the campers and Tantalus, who stands at one end of the seating area.

Tantalus looks worse for wear. His skeletal frame seems more pronounced under the harsh daylight, and his disheveled appearance doesn’t help. A naiad timidly offers him a platter of pastries, which he barely acknowledges as his bony hand swipes at a particularly elusive chocolate éclair.

“Right!” Tantalus’s voice rings out as the teams begin to assemble. “You all know the rules. A quarter-mile track. Twice around to win. Two horses per chariot. Each team will consist of a driver and a fighter. Weapons are allowed. Dirty tricks are expected. But try not to kill anybody!” He smiles, the expression more unsettling than reassuring.

The older campers instinctively shift farther from him. The younger ones gravitate closer to Dionysus, who now looks ready to throttle someone.

“Any killing will result in harsh punishment,” Tantalus adds. “No s’mores at the campfire for a week! Now ready your chariots!”

The teams roll out their chariots, each more striking than the last. Beckendorf leads the Hephaestus cabin, their chariot a marvel of engineering. Made of bronze and iron, even the horses pulling it are automatons, their glowing eyes flickering like forge embers. Melia knows better than to underestimate it; hidden traps and mechanisms are undoubtedly waiting to spring.

The Ares chariot lives up to its reputation, looking more like a war machine than a racing vehicle. It’s blood-red and pulled by two skeletal horses, their hollow eyes gleaming ominously. Clarisse climbs aboard with an arsenal of weapons—javelins, spiked balls, caltrops—enough to outfit a small army. She catches Melia’s eye and smirks, a challenge unspoken but understood.

Apollo’s chariot is the polar opposite. Sleek, graceful, and entirely gold, it’s pulled by two stunning Palominos. Their fighter carries a bow, though he’s promised not to use pointed arrows on the other racers. Melia isn’t entirely convinced of his sincerity.

Hermes’ chariot is unassuming, painted a dull green that looks like it’s been sitting in a garage for decades. But the Stoll brothers are at the helm, and Melia can practically smell the mischief radiating off them. She makes a mental note to avoid their path at all costs.

Annabeth’s chariot looks like it’s been plucked from a museum—a historical masterpiece that somehow radiates power. Knowing Annabeth’s resourcefulness and her godly parent, Melia wouldn’t be surprised if it came with hidden advantages.

Melia tries to talk to Annabeth before the race, intending to warn her about Grover and the dream. But Annabeth is distracted, hyper-focused on the competition. Her determined gaze stays locked on the chariots, her attention unreachable. Melia sighs, stepping back to let her friend prepare.

As the racers take their positions, the air grows thick with anticipation. The metallic screeching of the birds fades into the background, replaced by the rumble of wheels and the snorting of horses. The tension is palpable, a storm waiting to break.

Melia clenches her fists, her eyes scanning the field. The race hasn’t even begun, but the stakes feel higher than ever. In the back of her mind, Grover’s plea echoes, a reminder of the dangers beyond the camp’s failing borders. For now, though, she pushes it aside. There’s a race to be won—and gods help anyone who gets in her way.

The Poseidon cabin’s chariot gleams. Its frame is constructed from polished seashells and coral, their iridescent surfaces shimmering like pearls in the sunlight. The base curves gracefully, mimicking the sleek silhouette of a manta ray, with subtle fins extending outward that seem to ripple like living water when the chariot moves.

The wheels are crafted from hardened sea glass, their translucent green and blue surfaces catching the light and casting delicate, watery reflections onto the ground. Barnacle-like designs swirl around the edges, and the spokes resemble carved waves crashing inward toward the axle.

The reins, made of braided seaweed interwoven with shimmering silver threads, attach to two powerful white horses pulling the chariot that appear to have galloped straight out of a crashing wave. Inside the chariot, the flooring is lined with polished abalone shells for footing, their pearlescent sheen reflecting subtle rainbows.

As Melia climbs aboard the chariot, she can’t help but notice the unnerving number of pigeons roosting in the trees surrounding the track. Their incessant metallic screeching grows louder, making the entire forest rustle ominously. Unlike the other campers, who seem to ignore the birds as just another Camp Half-Blood oddity, Melia keeps a wary eye on them. Something about their shiny, too-bright eyes and unnervingly blinking beaks sends a chill down her spine.

The stench doesn’t help either—a mix of rust, rot, and feathers that turns her stomach. She shakes it off as she takes the reins, guiding their chariot to the starting line. Handing the reins to Eve, Melia picks up the ten-foot pole. “Just focus on keeping to the path,” she instructs. “I’d like to win, but I have a feeling those demon birds are going to do something.”

Eve groans, rolling her eyes dramatically. “And here I was hoping to show off a bit.”

Melia smirks. “Trying to impress your girlfriend?” she teases, ducking swiftly to avoid the playful swipe of Eve’s hand. They both laugh, but the tension remains thick in the air.

As the chariots line up, the birds seem to grow more agitated, their screeches escalating into a cacophony. The trees shake as more of the shiny-eyed creatures gather, their movement almost synchronised as if guided by some unseen force. The noise is loud enough that even the campers in the stands start to glance nervously at the woods. Tantalus, however, appears unbothered. Standing at the judge’s table with a platter of pastries, he barely raises his voice to shout the starting command.

“Charioteers! Attend your mark!” Tantalus bellows, though his focus is on chasing a chocolate éclair across the table. “Go!”

The signal drops, and the chariots burst into action. Hooves thunder against the dirt track, and the crowd roars their excitement. The Poseidon chariot surges forward, their horses pulling with a strength and grace that speaks of the ocean’s power.

Almost immediately, chaos erupts.

A loud, nasty crack echoes through the air as the Apollo chariot flips, its golden frame colliding with the Hermes chariot. Whether it is sabotage or a reckless manoeuvre, the result is disastrous. The drivers are thrown free, and their panicked horses drag the wreckage diagonally across the track. The Stoll brothers from Hermes’ cabin laugh—until their own chariot flips, leaving a tangle of shattered wood and four rearing horses in the dust.

Two chariots down in the first twenty feet.

Eve drives with precision, pulling them ahead of the Ares chariot, but Annabeth’s Athena chariot has already made the first turn, her fighter waving a javelin triumphantly. The Hephaestus chariot is gaining fast, Beckendorf at the reins.

Beckendorf presses a button, and a panel on his chariot slides open. “Sorry, Melia!” he calls, grinning wickedly. Three spiked balls and chains shoot out, aimed at their wheels.

Melia swings her pole with practised ease, deflecting the projectiles while Eve pushes the white horses to run faster. One of the balls clips the Hephaestus chariot instead, sending it wobbling dangerously. Beckendorf fights to regain control, but the chariot veers off course and slams into a line of trees, exploding in a small mushroom cloud of smoke and flame.

“Birds!” Eve yells.

Melia’s head snaps up just in time to see the Stymphalian birds dive-bombing the stands. Thousands of them swarm like a black cloud, their metallic feathers glinting ominously in the sunlight. Their screeches become deafening as they attack indiscriminately, pecking, clawing, and biting at campers.

Vines erupt from the ground, forming a protective barrier over the spectators, but the birds are relentless, tearing through the defence with sharp beaks and razor-like wings. In the Ares chariot, Clarisse barks orders, her fighter throwing a camouflage net over their basket. The birds claw and peck at the netting, but Clarisse drives on, her skeletal horses immune to the attack. The pigeons swoop through their rib cages to no effect.

“Stymphalian birds!” Annabeth shouts, pulling her chariot alongside Melia’s. “They’ll strip everyone to bones if we don’t stop them!”

“Eve, turn us around!” Melia orders.

Eve groans about going the wrong way but obeys, steering the chariot into the chaos.

Annabeth follows. “Heroes to arms!” she yells, though her voice is nearly drowned out by the screeching birds and the panicked cries of campers.

Melia uncaps Riptide as a wave of birds descends on their chariot. She slashes through them, the celestial bronze slicing cleanly. Feathers and metallic dust explode in her wake, but for every bird she strikes down, more take their place. One slams into her back, its beak scraping across her shoulders. Her scales deflect most of the damage, but the impact sends a sharp jolt of pain down her spine.

Annabeth isn’t faring much better. Her fighter is using his javelin to fend off the birds, but the sheer number overwhelms them. The closer they get to the stands, the thicker the swarm becomes.

Archers from the Apollo cabin fire into the mass, but with so many campers mixed in, their shots are limited. Athena campers call for shields, forming a defensive line, but even they struggle to hold their ground.

At the center of the stands, Dionysus stands, his arms outstretched, ivy curling up from his fingers, around his waist, and down to his feet. His presence radiates power, but it is a power stretched thin. His eyes shimmer with an unsettling madness and despair, a reflection of the god’s strained connection to his domain. Around him, younger campers huddle together, unable to protect themselves. The god’s vines form a barrier, spearing through swarms of attacking birds and tossing their lifeless forms back, but the Stymphalian horde is unrelenting.

Melia can feel Dionysus’ weakening aura even from her chariot. His form flickers at the edges, like a mirage under a scorching sun, a clear sign of the toll being far from his domain is taking. The air around him pulses with exhaustion, and Melia’s heart sinks. If even a god is faltering, what hope do they have?

“Too many!” Melia yells, her voice laced with frustration as she hurls another wave of water slicing through the birds. “How did Heracles handle these pests?!”

Melia uncaps her water bottle, sending a stream of water slicing through the birds with precision. 

“He used noise! Brass balls! He scared them off with horrible sounds!” Annabeth yells back, slashing at a diving bird with her knife. Her stormy eyes widen with realisation. “Melia! Chiron’s collection!”

The idea clicks. “That’ll work!” Melia shouts. “Hop on!”

Without hesitation, Annabeth passes the reins to her fighter and leaps from her chariot into Melia’s with a fluid grace. “To the Big House! It’s our only chance!” she orders as Eve passes the reigns to Melia while leaping off the chariot with her twin axes.

“Clarisse!” Melia barks as they veer toward the house. Clarisse, who has just crossed the finish line with a triumphant smirk, notices the chaos for the first time. “Help Dionysus protect the kids!”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” she snaps back with no real heat as she's already drawing her sword and charging toward the stands. Her skeletal horses snarl as they continue their steady gallop. Her charge leads her towards Eve, their combined fury carving a path toward the vulnerable campers.

Melia’s chariot rumbles across the strawberry fields, past the volleyball pit, and screeches to a halt in front of the Big House. She and Annabeth leap off, tearing through the doors and down the hall to Chiron’s apartment. His familiar collection of music sits on the nightstand, along with the boom box. Melia grabs the most obnoxious-looking CD—a gaudy cover featuring violins and men in dramatic Italian poses—while Annabeth snatches the boom box. They bolt back outside, determination etched into their faces.

The track is a warzone. Chariots lie in flames, their drivers scattered. Campers dart in every direction, wounded and bleeding, their cries mingling with the metallic screeches of the birds. Dionysus, now at the stables, has gathered the youngest campers, ushering them to safety. His vines lash out sporadically, no longer precise but still deadly. Clarisse and Eve fight back-to-back, their faces grim and bodies moving with lethal efficiency. Beckendorf and his fighter, free of their destroyed chariot, swing their hammers with brutal force, each strike shattering bird after bird. Lucia, Ellie and Ryan fight with fury, their weapons stabbing and swiping at the birds as they get close or directing water up to strike at the birds in the air, cracking their metal wings. Silena, Drew and a couple of the other Aphrodite campers stands protecting the younger campers that couldn't get to the stables, their weapons slashing out, daggershidden under clothes or in their hair proving their use.

They skid to a stop at the finish line. Annabeth sets the boom box down and jams the CD in, her fingers trembling. Melia prays the batteries aren’t dead.

The music blares to life—a cacophony of violins and men moaning in dramatic Italian. The effect is instantaneous. The Stymphalian birds screech in fury and confusion, spiraling into chaos. They collide midair, their patterns disrupted, and then begin fleeing the area in frantic swarms.

“Now!” Annabeth yells. “Archers!”

Apollo’s archers rise as one, their bows already drawn. With clear targets, their arrows fly true, striking the retreating birds with unerring accuracy. Melia continues to slash at the few stubborn stragglers, Riptide a blur of celestial bronze. Dionysus’ vines snap back into action, impaling and tossing the remaining birds like discarded toys.

Within minutes, the sky clears. The ground is littered with the metallic remains of the defeated birds, their feathers gleaming faintly in the sunlight. The surviving birds vanish over the horizon, a distant black smear against the sky. The camp is safe, but the aftermath is devastating.

The track is a mess of broken wood and smoldering wreckage. Injured campers sit in small groups, tending to one another’s wounds. Despite the victory, the air hangs heavy with exhaustion and unease.

“Bravo!” Tantalus’ grating voice cuts through the silence. He strides to the finish line, completely ignoring the carnage. “We have our first winner!” He places the golden laurels on a stunned-looking Clarisse, who stares at him in disbelief.

Then Tantalus turns, his smirk twisting into something far more infuriating. “And now, to punish the troublemakers who disrupted this race.”

Melia’s grip on Riptide tightens. If looks could kill, Tantalus would be dead a thousand times over. Even Clarisse, still holding the laurels, glances at him with barely contained rage.

“Go chase a donut!” Melia snaps, her voice dripping with disdain. She moves to help a camper to their feet, dismissing Tantalus entirely. Others follow her lead, ignoring the man as if he were no more than an annoying fly.

Tantalus sputters, spouting threats about kitchen patrol. Lucia steps in front of him, her glare daring the former prisoner to come closer. Tantalus falters, retreating with a muttered curse.

Melia turns her attention to Dionysus, who sits slumped where he had been standing. His once-vibrant purple eyes are now dull, and the vines around him droop, curling back toward his body like wilting plants.

“Dionysus?” she asks gently, crouching beside him. “Are you okay?”

The god doesn’t respond, his exhaustion evident. Melia’s heart clenches. “Pollux! Castor!” she calls.

The twins rush over, their faces pale. Castor kneels by their father, his voice soft. “Dad?”

“Get him to the Big House,” Melia orders. “And bring him something to drink… something… potent.”

Pollux nods and darts away, leaving Castor to help his father to his feet. As they guide Dionysus toward the house, Melia whispers a quiet prayer. “Lady Ariadne, if you can hear me, he needs you now.”

A faint hum answers her, like a thread unspooling in the back of her mind. It isn’t much, but it’s enough. She exhales, standing to survey the wreckage one last time. The camp may be battered, but they’re still standing. For now, that will have to be enough.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XXIII

~~~~ Sea of Monsters ~~~~

Melia spends the next several hours helping campers to and from the infirmary, doing her best to avoid the agitated Apollo kids as they work tirelessly to patch everyone up. The scene is a chaotic medley of cries, clinking vials, and the sharp scent of antiseptic mingling with herbs and something faintly metallic. One of the younger Apollo campers, Will, exudes a mixture of competence and intensity that belies his age. He catches her in the act of dropping off another camper and glares sharply.

"You’ve been limping," Will snaps, his voice as sharp as the scalpel in his hand. "And those cuts on your shoulder? When exactly were you planning to mention them?"

Melia stares at him, caught off guard by the sudden scrutiny. The kid can’t be more than ten, but he commands authority in a way that’s both impressive and mildly terrifying. She raises her hands in mock surrender, a sheepish grin tugging at her lips.

“Didn’t want to interrupt the miracle worker,” she teases, her tone light, though she’s clearly worn from the day.

Will’s glare intensifies, somehow managing to look both exasperated and authoritative. “Sit. Down.” His tone brooks no argument, and Melia relents, plopping onto a nearby bench with a wince. The younger camper immediately gets to work, dabbing at her wounds with a paste that smells suspiciously like liquid fire. She winces but doesn’t protest, finding his bossy demeanor more amusing than irritating.

By the time the sun begins to set, painting the sky in rich hues of orange and purple, the special banquet celebrating a sour-faced Clarisse has come and gone. Melia barely has a moment to breathe before Tantalus corners her, Annabeth, and Eve, assigning them to kitchen duty as punishment for “disrupting” the chariot race.

The underground kitchen is warm, the heat of the lava pits offering a strange but welcome comfort despite the unrelenting task of scrubbing dish after dish. Cleaning harpies scuttle about, muttering and squawking as they scrub cauldrons and stacks of plates. Despite the unpleasant chore, Melia finds solace in the chance to talk with Annabeth uninterrupted.

Annabeth’s storm-grey eyes flicker with thought as she scrapes a plate clean. “If Grover’s really found it,” she murmurs, her voice low, “and if we could retrieve it—”

“Then it could help Thalia,” Melia finishes, rinsing another plate and tossing it into the lava stream with a satisfying hiss.

Annabeth nods, though her movements are mechanical as her mind churns through possibilities. “Melia, remember the Gray Sisters? They said they knew the location of the thing you seek. And they mentioned Jason. Three thousand years ago, they told him how to find the Golden Fleece. You do know the story of Jason and the Argonauts?”

Melia shrugs, waving her hand in a so-so motion. “Kind of. Mum told me once, but I might’ve been distracted by a ship design she was sketching at the time. We focused on other myths.”

Annabeth rolls her eyes, though there’s a flicker of a smile at the corner of her lips. She launches into a detailed retelling of the myth, her voice steady and sure. As she speaks, fragments of the story begin to align in Melia’s mind, though they’re distant and faint, like echoes of another life.

“Actually,” Melia interrupts, “I think it was Phryxus and Helle, not Cadmus and Europa.”

Annabeth pauses, staring at her with raised eyebrows.

“Sorry,” Melia coughs, “River hyper-fixation. Anyway, Grover finds the Fleece while looking for Pan, and it’s being guarded by Polyphemus. Great. Classic Cyclops territory.”

“It’s almost too perfect,” Annabeth says, her voice tinged with suspicion. “The tree gets poisoned, and then the one item that can save it just happens to resurface? It could be a trap.”

Melia meets her gaze, her expression resolute. “What choice do we have? We can’t lose Thalia’s tree, and I’m not losing Grover. Are you going to help me or not?”

Before Annabeth can respond, Eve speaks up, her usual confidence faltering slightly. “Melia,” she says carefully, “you’ll have to fight Polyphemus. Are you sure about this?”

Melia shrugs, her expression calm but determined. “It’s Grover and a chance to help camp. I have to try.”

But as she says the words, her stomach twists with unease. Memories of her mother’s stories about Polyphemus rush forward unbidden—tales of the Cyclops’s brutality, his cunning traps, and his vengeful hunger. And then there are the flashes of her own memories, adding emotional weight behind the stories, the names no longer just names but people she knew. The Sea of Monsters wasn’t just a place; it was a crucible of terror and loss, a place where legends faltered and were reforged. Odysseus sailed and survived; now, she had to as well.

Eve’s concern deepens. “Melia, this isn’t just some random monster. This is Polyphemus. The one who nearly killed Odysseus. If you go after him, it’s not just about bravery. It’s about survival.”

Melia forces a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know. But I’m not my father. And this isn’t just about me. Grover’s life is on the line, and if there’s even a chance we can save the tree and the camp, I’ll take it.” Her eyes seem to glow faintly, reflecting the molten light of the lava.

Eve hesitates, her hands gripping the edge of the sink. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. I’m not going to lose you to some overgrown, half-blind goat-eater.”

Melia’s grin softens into something more genuine. “You won’t. I’ve got you and Annabeth to back me up. Besides, I’ve faced worse, haven’t I?”

Annabeth frowns, worry creasing her brow. “We’ll have to talk to Tantalus, get approval for a quest. He’ll say no.”

“Probably,” Melia agrees, “but if we bring it up tonight at the campfire, in front of everyone, they’ll pressure him. He won’t be able to refuse. And if he does…” She pauses, her tone hardening with resolve. “I’m going anyway.”

Eve exchanges a glance with Annabeth, the weight of the situation settling heavily between them. Despite her reservations, Eve nods. “If you’re going, we’re going with you.”

Annabeth’s lips press into a thin line, but a glimmer of hope lights her eyes. “Maybe,” she says softly. “Let’s finish up here. Hand me the lava spray gun.”

Melia passes her the tool with a grin, the weight of their plan settling over her. Despite the looming danger, a spark of excitement hums beneath her skin. They have a plan. And for the first time since arriving at camp, she feels like they might just have a fighting chance.

That night at the campfire, Apollo’s cabin led the sing-along. They tried valiantly to lift the camp’s spirits, strumming their guitars and lyres, their golden voices weaving harmonies. But after the chaos of the afternoon’s bird attack, their efforts felt hollow. The campers sat scattered in a semicircle of stone steps, their energy as dim as the bonfire that flickered before them.

The bonfire, enchanted as always, mirrored the mood of the crowd. On a good night, it could soar twenty feet high, roaring in vibrant shades of purple and orange, so hot that marshmallows burst into flames without touching the skewers. But tonight, it was barely five feet tall, a sluggish mass of dull grey and pale yellow. The warmth was faint, the flames like washed-out memories. Even Hestia, the goddess of the hearth, would have despaired over the lackluster display.

Dionysus was still absent, his presence sorely missed. The god’s sardonic humour and occasional flicker of warmth usually offered some grounding to the campers. Without him, the atmosphere felt untethered, like a ship adrift in a stormy sea.

When the last song ended, a weak round of applause rippled through the campers before petering out entirely. Tantalus stepped forward, his gaunt frame backlit by the feeble flames. He clapped his hands with mock enthusiasm.

“Well, that was lovely!” he said, his voice dripping with insincerity. He played his usual game of “marshmallow chase,” fumbling a squishy white puff in the air until it finally landed in the fire with a pitiful hiss. “Now then! Some announcements about tomorrow’s schedule.”

“Sir,” Melia said, her voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade.

Tantalus’ eyes twitched. “Our kitchen girl has something to say?”

The campers didn’t laugh, the fire dimming another inch in response. The tension in the air was palpable.

Melia stood, her posture calm but unyielding. “We have an idea to save the camp.”

The fire snapped to bright yellow, its flames flickering higher. Whispers rustled through the campers like leaves caught in a sudden breeze.

Tantalus’ smile froze. “Indeed,” he said blandly. “And does this idea involve more reckless chariot racing?”

“The Golden Fleece,” Melia said, her voice steady. “We know where it is.”

The flames leapt to orange, a warm glow spreading through the amphitheatre. The campers leaned in, their attention riveted as Melia recounted her dream about Grover and Polyphemus. She spoke with clarity, her words painting vivid images of the trapped satyr and the immense power of the Fleece. Annabeth stepped in seamlessly, her tone passionate as she explained the Fleece’s miraculous properties and its potential to save Thalia’s tree.

“The Fleece can save the camp,” Annabeth concluded. “I’m certain of it.”

Tantalus waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. The camp doesn’t need saving.”

His words were met with incredulous stares. The silence stretched until even Tantalus’ confidence faltered. He added quickly, “Besides, the Sea of Monsters? That’s hardly an exact location. You wouldn’t even know where to look.”

Melia’s lips curled into a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Princess of the Sea, remember?”

Annabeth shot her a curious glance but said nothing.

“We need a quest,” Annabeth declared, her voice firm.

“Wait just a minute!” Tantalus barked, his composure cracking.

But the campers had already taken up the chant. “We need a quest! We need a quest!”

The fire roared to life, vibrant reds and golds licking the night sky as the chant grew louder. Tantalus raised his hands, his face a mask of fury and resignation.

“Fine!” he shouted, his voice barely audible over the din. “You brats want me to assign a quest? Very well! I shall authorise a champion to undertake this perilous journey to retrieve the Golden Fleece and bring it back to camp. Or die trying.”

A cheer erupted, campers clapping and shouting in celebration. But Melia stayed silent, watching Tantalus with narrowed eyes. Something about the man’s demeanour felt off, his forced cheerfulness masking something darker.

“I will allow our champion to consult the Oracle,” Tantalus continued, his tone smug. “And choose two companions for the journey. The champion is, of course, obvious. One who has the camp’s respect, who has proven resourceful in the chariot races and courageous in the defense of the camp. You shall lead this quest…Clarisse!”

The fire burst into a kaleidoscope of colours, a chaotic display of emotion surging through the campers. The Ares cabin erupted into cheers, their enthusiasm dampened only slightly by the general unease of the others. Clarisse’s expression shifted rapidly—shock, pride, and an undercurrent of fear warring for dominance. Finally, she squared her shoulders and stood.

“I accept this quest,” she said, her voice steady despite the tension in her posture.

Annabeth looked ready to argue, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to find the words.

“Excellent,” Tantalus purred, his gaze settling on Melia. “I see no objections?”

Melia’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. She began clapping, the sound sharp and deliberate. Her cabin followed suit, their applause ringing out in stark contrast to the grumbling from other corners of the camp. Slowly, the rest of the campers joined in, their congratulations for Clarisse masking the simmering tension beneath.

For a fleeting moment, fear flickered in Tantalus’ eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual smirk.

With a wave of his hand, Tantalus dismissed the gathering. Clarisse was sent to consult the Oracle, the fire extinguished with an abrupt hiss. Campers began dispersing into the dark, their voices hushed as they whispered about what the quest might mean for the camp’s future.

Melia lingered for a moment, her thoughts churning. She watched Clarisse disappear into the shadows, the weight of the camp’s survival resting on her shoulders. Despite the tension, Melia couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning. She clenched her fists, resolve hardening like steel in her chest. If the camp needed saving, she wouldn’t stand idly by.

~~

After a bit of restless tossing and turning, Melia gives up on trying to sleep. The cabin is quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of her siblings. She sighs and slips out of her bed, careful not to wake anyone. She pulls on her clothes—a worn but warm leather jacket, combat-style trousers, and sturdy boots—practical, comfortable, and ready for anything. A chill in the air tells her to be prepared. Grabbing her purple flannel shirt for an added layer of warmth, she steps outside, the cool night air immediately brushing against her face.

The camp feels different at night. Still, yet charged. The hum of the sea draws her toward it, and she finds herself at the beach, sitting down at the water’s edge. The tide laps gently against her boots. 

The smell of strawberries mingles with something sharper, fresher—a distinct presence approaching. She doesn’t need to turn to know who it is. The breeze shifts, and Hermes steps onto the sand beside her, his pace easy, his aura buzzing with restless energy. She looks up, letting her gaze wander over the stars scattered across the night sky.

“Beautiful, aren’t they, lil’ cuz?”

“Hermes,” she greets, her eyes still fixed on the stars. “They are.”

Hermes steps onto the sand beside her, the faint scent of envelopes and ink drifting in his wake. He’s dressed like a regular jogger, wearing nylon running shorts and a New York City Marathon T-shirt. His salt-and-pepper hair has more white than she remembers, giving him a slightly more weathered appearance.

“You want to sit down?” Melia asks, finally glancing at him.

Hermes chuckles and stretches, his grin sly and effortless. “Haven’t sat down in ages. Peace and quiet’s just so hard to come by these days.”

“You need more free time,” she quips.

He opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by the buzzing of a cellphone. With an exaggerated sigh, he pulls it out, the screen glowing faintly blue. Extending the antenna reveals two tiny green snakes writhing around it, no bigger than earthworms. Hermes barely glances at them as he checks the display, muttering about a missing package and an irate customer.

Melia’s curiosity gets the better of her. She leans over and extends her hand toward the snakes. To her delight, they slither off the antenna and onto her fingers, their little tongues flicking like soft feathers against her skin.

While Hermes launches into a spirited phone argument with someone named Helen, Melia focuses on the snakes, marveling at the intricate patterns on their scales. “What are your names?” she asks softly.

"George", a raspy male voice says in her mind.

"Martha", a smoother female voice adds.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Melia.”

"We know," George says, a note of amusement in his voice. "You’re the hot topic on Olympus…and everywhere else!"

"George!" Martha scolds.

“Good to know,” Melia replies dryly. A grin spreads across her face. “Say, know anything embarrassing about Hermes—”

“Aaaaand, back to me you go!” Hermes scoops the snakes up, depositing them back on the antenna.

"Nooooooo", George whines. "We like the girl."

“Uh-huh,” Hermes says, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure it’s not just because you want to spill all my embarrassing moments.”

"Of course not," Martha insists. "We would never."

Melia snickers at the disbelief etched on Hermes’ face as he snaps the antenna shut, the snakes disappearing along with it. He tucks the phone back into his pocket. “Where were we?… Ah, yes. Peace and quiet.”

He sinks down beside her, crossing his ankles as he looks up at the sky. “Been a long time since I’ve gotten to relax. Ever since the telegraph—rush, rush, rush. Do you have a favourite constellation, Melia?”

She tilts her head, considering. “I’m not sure,” she admits. “I’ve thought about it, but none feel right, I don’t think any ever have. I am fond of some that I know help with navigation.”

Hermes hums thoughtfully. “What an interesting answer. So, what now?”

Melia doesn’t hesitate. “I’m going to find the Fleece,” she says firmly. “I’m going to save Grover, save Thalia, and hopefully save camp.”

Hermes’ expression softens, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. Before he can respond, Martha’s muffled voice cuts through the moment: "I have Demeter on line two."

“Not now,” Hermes says, exasperated. “Tell her to leave a message.”

"She’s not going to like that," George chimes in from his pocket. "Remember the last time? All the flowers in the floral delivery division wilted."

“Just tell her I’m in a meeting!” Hermes waves dismissively before turning back to Melia. “Sorry about that.”

“When was the last time you had a vacation?” she asks, curious.

Hermes waves his hand in a vague gesture. “So you know what to do, why’re you still here then?” Hermes asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp, measuring.

“Rushing off without a plan is just inviting failure,” Melia replies, her voice steady. “I need supplies, people, and maybe a little divine help.”

Hermes hums, leaning back slightly, his gaze never leaving her. “Ah, a strategist. Always refreshing. Well, if you’ve got a plan, why don’t you go ahead and share it then?”

Melia raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re here, Hermes? Seems like you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

Hermes chuckles, the sound light but layered with something more serious. “Well, it’s a little bit dangerous. You can not get away with playing safe for this. If you want to save camp, put it all on the line. Remember every trick in your domain for this. Be dangerous.”

“Alright, I’m in. what have you got?” Melia asks with a confident smirk that strikes Hermes for a moment as he remembers when he offered another a similarly dangerous plan. 

“First up uncharcted waters. When lost, look to the north star. When danger greets you with a smile, fight your way through; do what you must do. But no matter what, keep moving. It’s going to be dangerous. You can not get away with playing safe for this, you want to save camp, put it all on the line. And lastly, I come bearing gifts.”

He pulls out his phone, the screen glowing a brilliant blue. It stretches, shifting into a three-foot-long wooden staff crowned with dove wings and two entwined green snakes—George and Martha. The staff glows faintly, emanating ancient power.

Martha stretches lazily, her voice raspy but pleasant. “Ah, it’s nice to stretch after so long.”

“Martha,” Hermes says, his eyes twinkling, “the first gift, please.”

Martha’s mouth opens wide—far wider than it should. She belches out a stainless steel canister, an old-fashioned thermos adorned with red and yellow Ancient Greek scenes of Heracles in his famous labours.

Melia’s expression tightens briefly as her eyes settle on the imagery. “Heracles,” she says with a hint of bitterness, the name tasting like brine on her tongue.

Hermes grins, unbothered. “A collector’s item! Back from the first season of Heracles Busts Heads.”

George chuckles. “Or it would be if it hadn’t been in Martha’s mouth.”

“I’ll get you for that,” Martha huffs, chasing George around the caduceus.

“Go on,” Hermes urges Melia, ignoring the squabbling snakes. “Pick it up.”

Melia takes the thermos, feeling its strange duality—one side freezing cold, the other blisteringly hot. The sensation pulls at her, like the thermos itself is alive, its opposing forces mirroring her own internal conflict. As she turns it, the cold side always aligns north, a quiet, persistent guidance. Her eyes light up momentarily in realisation. “A compass!”

Hermes looks genuinely surprised. “Clever. I never thought of that. But its intended use is a bit more dramatic. Uncap it, and you’ll release the four winds to speed your way. Just… don’t open it all at once. The winds are a lot like me—restless.”

The faint smile on Melia’s lips falters, then fades completely. Realisation dawns like a heavy storm cloud. Her grip tightens on the thermos until her knuckles turn white. Her voice drops to a haunted whisper, the words slipping out in Ancient Greek. “You’ve given me the wind bag.”

Hermes’s easy demeanour cracks. He freezes, watching her carefully.

The weight of the memory crashes over Melia, vivid and unrelenting. The image of Odysseus rises in her mind: his weary smile as he entrusted the bag of winds to his crew. She remembers the betrayal—their greed, their doubt—how it stretched his journey and cost him precious time with Penelope and Telemachus. Her chest tightens with an aching sense of loss, the sting of a life ended before she ever saw her father return home. She feels the echo of that pain, raw and jagged, as if it happened yesterday.

Her hands tremble, and the thermos feels heavier than it should, like it carries the weight of a cruel joke played on her by fate. It mocks her—this relic of another life, this cursed symbol of trust broken and time stolen. Her voice is tight when she finally speaks, the pain barely contained. “Why would you give me this?”

“Melia,” Hermes says softly, his voice devoid of its usual levity. “You are not bound by their mistakes. You have the wisdom of many lives.”

She exhales shakily, trying to ground herself in the present. The past claws at her, but she refuses to let it take hold. She nods, though the memory lingers like a shadow at the edge of her mind. Her voice is steadier now, but still cold. “What else?”

Hermes pulls out a small bottle of what looks like chewable vitamins. The bright plastic feels almost absurd in contrast to the weight of their conversation. “A taste of the power,” he says. “Don’t take one unless you really, really need it.”

Melia studies the bottle, the tension in her shoulders softening slightly as she examines it. “Moly,” she says flatly, recognising the fabled herb that had once saved Odysseus from Circe’s spell.

Hermes nods. “It’ll protect you from curses, spells, and other nasty surprises.”

Melia narrows her eyes. “Why are you helping me? Gifts like these aren’t free. Not in this family.”

Hermes’s smile turns melancholic. “Family,” he echoes. “That’s the point. I hope these gifts help you save many—Grover, Thalia’s tree, the camp… even Luke.”

The name hangs heavily between them.

Melia meets his gaze. “Luke made his choices. I can’t change that.”

“No,” Hermes agrees, his voice tinged with sorrow. “But family doesn’t give up on each other. Even when it hurts. Even when they… disappoint us.”

Melia’s eyes soften. “I won’t swear anything, Hermes. But I’ll try.”

The god’s shoulders relax, and he smiles. “That’s all I can ask. Good luck, Melia. And remember, we’re watching.”

With that, Hermes vanished in a rush of air, the faint scent of strawberries lingering behind him. In his place sat three yellow duffle bags, their surfaces clean and bright against the weathered dock.

Melia’s gaze lingered on the bags for only a moment before her hand drifted to her side, reassuring herself of the secure presence of her water flask. Her other hand brushed the small pouch on her belt where the winds were tucked away, sealed tight. The weight of the flask felt heavier than it should, and a ripple of unease spread through her. She couldn’t stop the memory of Odysseus from clawing its way forward—the crew’s fatal mistake, unleashing the chaos of the winds, and the price they paid for their carelessness. That cautionary tale had haunted her across lifetimes, a stark reminder of how easily power could spiral out of control. Her grip tightened on the pouch as if the extra pressure could keep the winds locked away. Unless absolutely necessary, she would not open it. Not when every advantage counted—and every risk carried the shadow of disaster.

She was still checking her equipment when the sound of footsteps reached her. Two figures approached quickly: Annabeth, her sharp grey eyes flickering with curiosity, and Ryan, who carried his usual calm demeanour.

“So,” Annabeth began, crouching down to inspect one of the bags. Her fingers brushed the owl-shaped keychain hanging from the zipper. “How are we doing this?”

Melia grinned in response, her eyes alight with mischief. “Like this.” Without another word, she stepped off the dock and into the water. The cool liquid swirled around her calves as she gazed down at her reflection. Leaning forward slightly, she spoke with the ease of someone having an everyday chat. “Hey, Mum, can I get a ride?”

For a moment, nothing happened. The surface of the water shimmered innocently under the sunlight. Then the air shifted, carrying with it the almost cloying sweetness of taffy and an electric hum of anticipation.

The waves began to churn, rolling forward with a gentle insistence that seemed to say, “Step back and behold.” Melia did as instructed, moving to the dock’s edge with an excited gleam in her eye. Annabeth and Ryan stood frozen, their attention riveted to the water’s surface.

Out of the waves, a sleek shape began to rise. At first, it was only a dark silhouette against the sea foam, but as it ascended, the details sharpened. A boat—no, a ship—emerged, its wooden hull polished to a gleaming finish. It grew larger and more defined with each passing second, until at last, a full-fledged sloop floated proudly before them.

The vessel was a marvel. Its main sail was a pristine white, emblazoned with the image of a blue-green trident above a black kraken. The kraken’s inky tendrils stretched outward, curling and reaching in every direction as though ready to grasp anything that dared challenge its might. The smaller sails were plain but crisp, complementing the intricate design of the main. Along the hull, carved in bold black letters, was a name in Greek:

Ανεμοστρόβιλος.

Hurricane.

Melia let out a low whistle, her hands on her hips as she surveyed the deck. “Thank you, Mum,” she murmured, her voice filled with quiet reverence. The ship was perfect—small and fast, built for speed and manoeuvrability. Exactly what they needed.

With an easy hop, she climbed aboard, her boots landing softly on the polished wooden planks. She turned to Annabeth and Ryan, her grin widening. “Shall we?”

The two didn’t hesitate. Annabeth grabbed her bag and followed, her movements quick and purposeful. Ryan trailed behind, his gaze still fixed on the impressive vessel.

As soon as they were all aboard, Melia placed her hand on the ship’s wheel, giving it a slight nudge. The response was immediate—the sails caught a gust of wind, and the Hurricane surged forward, slicing through the waves with effortless grace. The salty breeze filled their lungs, mingling with the thrill of adventure that crackled in the air.

Melia’s fingers tightened around the wheel, her heart pounding with exhilaration. She glanced back at her companions, her grin now tempered by determination.

Melia keeps the Hurricane pointed south, close enough that the coast is a speck in the distance. The boat responds to her touch like a living thing, thrumming beneath her feet. A thrill shoots up her spine as she guides it, as though she is part of the vessel itself. She can feel the water sloshing gently against its sides, the wind pulling the sails taut, and even the footsteps of Annabeth and Ryan as they explore the main cabin. It is exhilarating. Memories of a life at sea drift through her senses like the tide—vivid and bittersweet.

“There’s a ship,” Annabeth points out when she comes on deck.

Melia senses it miles ago but says nothing. Now, it is a faint spot on the horizon, barely discernible against the blue expanse. Despite its distance, the stench of monsters wafts toward her, acrid and sharp.

She adjusts their course, steering them farther from the coast.

“We don’t want to check it out?” Annabeth asks, noticing the subtle turn.

“Smells like monsters,” Melia murmurs.

Ryan nods in agreement. “It does.”

“I wish I could smell,” Annabeth mutters under her breath. Melia turns to her, curious.

“You can’t smell?” she asks. “Is that…an owl thing?”

“Owls can’t smell,” Annabeth replies, looking a little put out. “But I can hear and see very well.”

“That’s really cool,” Melia says with a grin. “That explains why you’re so hard to sneak up on.”

“Most people are just clumsy,” Annabeth retorts dryly.

The cruise ship fades into the distance, swallowed by the waves. Melia keeps an eye on it until it disappears completely.

“You guys might as well rest,” she says. “It’s a long trip.”

The others agree and retreat below deck. Left alone, Melia settles down, staring up at the clear blue sky. The salty breeze ruffles her hair as the boat rocks gently beneath her. Time slips away as the sky darkens, constellations blooming into view. Annabeth joins her briefly before heading back below. Ryan comes up later, sitting on the edge of the boat and looking utterly at peace as the sea spray ruffles his auburn hair.

“Melia.”

The voice jolts her from her reverie. Her first instinct is to glance toward the stairs, but then she realises it has come from the water.

“Over here,” her father chuckles.

She turns, her breath catching as she sees Poseidon. He stands at the edge of the boat, his dark blue chiton fluttering lightly in the breeze. His long, dark hair mirrors the kraken on their flag, and his presence is as vast and imposing as the ocean itself. Under the moonlight and stars, with only the faint glow of the deck lamp, he is terrifying in the way the sea is to those who do not call it home. But to her, he is no threat.

“Is everything alright?” Melia asks, shifting to face him fully. “I thought gods weren’t supposed to interfere with quests.”

Poseidon hums thoughtfully, leaning back over the side of the boat. Melia leans forward, glancing toward the cabin to ensure the others are occupied. Then, without hesitation, she slips into the water after him.

The sea envelops her, cool and familiar, and as she sinks deeper, her body begins to change. Her scales ripple out, shimmering softly in the water as her legs merge seamlessly into a powerful, glistening tail. She twirls to orient herself, her vision adjusting to the depths. Poseidon’s form glows like a beacon, almost too bright to look at. She commands the heat signatures in her vision to dim, embracing the dark instead. Her own eyes light the water with a faint bioluminescent blue, while the green glow of her father’s eyes illuminates the space around them.

“Before we get to that,” Poseidon begins, “Amphitrite asked me to pass on her thanks.”

Melia tilts her head in curiosity as he joins her, nudging her to follow the Hurricane as it drifts above them.

“She wanted to come herself,” Poseidon explains, “but she was caught up in Court matters. She’s been wanting to gift you this boat for years, and she’s quite pleased that you reached out to her for transport. She even won a bet over it.”

Melia’s laugh bubbles up, echoing in the water.

“As for this journey… Technically, you weren’t issued a quest,” Poseidon continues. “All of this is considered repayment.”

“Repayment?” Melia asks, reaching out to snag a piece of plastic drifting by with a frown. Poseidon watches her fondly.

“You’re not going to tell me,” Melia says, exasperated. “Fine. You gods and your secrets. I think you just like the entertainment.”

“We have to get it from somewhere,” Poseidon agrees.

Melia squints at him. He is acting…strange.

“Anyway,” she says, “I was wondering if there’s something you could do for me about a ship.”

Poseidon perks up. “Your ship? How is it? Does it run perfectly? I can—”

“Not mine,” Melia interrupts with a smile. “My ship’s perfect, thanks. But there was another we passed a few miles back. A white cruise ship with ‘Princess Andromeda’ on the side. It smelled terrible, like monsters-from-the-pit terrible. Ryan agreed. Could you check it out?”

Poseidon’s expression darkens. He straightens to his full height, tilting his head as his eyes dull. For a moment, it is as if he is elsewhere. Then he snaps back, his voice grim.

“Ah,” he says. “That is certainly…a problem.”

Melia snorts. “I’m guessing you can’t do anything about it?”

“There is influence around it that requires delicate handling,” Poseidon replies. “Should I attack head-on…”

“It might invite trouble,” Melia finishes for him. “So don’t attack it directly. We’re out at sea. Bad conditions happen all the time. Maybe send someone else…like Kymopoleia?”

Poseidon considers this. “She has been complaining about boredom, something about missing her star swimmer,” he admits with a smile. “She might enjoy this.”

Melia rolls her eyes but smiles. “I do have an unfair advantage over the others,” she admits.

“That you hold back from using as much as you can,” Poseidon says proudly. “And let me tell you a secret: your sister has been making it harder for you to swim. It’s all your own skill.”

Melia is left speechless as Poseidon swirls into a whirlpool and disappears. She huffs in frustration before swimming back to the surface.

Melia kept the Hurricane pointed south, close enough that the coast was a speck in the distance. The boat responded to her touch like a living thing, thrumming beneath her feet. A thrill shot up her spine as she guided it, as though she were part of the vessel itself. She could feel the water sloshing gently against its sides, the wind pulling the sails taut, and even the footsteps of Annabeth and Ryan as they explored the main cabin. It was exhilarating. Memories of a life at sea drifted through her senses like the tide—vivid and bittersweet.

Hours later, after following the weird smell of monsters, they stumbled upon a donut shop—and a battle.

“You are in so much trouble,” Clarisse smirks afterwards, her arms crossed triumphantly. Melia grins up at her, unrepentant.

Clarisse and her crew had swooped in just in time to save them from the hydra Melia had, admittedly, baited. “Monster Donut” had been too funny of a name to resist. Beneath them now, the old boat chugs along steadily. Melia can feel Ares’ influence over it, warring petulantly with her father’s. Even Hades has a faint hold on the ship, thanks to its ghostly crew. The situation feels like a strange game of tug-of-war: Ares is the eager dog pulling with all his might, Poseidon is the indifferent human casually holding the other end of the rope, and Hades is the amused observer lounging on a metaphorical couch.

Melia smirks to herself, filing the image away to share with Ares the next time she wants to annoy him.

They’d just finished an unplanned tour of the ship, wandering through dark, overcrowded rooms haunted by dead sailors. The air had been thick with salt and coal dust as they moved through the bowels of the ship: the coal bunker, the groaning boilers, and the rattling engine that seemed ready to explode at any moment. Clarisse’s favourite spot had been the gunnery deck, where two Dahlgren smoothbore cannons and a Brooke nine-inch rifled gun were stationed. All had been refitted to fire celestial bronze cannonballs, a detail that made her practically beam with pride.

Everywhere they went, ghostly Confederate sailors glared at them, their shimmering, bearded faces flickering over hollow skulls. Melia had amused herself by flashing her sharp teeth at any spirit who even considered speaking out. Clarisse’s intimidating glare did the rest.

When they were finally escorted to dinner, they found themselves in the CSS Birmingham captain’s quarters. The room was no bigger than a walk-in closet, but it felt luxurious compared to the rest of the ship. The table was set with white linen and fine china, laden with food that smelled blessedly free of curses.

“Tantalus expelled you for eternity,” Clarisse tells them, smirking over her Dr Pepper. “Mr. D said something about bottle-nosed dolphins and annoying instigators.”

Melia shrugs, brushing off the comment. “This ship…?” she prompts.

Clarisse laughs. “You think your daddy is the only one with sea power? The spirits on the losing side of every war owe tribute to Ares. It’s their curse for being defeated. I prayed to my father for naval transport, and here it is. These guys will do anything I tell them. Won’t you, Captain?”

The captain, standing stiffly behind her, glares at Melia with glowing green eyes that barely hide his hunger. “If it means an end to this infernal war, ma’am, peace at last, we’ll do anything. Destroy anyone.”

“Destroy anyone. I like that,” Clarisse says, smiling.

Ryan gulps audibly.

“Clarisse,” Annabeth interjects, her voice calm but firm, “we both want the same thing. We should join forces—”

“No!” Clarisse slams her fist on the table, making the china clatter. “This is my quest. I received the Oracle’s guidance, so I get to be the hero. You three will not steal my chance.”

“That’s fine,” Melia interrupts before Annabeth can argue further. “We’re not on a quest anyway. Just a trip.”

Clarisse scoffs. Melia shrugs again, keeping her tone light. “We just happen to be going in the same direction. You’re towing my boat, so if you could allow us to leave, we’ll be out of your hair.”

Clarisse narrows her eyes at her, and for a split second, Melia thinks she sees boar’s ears twitching in her hair. The moment passes, but her glare intensifies.

“No,” she says slowly. “No, you’re hiding something, Jackson. And you’re not leaving until I find out what, I’m not letting you mess this up for me..”

“So we’re prisoners?” Annabeth asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Guests. For now.” Clarisse props her feet up on the white linen tablecloth and pops open another Dr Pepper. “Captain, take them below. Assign them hammocks on the berth deck. If they don’t mind their manners, show them how we deal with enemy spies.”

The dream comes as soon as Melia drifts to sleep. She’s back in the cave with Grover, the damp air heavy with tension.

Grover is caught mid-struggle, his hands tangled in the unraveling fabric of his dress. Before either of them can react, the Cyclops grabs him. The beast is fifteen feet of pure menace, with jagged yellow teeth, hands gnarled like ancient roots and large enough to crush Melia’s entire body, and a single eye scarred and clouded with cataracts. It drags Grover outside, hauling him like a sack of grain.

They emerge onto a hilltop, and the sight takes Melia’s breath away. Below them sprawls the most beautiful island she has ever seen. It’s shaped like a saddle split in half by a giant ax, with lush green hills flanking a wide valley. In the center, a deep chasm splits the valley, spanned by a rope bridge that sways gently in the breeze. Streams of crystal-clear water roll to the canyon’s edge and tumble down in rainbow-coloured waterfalls, their spray painting the air with iridescence. Parrots flash through the trees in brilliant bursts of colour. Pink and purple flowers blanket the bushes, releasing a sweet, intoxicating fragrance. In the meadows, hundreds of sheep graze serenely. Their wool shimmers like copper and silver, though the monster smell emanating from them sets Melia’s teeth on edge.

At the heart of the island, next to the rope bridge, stands an enormous twisted oak tree. Something glittering hangs from its lowest branch, catching the sunlight like a beacon. Even from this distance, Melia feels its power. The Golden Fleece radiates life itself, making the grass greener and the flowers bloom brighter. The very air hums with vitality. It smells wild but warm—a sharp tang of nature mixed with a hint of Hermes’ scent.

Grover whimpers beside her.

“Yes,” Polyphemus says proudly, gesturing grandly toward the valley. “See over there? Fleece is prize of my collection! Stole it from heroes long ago, and ever since—free food! Satyrs come from all over the world, like moths to flame. Satyrs good eating! And now…”

He lifts a wickedly sharp pair of bronze shears, the metal glinting ominously. Grover yelps, but Polyphemus only picks up a sheep as if it weighs nothing and begins shearing it. The wool comes away in a thick, fluffy mass, which the Cyclops thrusts into Grover’s arms.

“Put that on the spinning wheel!” Polyphemus commands. “Magic. Cannot be unraveled.”

Grover stares at the wool in horror, his expression caught somewhere between panic and despair.

“Poor Honeypie!” Polyphemus laughs, patting the freshly shorn sheep. “Bad weaver. Ha-ha! Not to worry. That thread will solve problems. Finish wedding train by tomorrow!”

Grover’s lips tremble, but he manages a weak smile. “Thoughtful,” he chokes out. “But…but dear, what if someone were to…attack this island?”

As he speaks, he glances directly at Melia. She nods subtly, urging him on with a small gesture.

“What would keep them from marching right up here to your cave?”

Polyphemus’s grotesque face twists into something resembling affection. “Wifey-scared! So cute! Not to worry. Polyphemus has state-of-the-art security system. Have to get through my pets.”

“Pets?” Grover asks, his voice shaking. He looks out across the island, but all he can see are the peacefully grazing sheep.

Melia’s stomach churns. She has a sinking feeling she knows what Polyphemus means.

Before she can dwell on it, Grover is dragged back to the cave, his protests muffled by the Cyclops’s booming laugh. The boulder begins to roll into place, sealing the cave once more. Melia feels herself being pulled from the dream, the grinding sound of stone following her into wakefulness.

Her eyes snap open, her heart pounding. The smell of damp earth and monster wool lingers, ghostlike, in her mind.

Alarm bells blare throughout the ship, their metallic clang reverberating through the iron walls.

The captain’s gravelly voice booms: “All hands on deck! Find Lady Clarisse! Where is that girl?”

Moments later, his ghostly face materializes above Melia, spectral and stern. “Get up, Yankee. Your friends are already above. We are approaching the entrance.”

Melia knows—she can feel it deep in her bones, a primal warning that the world is shifting. She quickly gathers their belongings, slinging her pack over her shoulder as she heads upstairs. She doesn’t make it far before the sensation hits her like a wave.

The stench of blood floods her senses, so overwhelming it feels as though she’s drowning in it. Her knees buckle, and she collapses to the floor, claws scraping against the cool metal as she struggles to breathe. She’s near the ventilation grate above the boiler deck, and the voice that drifts up freezes her in place. She doesn’t dare look to see the speaker; she already knows who it is. The tone is enough, dripping with menace and disdain, a reminder of someone who relishes intimidation over respect. Not a soldier, but a bully.

“…dangerous. I should’ve let one of my sons…”

Oh, gods, no. She’d faced him once on the beach, but that had been her domain. This is his ship, his dead, his daughter. Clarisse is his daughter. The one who now looms over them with the power of his name behind her.

He who once faced the Sea’s wrath to protect another daughter, now turning that same wrath on a new one.

Her head rings—or is that the alarms? She pushes herself to her feet, stumbling up to the spar deck and sucking in lungfuls of thick, humid air. The cloying scent of blood clings to her like a second skin as she fights to clear her senses.

On deck, the sky is a dense gray, heavy with overcast clouds. The air feels oppressive, like steam from an iron, and visibility is poor. Even Melia struggles to make out the horizon.

But she doesn’t need to see to know.

“Charybdis,” Melia states, her voice tight. “And Scylla.”

Annabeth’s face drains of color. Clarisse comes from below decks, binoculars in hand, and nods grimly, confirming Melia’s words.

“Only way into the Sea of Monsters,” Clarisse says, pointing to the top of the cliffs. Melia’s gaze locks onto the shadow she already sensed. “Straight between Charybdis and her sister.”

“What about the Clashing Rocks?” Annabeth asks, desperation lacing her voice. “That’s another gateway. Jason used it.”

“I can’t blow apart rocks with my cannons,” Clarisse says bluntly. “Monsters, on the other hand…”

“You’re crazy,” Annabeth mutters, but there’s a trace of grudging respect in her tone.

“Watch and learn, Wise Girl.” Clarisse turns to the captain. “Set course for Charybdis!”

“Aye, m’lady.”

The engine groans, iron plating rattles, and the ship begins to pick up speed.

“Choose Scylla,” Melia says suddenly. “The four of us go below deck where she can’t get to us, and the Confederates keep her attention. They’re dead anyway, right? Everybody goes below deck, and we chug right past.”

Clarisse rounds on her, fury in her eyes. “They are under my command! I don’t care if they’re already dead, no one is getting sacrificed.” She takes a sharp breath. “Charybdis is asleep right now. She only surfaces three times a day. You can’t… you can’t time it because time’s weird in there, but more likely than not, we sail right over her. No one is dying, okay? And if she wakes up, she gets a mouthful of my cannons.”

Melia shakes her head, her voice distant. “Some lives sacrificed, and we steam straight ahead. Do what we must to survive. To make it home.” Her gaze locks onto the entrance, vacant yet determined.

For a moment, she imagines what it must have been like for Odysseus. Standing on the deck of his ship, torn between two impossible choices. To steer toward Scylla and sacrifice his men, or to risk everything against Charybdis and likely lose them all. She can almost see him there, his knuckles white on the tiller, every scream of his crew cutting into him like a blade. Did he see their faces as they were dragged away? Did he remember their names? Or had he made his peace with the price of leadership long before the sea tested him?

The thought twists in her chest, sharp and bitter. Below them, the water churns violently against the ship, a warning written in the waves. The waters offer her no comfort here—her father will not interfere. The whispers grow louder, threading through her mind like an invasive tide:

*Little Sister, little Sister, tiny Sister, little not-quite-mortal half-Sister…*

*Are you there? Are you there? Are you there?*

She wishes, for just a moment, that she could answer. But the low croon that escapes her lips is pitiful, unable to reach the frequencies or the language they speak.

*Poor little Sister, unable to reply, poor little Sister, should not have come here…*

*Are you there? Are you there? Are you there?*

“Ryan,” Melia forces through gritted teeth, her voice strained but steady. “I want you to get on our boat and go below deck.”

“Melia?” Ryan whispers, his usually calm expression shaken by the look on Melia’s face. There is something raw in her eyes, something he’s never seen before—a mix of fear, determination, and something darker she won’t name.

Melia places her hands on his shoulders, easing him back. She smooths out the worry etched across his features, her touch gentle but firm. “I’m okay,” she assures him. “Please, I don’t want you hurt. The ship will protect you. And we might need a backup plan.”

For a moment, Ryan simply stares at her, as if he can’t quite make out who he’s looking at. Though his eyes are fixed on Melia, it’s as if he’s seeing something else entirely—a flicker of something ancient and untouchable. The wind picks up, whipping around them, carrying the salty tang of the sea and the low, crooning whispers that haunt her ears.

*Little sister, little sister?*

*Are you there?*

The voices pull at her, digging into the corners of her mind like claws. She can almost feel their touch, cold and wet, pressing against her temples. She bites down on the panic rising in her chest.

“Please,” Melia pleads again, her voice trembling as she tries to block out the whispers.

Ryan steps forward and hugs her tightly. “I will go,” he says softly. His arms linger around her for a moment, protective and steadying, before he pulls away. “Be careful.”

“I will,” Melia promises. She releases him and turns. “Annabeth—”

Annabeth immediately protests. “I’m not leaving.”

“Please,” Melia begs, her tone carrying an urgency that makes Annabeth pause. She looks at Melia, her stormy eyes searching, the wind whipping her hair in every direction. Whatever Annabeth sees in Melia’s face, it’s enough to still her argument.

Annabeth finally nods, though her reluctance is clear. “What about Clarisse?”

“I’ll get her,” Melia says firmly. “Go.”

She doesn’t look back, but she knows the moment they’re off the CSS Birmingham and aboard her ship. The air feels different without their presence, lighter but lonelier. The absence of her friends leaves a hollow ache she doesn’t have time to address.

Melia focuses ahead. She can’t fight Charybdis for control of the water—not now. This is not her sea. But ships… ships are not under Charybdis’ control.

Clarisse’s voice cuts through the chaos, barking orders at her ghostly crew. They’ve gotten too close, pulled into the whirlpool’s grasp. The sea churns violently, waves crashing over the deck. The ship’s cannons fire uselessly at Charybdis, and the monstrous whirlpool spits the projectiles right back, toying with them, pushing them closer to Scylla’s waiting jaws.

“Clarisse!” Melia shouts as an explosion rocks the ship below. “Come on!”

Clarisse growls in frustration, her face twisted with rage. “Abandon ship!” she roars. “To the lifeboats!”

Melia plants her feet on the deck, grounding herself. She can feel it—the pull of conflicting forces: Ares, Hades, Poseidon. Their ownership of the ship spirals around her, clashing, refusing to meld. She closes her eyes and imagines herself as water: fluid, unassuming, but powerful when stirred. Gentle waves lap at the edges of her mind as she slips between their powers, searching… searching…

There.

It’s control, something she shouldn’t be able to see, shouldn’t be able to touch. But she’s never been good at following rules. Her mind locks onto it, and she tugs.

The ship lurches as Melia wrests it from War’s hands. Her heart twists painfully, and a scream catches in her throat as her knees buckle. The strain is unbearable, but she forces herself up, pushing the ship forward with sheer will. It’s falling apart beneath her, disintegrating from the inside out, but she holds it together just long enough to break free of Charybdis’ grasp and sail past Scylla’s shadow.

They’ve made it. The strait is behind them, but the echoes of the monsters linger.

The whispers return, louder now, clawing at her consciousness.

*Little sister, little half-sister, look at what you did, look how strong you are…*
*Are you there? Are you there? Are you there?*

Her vision swims, the voices weaving through her mind like currents. She can feel their hunger, their delight, and their twisted admiration. They’re watching her, circling her, waiting for her to falter.

A shudder wracks Melia’s body. The metal beneath her grows scalding hot, searing her palms. Her breath comes in short gasps as she clings to the last threads of her strength. With a guttural cry, she stumbles to the edge of the ship and throws herself into the burning sea.

The water engulfs her instantly, a searing embrace that feels more like fire than liquid. She sinks, her muscles trembling, her vision darkening. But even here, beneath the waves, the whispers follow.

*Poor little sister, lost little sister, the sea does not belong to you…*
*Are you there? Are you there? Are you there?*

Melia’s mind drifts, the pain ebbing as exhaustion takes hold. For a fleeting moment, she wonders if this is how it ends, swallowed by a sea that isn’t hers, claimed by forces she cannot fight.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XXIV
  
~~~~ Sea of Monsters ~~~~

Melia wakes slowly, the gentle sway of her boat lulling her out of a restless sleep. She’s carefully tucked into the captain’s bunk, the smell of sea salt and wood polish grounding her in the present. As her senses sharpen, she notices Ryan sitting nearby, fiddling nervously with something in his lap.

“Ryan?” she croaks, her voice hoarse. Her brother jumps as if startled from deep thoughts.

“Melia!” he nearly booms, his usual calm shattered by relief. “You’re awake!”

He scrambles onto the bed, pulling her into a hug. His hands are gentle, but the tightness of his grip betrays how much he’s been holding in.

“Yeah,” Melia whispers, her throat aching. “What happened?”

Ryan doesn’t seem ready to let go, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “The boat blew up,” he murmurs, the words heavy with guilt and fear. “We were pushed far from the explosion, couldn’t find you. I thought…” His voice cracks, the next words barely audible. “Thought you were dead.”

“‘M sorry, Ryan,” Melia sighs, patting his back reassuringly. “Not dead.” She waves her hand in front of his face weakly as if to prove her point.

Ryan sniffles and wipes at his face, trying to regain his composure. “Good,” he says, his voice firmer now. “The sea… it’s not happy.”

With Ryan’s help, Melia manages to stand, though her legs feel like jelly beneath her. Together, they step out onto the deck, where the sunlight stings her eyes and the breeze tugs at her hair. It feels surreal to be upright again.

Clarisse is the first to spot her. “Well, well,” she drawls, smirking. “Seaweed Head lives.”

“Clarisse,” Melia greets, her voice still scratchy.

“You idiot,” Annabeth scolds, striding up to her and wrapping her in a hug before Melia can protest.

“Hi to you too, Annabeth,” she says, chuckling softly. Annabeth pulls back, frowning in disapproval.

“Whoops?” Melia offers sheepishly.

Clarisse snorts with laughter while Annabeth shakes her head, clearly unimpressed. The two girls have been poring over maps laid out on a makeshift table, their animated debate filling the air. Melia joins them slowly, lowering herself to sit with deliberate care. The murmurs of their argument wash over her like a soothing tide.

The peace feels fragile, like the calm after a storm. Charybdis and Scylla are far behind them, but the lingering tension of the Sea of Monsters seems to pull at something deep within. Melia notices the subtle changes in her companions: the faint scales shimmering on Ryan’s skin, the way Annabeth’s head tilts sharply as her owl-like focus zeroes in on details, the nearly invisible feathers blending into her blonde hair. Even Clarisse, ever composed, has an animalistic edge—her canine ears folded against her head, her movements fluid and precise.

Hours pass as they sail through the ever-changing waters of the Sea of Monsters. The ocean glows an unsettling shade of green, like the acidic blood of a Hydra, while the air carries a strange metallic tang that prickles at their senses. The breeze whispers of storms and danger, tension humming just beneath the surface.

“Where are we now?” Annabeth asks, her voice low as she studies the map.

“One hundred thirteen nautical miles west by northwest of our destination,” Melia replies, her eyes closed as she tilts her face to the sun. The warmth soothes her, a balm against the exhaustion weighing her down.

When she peeks an eye open, she finds Clarisse and Annabeth staring at her in stunned silence. Ryan, on the other hand, beams proudly.

“Uh… I mean, I don’t know?” Melia stammers, flustered.

Annabeth arches an eyebrow and promptly slaps a map onto the table in front of her. “What’s the name of this island?” she demands, pointing to a spot on the map.

Melia glances at it. “Delos.”

Annabeth points to another. “And this one?”

“Naxos.”

“And this?”

“Mykonos.”

Annabeth’s eyes widen with fascination. “Incredible,” she breathes.

“So she can read maps,” Clarisse grumbles, though there’s a grudging note of respect in her tone. “Whoop-de-doo.”

“Whoop-de-doo,” Melia echoes, smirking.

The girls return to their argument over navigation, leaving Melia to bask in the quiet hum of the ship. Their course takes them closer to an island that steadily rises on the horizon. Excitement builds as they near it, but Melia’s initial enthusiasm fades when the details come into focus.

The island is far more populated than expected for something in the Sea of Monsters. Bright white buildings gleam under the sun, and the harbor teems with a strange assortment of boats. The air smells sweet—too sweet, like the saccharine allure of the Lotus Hotel. It clings to Melia’s senses, a warning disguised as temptation.

As they dock, they’re greeted by a young woman in a crisp uniform. She looks like a flight attendant, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun, her polished smile exuding practiced hospitality. “Welcome! Is this your first time with us?” she chirps, clipboard in hand.

Melia’s instincts scream at her. This is a trap. She exchanges a wary glance with Annabeth, edging closer to the boat in case they need to make a quick escape.

“Since you’re first-timers, we’ll have to give you the full experience!” the woman continues brightly, her gaze sweeping over them. Her smile falters slightly as she looks at Ryan, her tone turning saccharine. “And a complete makeover for the young gentleman.”

Annabeth doesn’t seem to hear her. Her focus shifts to the architecture, her analytical mind dissecting the layout with a frown. Melia, meanwhile, can’t shake the sense of unease that prickles at her skin.

“You’ll need to be prepped before the feast later,” the woman says, gesturing for them to follow. “And I’m sure C.C. will want to welcome you personally.”

Reluctantly, they trail after her, the oppressive sweetness of the island pressing down on them. The landscape is deceptively serene, with pools carved from the stone of the mountain and waterfalls spilling into sparkling basins. Animals lounge in the sun, including a massive leatherback sea turtle dozing happily. Yet the perfection feels too crafted, too deliberate.

Melia catches a faint melody on the wind as they near the main building. The song weaves through the air, ancient and powerful, stirring images in the back of her mind. Her muscles ache less, her sunburned skin tingles with relief, but the magic feels invasive, like hands gently prying at her defenses.

Inside, the room seems infinite, with rows of mirrors and windows that stretch endlessly. Melia’s eyes snag on a large wire cage perched on a table, incongruous in its surroundings. Before she can dwell on it, her attention shifts to the source of the melody.

A woman sits at a loom, her hands deftly weaving threads that shimmer like sunlight on water. The tapestry depicts a cascading waterfall, so lifelike it feels as though it might spill out of the frame. She turns as they enter, her piercing green eyes locking onto them. Her smile is warm but knowing, as if she’s seen everything they’ve ever been and will ever be.

“Hello,” she says, her voice smooth as silk. “You may call me C.C.” Her gaze flickers to the attendant, her smile never faltering. “Who have you brought with you today, Hylla?”

“I’m Annabeth, this is Melia, Clarisse, and Ryan,” Annabeth says, her voice steady but with a slight bounce on the balls of her feet. There’s a wary curiosity in her tone as her gaze flicks between C.C. and Hylla.

C.C. gives them a long, appraising look. Her eyes sweep over Melia and Clarisse with a considering hum, but she barely spares Ryan a glance before turning back to their guide. “Hylla, finish taking the girls on the tour, please? They’ll need a full image consultation. We can discuss opportunities once I’m done with the young gentleman.”

Annabeth stiffens slightly, her shoulders drawing inward. “What’s wrong with how I look?” she asks, her voice a touch defensive.

“Oh, nothing at all,” C.C. assures her with a dazzling smile. “You have a wonderful foundation, my dear. But you’re not showing off your true potential! Besides, it’s clear that your journey has taken its toll. You deserve a little care and restoration.”

Hylla steps closer to Annabeth, her expression soft and inviting. “Doesn’t a good bath sound amazing? And we can help you tame your curls—get rid of the tangles, add some shine. How long has it been since you’ve used a proper product?”

Annabeth flushes, reaching self-consciously for the loose ponytail she’s hastily tied her hair into. “A bath does sound nice,” she admits hesitantly. “But… what about Ryan? Is he going to get treatment too?”

Melia and Clarisse, standing off to the side, exchange quick glances. Neither seems inclined to draw attention to themselves, content to let Annabeth take the spotlight for now. Clarisse crosses her arms and leans against the nearest column, her sharp eyes observing every movement. Melia shifts her weight, the unease from the island’s atmosphere creeping beneath her skin, though she keeps her expression neutral. Still, her thoughts churn restlessly, fragments of myths pressing at the edges of her mind. There’s something familiar about C.C.’s focus on Ryan, something that makes her stomach sink with a sense of impending dread. Stories of enchantresses who ensnared heroes, twisted their minds, and shaped them to their will whisper in her memory. Melia’s scales prickle faintly, her instincts screaming at her to remember the specifics. Is this Circe? She glances at Ryan again, his uncertainty mirroring her own. If it is, the implications are chilling. She forces herself to appear calm, but the sinking feeling in her chest is impossible to ignore.

“The young gentleman will be in excellent hands with me,” C.C. says smoothly. Her gaze flicks to Ryan, her tone warm but with an undertone of command. “I assure you, he’ll be very well cared for.”

Ryan looks uncertain, his hands gripping the straps of his backpack. He glances toward Melia, his eyes searching hers for reassurance. She gives him a faint nod, though her own apprehension hasn’t abated.

“Okay,” Ryan says quietly, stepping toward C.C. His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of tension in his movements.

“Wonderful,” C.C. purrs, gesturing for him to follow. “Hylla, take the ladies to the spa wing. We’ll join you later.”

Hylla beams, motioning for the girls to follow her through a pair of intricately carved doors. Annabeth casts one last glance over her shoulder at Ryan before Hylla places a hand on her back, guiding her forward. 

As they walk, the scent of lavender and chamomile fills the air, mingling with the faint, ever-present sweetness that clings to the island. Hylla chatters brightly, extolling the virtues of the spa’s facilities: the mineral baths carved from volcanic rock, the rejuvenating mud masks, and the silk robes provided for every guest. Annabeth listens politely, but her eyes dart around, analyzing the architecture and noting the exits.

Melia trails behind the group, her footsteps slow and deliberate. Her scales tingle faintly, a reaction to the residual magic that seems to seep from the walls. She’s hyper-aware of every sound, every shift in the air. Clarisse, meanwhile, strides confidently, her arms swinging slightly at her sides as if daring anyone to cross her path.

They reach a spacious room bathed in soft, golden light. The walls are lined with shelves of glass jars containing brightly colored creams and oils. Plush chairs and chaise lounges are arranged around a central fountain, its water sparkling unnaturally as it cascades down into a shallow pool.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Hylla says, gesturing to the chairs. “We’ll begin with a soak in the mineral baths to ease your muscles, and then move on to hair and skin treatments. You’ll leave here feeling like new.”

Annabeth hesitates, her fingers twitching at her sides. Melia takes a seat cautiously, the soft cushion sinking beneath her weight. Clarisse huffs but sits as well, her posture stiff and guarded.

Hylla claps her hands, and a group of attendants sweeps into the room, carrying trays of steaming towels and bowls of scented water. Melia’s tension eases slightly as one of the attendants kneels before her, dipping her hands into the warm water and gently massaging her fingers. The sensation is soothing, but the back of her mind remains alert, the nagging feeling that something isn’t right refusing to dissipate.

As the attendants work, Annabeth’s ponytail is undone, her curls carefully detangled and smoothed with fragrant oils. Clarisse endures the process with a mixture of reluctance and exasperation, her sharp eyes darting around the room as if waiting for something to go wrong. Melia closes her eyes briefly, letting the warmth of the water seep into her skin, but the memory of Ryan’s uncertain expression lingers in her mind.

What is C.C. planning? she wonders, her thoughts churning even as the spa’s magic works to lull her into relaxation.

The spa treatment ends with the attendants ushering the girls into an adjoining room. The air is perfumed with subtle floral scents, and racks of luxurious dresses line the walls, each more elaborate than the last. Hylla claps her hands, and the attendants spring into action, selecting garments with practiced precision. Melia, Clarisse, and Annabeth exchange uncertain glances but allow themselves to be guided by the firm but gentle attendants.

“We’re dressing you to match your true essence,” one of the attendants says brightly, her tone laced with something Melia can’t quite place. “It’s part of the experience.”

Melia finds herself standing before a dress unlike any she’s worn before. It’s a peplos in flowing white and sea-green hues, the fabric light and shimmering like ocean waves under sunlight. Gold embroidery accents the edges, tracing patterns of tridents and waves. As the attendants help her slip it on, the soft material brushing against her skin like a whisper, a wave of déjà vu washes over her. She has dreamed of dresses like this before, dreams of another life where such garments were familiar. Her chest tightens as fragmented memories stir, unformed yet insistent. They braid her hair, weaving in golden threads that glint softly in the light. When they finish, one attendant steps back with a satisfied nod, but Melia’s mind is already lost in the echoes of her past.

“Come,” she says, guiding Melia toward a tall, ornate mirror framed in gilded ivy. “Take a look.”

Melia hesitates but steps closer. As her reflection comes into focus, she draws in a sharp breath. The girl staring back at her is familiar yet strange. The peplos drapes gracefully over her frame, the gold threads in her braided hair catching the light like a halo. Her skin glows faintly, her scales almost imperceptible beneath the sheen. For a moment, she sees herself as she might appear in a myth, a vision of divine heritage.

But as she looks deeper, something shifts. The figure in the mirror tilts her head slightly, the motion not her own. The eyes staring back are not Melia’s. They are darker, more knowing, filled with a weight that doesn’t belong to her.

Lysianassa.

The name echoes in her mind, unbidden. The reflection is calm, regal, and unmistakably her—yet not. The braided hair, the peplos, the backdrop of Greek-style architecture and rich tapestries framing the mirror… it’s a scene from another life, a life she barely remembers but can’t deny.

Her heart pounds as the reflection smiles faintly. It’s not a malicious expression, but it carries an air of ancient sorrow and understanding. She wants to look away, but she can’t. The connection holds her captive, a bridge between past and present that feels as fragile as it does unbreakable.

“Melia?” Annabeth’s voice breaks the spell. She turns to see Annabeth standing nearby, her hair elegantly styled and her dress a rich golden hue that complements her analytical grace. Clarisse lingers behind her, fidgeting in a deep red chiton that barely hides her discomfort with the whole situation.

“You okay?” Annabeth asks, her brows furrowed with concern.

Melia blinks, glancing back at the mirror. The reflection is normal again—just her, Melia, looking tired but composed. She forces a smile and nods. “Yeah, just… not used to this.” She gestures vaguely at her attire.

“You look like you stepped out of a myth,” Annabeth says with a small smile, though her eyes remain watchful.

“You all do,” Hylla says, stepping into the room. Her eyes gleam with approval as she takes in the transformed group. “C.C. will be thrilled to see you. Come now, the feast is about to begin.”

As they follow Hylla out of the dressing room, Melia can’t shake the lingering feeling of the mirror’s gaze. Lysianassa may have vanished from the reflection, but her presence remains, a quiet reminder that the past is never as far away as it seems.

The girls return to the grand room where C.C. awaits them, their new outfits rustling softly as they walk. The peplos draped over Melia’s frame feels heavier now, the memory of the mirror still lingering in her mind. Clarisse looks stiff in her red chiton, her discomfort plain as she clenches her fists at her sides. Annabeth’s golden dress glints in the warm light, but her sharp eyes dart around the room, taking in every detail.

C.C. greets them with a radiant smile, her presence as commanding as ever. “Ah, my radiant guests,” she says, spreading her arms as if to embrace them from across the room. “You look absolutely divine. Hylla has truly outdone herself.”

Melia’s gaze sweeps the room, searching for Ryan. Instead, her eyes land on a small cage placed on a polished table. The sight makes her stomach drop. Inside the cage, a group of Guinea Pigs scurry about, their tiny noses twitching. Next to the cage, Ryan’s clothes are neatly folded, his backpack resting beside them.

“Where’s Ryan?” Melia asks, her voice low but firm, though dread coils in her chest. She already knows the answer.

C.C.’s smile never falters. “Oh, he’s here,” she says airily, gesturing toward the cage. “I’m afraid he needed a little… adjustment. Boys are so much harder to teach. They’re always so stubborn. But don’t worry; he’s safe.”

Clarisse’s face darkens, her hands twitching as if reaching for a weapon she no longer has. Annabeth takes a step closer to Melia, her jaw tightening as she studies the cage.

“Circe,” Melia says, the name slipping from her lips like a curse. The realization cements itself in her mind, the myths pressing down on her with suffocating weight. Memories of stories flood her thoughts, of how Odysseus—Lysianassa’s adoptive father—once faced this same goddess. She recalls how he outwitted her, his cunning mind managing to secure the release of his crew after they had been turned into swine. The vivid image of Odysseus standing in Circe’s hall, wary but unyielding, flashes in her mind. She remembers tales of his men’s terror, their cries echoing in the forest, and how the goddess had been both a threat and a reluctant ally. The parallels weigh heavily on her; even the sweet, cloying scent of the island feels like it was described in those ancient myths, a honeyed trap meant to lull one into complacency. For a fleeting moment, she wonders if Circe sees the resemblance—if she remembers Odysseus, and if that memory holds any significance now. The parallel makes her stomach sink further. History, it seems, has a way of repeating itself. “This is your island.”

“Indeed,” C.C. replies smoothly, her smile sharpening ever so slightly. “And what an honour it is to host such promising young women. The three of you have such potential, such untapped power. I could teach you things you’ve never dreamed of—magic beyond imagining. You could stay here, safe from the dangers of the world, and learn to become more than you ever thought possible.”

“Thanks, but we’ll pass,” Clarisse snaps, stepping forward. Her voice is biting, but there’s a wariness in her eyes as she meets C.C.’s gaze.

C.C.’s smile widens, her green eyes gleaming. “Oh, don’t decide so quickly, dear. Think about it. No more endless battles, no more running from monsters. You could have peace here. Power. Isn’t that what you want?”

Annabeth’s lips press into a thin line. “We’ll… consider it,” she says carefully. “But we’d like to say goodbye to Ryan first.”

C.C. tilts her head, her expression unreadable for a moment before she waves a hand dismissively. “Of course. Take all the time you need. But do think about my offer. It’s not every day one has the chance to learn from a goddess.”

The girls move toward the cage, and Melia crouches beside it, her heart hammering as she peers inside. One of the Guinea Pigs scurries closer, its dark eyes meeting hers. There’s something familiar in its gaze, a flicker of recognition that sends a pang of guilt and determination through her.

“Ryan,” she whispers. The Guinea Pig’s nose twitches, and it lets out a faint squeak.

Annabeth kneels beside her, her sharp mind already working. “We need a plan,” she murmurs. “She’s too powerful to confront directly. We’ll have to be clever about this.”

“Yeah,” Clarisse says, her voice a low growl. “But first, we get Ryan back.”

Melia stands up from the cage, her hand trembling slightly as she reaches into the small pouch at her side, that she kept under her pelops. Her fingers close around the chewable vitamins—a little bit of extra protection, a taste of the power, from the strange and magical dangers of the world. They contained moly, the mythical herb that had once protected Odysseus from Circe’s magic, like it would protect them.

She turns to Annabeth and Clarisse, her voice low but steady. “Take one of these,” she says, holding out two gummies. “They’ll protect us from her magic.”

Annabeth takes hers without hesitation, already piecing together Melia’s plan. Clarisse, skeptical but trusting in the tension etched across Melia’s face, pops the gummy into her mouth with a grimace.

Melia places one in her own mouth, biting down as the taste of honey and herbs floods her tongue. The effect is almost immediate. A wave of clarity washes over her, as if a fog she hadn’t even realized was there has been lifted. The cloying sweetness of the island’s air seems to dissipate, replaced by the sharpness of reality. But with the clarity comes something else—a weight that presses against her mind, heavy and insistent.

Her knees nearly buckle as the memories hit her.

Images flash through her mind, vivid and unrelenting. A life not her own, yet still hers. She sees Lysianassa standing in a great hall, draped in fine silks, her voice commanding as she speaks to men and women of the court. She feels the salty spray of the Aegean Sea as Odysseus teachers her to sail,  their bond forged through loyalty and love.
The memories feel like waves crashing against her, each one stronger than the last. Her breath comes in shallow gasps as she struggles to stay grounded in the present. Annabeth’s hand on her shoulder anchors her, her sharp gaze filled with concern.

“I… fine,” Melia says, though her words stumble, tangled in a mix of English and Ancient Greek. The familiar syllables of the ancient language slip from her lips with surprising ease, as if her tongue remembers it better than her own. She shakes her head, trying to wrestle the torrent of memories into submission, forcing herself to focus on the present. “Take these,” she manages, thrusting the pouch of vitamins into Annabeth’s hand. Her voice wavers, and the weight of her past seems to press on every word. “You know… what to do if… something happens.”

Annabeth nods, understanding flashing in her stormy grey eyes. “What about the Guinea Pigs?” she asks.

Melia crouches by the cage, pulling out more gummies for the enchanted animals. But before she can push the vitamins through the bars, the air in the room shifts. A cold, commanding presence fills the space, and Circe appears at the doorway.

The enchantress’s emerald eyes narrow as she takes in the scene. Her gaze sweeps over the girls, pausing on the vitamins in Annabeth’s hand and the cage of Guinea Pigs. Her smile is razor-sharp.

“Well, well,” Circe says, her voice honeyed but laced with steel. “It seems my hospitality wasn’t appreciated.”

Melia rises slowly, turning to face the goddess. Her heart pounds in her chest, but the memories of Lysianassa anchor her. She remembers Odysseus standing before Circe, unyielding despite the odds, and she draws strength from that.

“Lady of the palace,” Melia says, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her as she slips into Ancient Greek, giving up on trying to force her tongue to form the English words. The syllables feel natural, familiar, as if pulled directly from the depths of her memories. “I hope that I am misinformed. So I must ask to be sure, did you do something to him?”

Circe’s eyes flash, her smile widening with a dangerous edge. For a moment, she seems transported as well, her gaze fixed on Melia with a flicker of recognition. "All I did was reveal his true form," she says, her voice laced with the kind of amusement she once wielded against another visitor to her island.

"You turned him into a guinea pig," Melia says, crossing her arms, her stance reminiscent of Odysseus—firm, unyielding, and anchored in purpose.

Circe tilts her head, a ghost of a smirk playing at her lips. "I’ve got people to protect, nymphs I can’t neglect. So I’m not taking chances, dear," she says, echoing the same reasoning she had used centuries ago to justify her actions to Odysseus.

"I have people to protect, friends I cannot neglect, my Lady. I cannot turn back and return home empty handed when they count on us to succeed. Please release my friend so we may continue on our quest," Melia asks.

Circe looks at her with curiosity for a moment, "Tell me child what is your full name?" she asks.

"Melia Lysianassa Jackson," Melia says as she draws herself up, eyes glowing slightly, her stance confident despite the danger.

The moment her middle name falls from her lips, Circe's expression shifts, her antagonism giving way to recognition. For a moment, her emerald eyes soften, and her voice takes on a nostalgic tone.

"You remind me a great deal of someone I used to know. He also requested the release of his friends and tried to greet the world with kindness as opposed to violence," Circe says, her smirk transforming into a genuine smile. The room seems to hold its breath as she continues, "Your father, Odysseus, stood before me in much the same way. He, too, appealed to my better nature, and perhaps it is time I honor that memory."

Melia’s heart pounds as Circe’s words strike deep. She can’t help but think of the stories her father told her, his face alight with pride as he recounted tales of snaring a boar and impressing a goddess. Now, standing in the same place he once had, she feels the weight of his legacy settle on her shoulders.

"You will?" Melia asks, her voice steady but touched with the faintest edge of hope.

Circe studies her for a moment longer, as if weighing a decision that carries far more significance than she lets on. "There are many ways of persuasion and control, but perhaps showing one act of kindness leads to kinder souls," she finally says. Her hands move with fluid grace, and magic coils out from her fingertips like ribbons of light. It wraps around one of the guinea pigs, shimmering brightly before the creature’s shape begins to shift.

As the transformation completes, Ryan stands before them, blinking in confusion but very much human again. He stumbles slightly, but Melia is there in an instant, steadying him with a firm grip.

"Ryan," she says softly, relief flooding her voice. He looks at her, his disorientation slowly giving way to recognition.

Circe watches the reunion with an enigmatic smile. "Maybe one day, the world will need a puppeteer no more," she muses.

With Ryan returned to human, the group hurries back to the Hurricane and casts off, the sails catching the wind as they put as much distance as possible between themselves and Circe’s island. The tension aboard the ship is palpable, but relief ripples through the crew as the island fades into the horizon.

Annabeth and Clarisse retreat below deck to quickly change back into their normal clothes, shedding the finery of the island like an unwanted weight. Meanwhile, Melia remains by the wheel, her hands steady despite the storm brewing inside her. The peplos she still wears clings to her in the sea breeze, and the intricate braids in her hair catch the sunlight, glinting gold. She doesn’t notice. Her gaze is fixed on the horizon, but her mind is elsewhere—adrift in a tide of memories.

The wind and sea spray whip around her, carrying her back into the past. She can almost hear the rhythmic creak of a different ship, the voice of her father, Odysseus, calling out commands. The salty air feels heavier now, laden with echoes of laughter and whispered counsel. She remembers standing beside him, her hand on the tiller, as he taught her the art of navigation. "Always trust the stars, Lysianassa," he had said, his voice warm with pride. "They’ll never lead you astray."

Melia’s grip tightens on the wheel as more memories flood her mind. She sees Melania, her bodyguard and closest friend and love, standing by her side. The two of them charting courses together, sharing stolen moments of joy even amidst the chaos of the Trojan war. Melania’s laughter rings in her ears, clear and bright, and Melia’s heart aches with the bittersweet familiarity of it.

Her present thoughts blur with the past as Lysianassa’s memories weave seamlessly into her own. The weight of her first life settles over her like a cloak, heavy and undeniable. She remembers the feel of a sword in her hand, the heat of battle, the clever words her father used to outwit gods and monsters alike. She remembers how it felt to sail the wine-dark sea, her heart full of purpose and determination. 

And now, as the Hurricane cuts through the waves, Melia’s thoughts darken further. They’re heading toward the heart of the Sea of Monsters, toward places steeped in myth and danger. The very waters where everything began to go wrong for Odysseus after Troy—places where her father’s cleverness was tested time and time again. She cannot ignore the bitter irony that she’s retracing a path that once led to so much pain for her family. 

The memories begin to press heavier, making her feel more like Lysianassa with every passing moment. The wind’s sharp bite reminds her of storms faced on the Aegean, and the spray on her skin carries the same brine-soaked promise of both freedom and peril. But it’s more than just the physical sensations. It’s the emotions—the burden of responsibility, the yearning for home, and the quiet guilt of choices made under duress.

She can feel Lysianassa’s conflicts merging with her own, her sense of identity fraying at the edges. How much of her is still Melia Jackson? How much of her is now the daughter of Odysseus, sailing into the unknown with the weight of legacy dragging behind her like an anchor?

“Melia?” Ryan’s voice breaks through the haze of memories. She blinks, the present rushing back to her. He stands nearby, his expression a mix of concern and gratitude.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice softer than she intends. She clears her throat and forces a smile. “Just… thinking.”

Ryan nods, though his concern doesn’t fade entirely. “You’ve been quiet since we left the island. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Melia hesitates, her hands still gripping the wheel. How could she explain the flood of memories, the overwhelming sense that she was living two lives at once? The strange, almost painful pull of the Sea of Monsters, as if it recognizes her just as much as she recognizes it? Instead, she simply says, “I will be.”

The wind picks up, filling the sails, and the Hurricane surges forward. Melia’s gaze returns to the horizon, but in her mind, the stars of ancient Greece still shimmer in the night sky. The memories of Lysianassa remain, a constant undercurrent in her thoughts, reminding her of who she was and what she’s becoming. The journey ahead feels heavier now, but also clearer, as if the past is guiding her toward the future.

Melia perches on the tip of the mast, her legs dangling into the void above the waves. The breeze tangles her hair, and the salt spray cools her face as the Hurricane slices through the dark waters. Her gaze stays fixed on the horizon, scanning for movement. In the Sea of Monsters, stillness is an illusion—and her vigilance is soon rewarded.

A plume of water erupts like a geyser, shooting skyward in the moonlight. She spots something massive slipping beneath the waves, its surface dotted with green spines that shimmer like emeralds under the moonlight. The creature, reptilian and impossibly long, glides effortlessly, its sheer size enough to make her stomach twist. It disappears into the depths as silently as it came.

Moments later, her attention shifts to the waves below as sleek figures dart through the water. Nereids. Their graceful forms shimmer in the moonlight, their movements fluid and mesmerising. A few pause to wave at her, their smiles radiant and otherworldly. For a moment, Melia hesitates before waving back. The Nereids’ laughter rings like wind chimes before they vanish, leaving only ripples in their wake. The exchange leaves her chest tight, a strange mix of longing and belonging.

Sometime around midnight, Annabeth climbs onto the deck. Her shawl flutters in the breeze as she joins Melia at the mast, her sharp eyes immediately catching the faint orange glow of an island on the horizon.

“One of the forges of Hephaestus,” Annabeth says, her voice low. “Where he makes his metal monsters.”

Melia frowns, adjusting her grip on the rigging. “Like the bronze bulls?”

Annabeth nods. “Exactly. Go around. Far around.”

Melia doesn’t need to be told twice. As she shifts their course, steering wide of the island. The sea hisses and bubbles near its volcanic shores, the air thick with sulfur and heat. A trickle of unease runs down her spine. If Hephaestus’s creations destroyed the Hurricane, she’d be furious enough to rival the god himself.

Eventually, the forge fades into the distance, a dull red haze on the horizon. The ship glides into calmer waters, leaving the threat behind.

For a while, Annabeth sits beside her, the silence between them stretching but not uncomfortable. The companionship feels grounding. Eventually, Annabeth sighs and rises to her feet.

“Go get some sleep, Jackson,” she says, her voice tinged with concern. “I’ll keep watch.”

Melia nods absently and heads below deck. She climbs into her bed and curls up, the weight of memories pressing against her mind like a rising tide. She closes her eyes and lets the rocking of the ship lull her to sleep, but her dreams quickly take a dark turn.

~~

She stands in the stateroom of a ship, the air heavy with the whispers of spirits. Shadows swirl around her, cold and foreboding, as a faint golden light emanates from the center of the room. There, a golden sarcophagus glows faintly, casting long shadows across the walls.

Her chest tightens with dread. She knows exactly who it belongs to.

A cold laugh reverberates through the room, rising from the depths below the ship. *Finally appeared, I see. You don’t have the courage, young one. You can’t stop me.*

Her knees tremble, but before she can react, a girl’s voice speaks beside her. “Well, Seaweed Brain?”

Melia turns to see a girl in punk-style clothes—chains glinting on her wrists, spiky black hair framing stormy blue eyes. A spray of freckles dusts her nose, and there’s a wound on her shoulder stuffed with fabric. Despite her injuries, she radiates defiance, her hand resting on a sword hilt.

“Well?” the girl says again. “Are we going to stop him or not?”

Melia opens her mouth to respond, but the words stick in her throat. She can’t move, can’t speak.

“Fine,” the girl mutters, exasperated. “Leave it to me and Aegis.”

With a tap to her wrist, the chains on her arm transform, flattening and expanding into a massive shield. It gleams silver and bronze, with the terrifying face of Medusa protruding from the center. The death mask radiates an aura so chilling that Melia’s breath catches in her throat.

The girl advances on the sarcophagus, her sword raised, her presence scattering the shadowy ghosts like smoke in the wind. Melia tries to call out, to warn her, but her voice remains trapped.

The girl reaches the sarcophagus and pushes the golden lid aside. For a moment, she stands frozen, staring down at its contents.

The coffin begins to glow, brighter and brighter, until the room is filled with a blinding light.

“No,” the girl’s voice trembles. “It can’t be.”

From the depths, Kronos’s laugh booms louder than ever, shaking the entire ship. The golden light engulfs the girl, and her scream echoes in Melia’s ears as she’s thrown from the dream.

~~

Melia sits bolt upright, her heart racing. Annabeth is shaking her, her face pale.

“Melia, you were having a nightmare. You need to get up.”

Melia rubs her eyes, still disoriented. “What’s wrong?”

Annabeth’s voice is grim. “Land. We’re approaching the island of the Sirens.”

On deck, Melia joined Clarisse and Ryan, all three staring grimly at the island ahead of them, barely visible in the distance through the fog. The jagged silhouette of rocks jutted out ominously, like fangs waiting to devour the unwary.

“I want you to do me a favour,” Annabeth said, her voice steady but her eyes carrying a hint of unease. “The Sirens… we’ll be in range of their singing soon. Even now, I can hear it.”

Melia tensed, glancing at her. The stories of the Sirens were infamous—creatures whose sweet voices lured sailors to their doom. Their songs promised truth and enlightenment but delivered only destruction.

Clarisse groaned. “There’s a big tub of candle wax below deck,” she said. “We’ll stop up our ears and—”

“I want to hear them,” Annabeth interrupted.

All three of them stared at her.

“Why?” Melia asked, her voice low and cautious.

“They say the Sirens sing the truth about what you desire,” Annabeth said, her gaze fixed on the island. “They tell you things about yourself you didn’t even realise. That’s what’s so enchanting. If you survive… you become wiser. I want to hear them. How often will I get that chance?”

Clarisse groaned again, louder this time, and stomped downstairs, clearly done with Annabeth’s nonsense. Melia, however, wasn’t surprised. It made perfect sense for Annabeth to seek knowledge like this, even at such a risk. That was who she was.

“Fine,” Melia muttered. 

She ushered Ryan below deck, making sure the boy’s ears were stopped up with wax before returning to help secure Annabeth. They tied her firmly to the foremast, double-checking the knots despite her protests. Annabeth made a face at the wax earplugs Melia offered, and Melia returned the expression with one of her own for the ropes.

The silence that followed was eerie. Melia’s ears were plugged too, leaving her to hear only the rush of her own blood and the faint creaking of the ship. She focused on steering Hurricane, skirting wide around the jagged rocks that loomed out of the mist. If they sailed too close, not even the strongest hull would save them from being dashed to pieces.

Wreckage floated in the water around them—splintered wood, fiberglass, even flotation cushions from long-lost airplanes. The Sirens’ victims. Melia felt the Sirens’ song vibrating in the timbers of the ship, a pulse that seemed to call out to her, curling around her mind like an insidious whisper.

Was this what Odysseus had felt?

She glanced back to check on Annabeth—and froze.

The mast was empty. Annabeth’s bronze knife lay discarded on the deck, and Melia’s heart sank. Somehow, she’d managed to wriggle the blade into her hand and cut herself free. None of them had thought to disarm her.

Rushing to the side of the ship, Melia spotted her in the water, paddling desperately toward the island. The waves seemed to carry her effortlessly forward, guiding her between the jagged rocks. Melia didn’t hesitate. She vaulted over the railing and dove in after her.

The sea bent to her will as she propelled herself forward, creating a jet stream that shot her toward Annabeth. A wave caught Annabeth before Melia could reach her, sweeping her further into the deadly maze of rocks. Melia plunged after her, diving under the wrecked hull of a yacht and weaving through a collection of floating mines. Barbed wire nets glinted just below the surface, and it took all her focus to avoid them.

Finally, she entered a half-moon-shaped bay, its waters choked with debris and sharp rocks. The beach ahead was black volcanic sand, and Annabeth, a powerful swimmer, had already made it past the obstacles. She was almost to the shore.

Then the mist cleared, revealing the Sirens.

Melia froze. With her mermaid tail trailing behind her, clawed hands, and scales glistening under the water’s surface, the Sirens looked disturbingly familiar. They reminded her of herself, except for their ever-shifting faces. As they sang, their features morphed into those of people she knew and loved. Her mother. Poseidon. Grover. Chiron. Melania. Penelope. Odysseus. Telemachus. Each face smiled reassuringly, beckoning her forward.

Annabeth swam toward them, her strokes determined, but Melia refused to let her go further. She surged forward and grabbed Annabeth’s ankle. The moment their skin touched, a shock of power coursed through her, and her vision shifted.

Suddenly, she saw what Annabeth did. The Sirens’ song had woven an image of longing and perfection: Annabeth’s father, Athena, and a young man, Luke, sat together on a picnic blanket in Central Park. A feast was spread before them, and their faces lit up with joy when they saw her. Behind them, the city rose tall and gleaming, rebuilt in white marble and gold, a vision of her ideal Olympus.

The illusion was heartbreakingly beautiful.

Melia blinked hard, and the vision shattered. All she saw now were the Sirens, their true forms monstrous as they reached for their prey. Summoning all her strength, Melia dragged Annabeth back into the surf. Even with her ears plugged, she could tell Annabeth was screaming. She kicked and clawed, fighting to return to the island.

Melia gritted her teeth and dunked them both underwater. For a moment, the struggle stopped. Annabeth’s eyes opened, wide and confused, as if clarity had returned. But the moment their heads broke the surface, she began to fight again.

Realisation struck. The water! It could block the sound. If she could submerge Annabeth long enough, the spell would break.

“Sorry,” Melia thought, and ordered the waves to push them deep below the surface. They shot downward, bubbles rising around them as Annabeth’s struggling intensified. Melia summoned a massive bubble of air, wrapping them inside it. Annabeth gasped and coughed, her body trembling, but when she looked at Melia, the spell was broken.

Annabeth sobbed, her body folding in on itself as she curled up, shivering and silent. Melia shooed away the curious fish that had gathered, mentally noting how eager they would be to gossip.

“I’ll get us back to the ship,” Melia said softly. “It’s okay. Just hang on.”

Annabeth nodded, though she refused to meet Melia’s eyes. The air bubble carried them upward, leaving the Sirens’ haunting song behind.

Melia forces the current to steer their strange little air submarine through the maze of rocks, mines, and barbed wire, guiding them back toward the hull of Hurricane. The ship, steady and resolute, maintains a slow course away from the island. Melia keeps them underwater, following the vessel’s shadow, until she feels they have escaped the Sirens’ range.

When they surface, the air bubble bursts with a soft pop. They climb back aboard, dripping and exhausted, but alive. Melia leaves her earplugs in, not willing to take any risks. The Hurricane sails onward until the cursed island is completely out of sight, its jagged rocks and treacherous allure swallowed by the horizon.

Annabeth sits huddled on the forward deck, wrapped tightly in a blanket. Her dazed, distant gaze stays fixed on the horizon until she finally looks up, her lips trembling as she mouths, Safe.

Melia removes her earplugs cautiously. No singing reaches her ears. The afternoon is serene, the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the hull a soothing reminder of normalcy. The fog has burned away, revealing a wide expanse of blue sky, as if the Sirens’ island had been nothing more than a bad dream.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Melia asks, her voice soft.

Annabeth swallows hard, her hands tightening on the blanket. “I didn’t realise…” she murmurs, her words trembling. “I didn’t realise how powerful the temptation would be.” She takes a deep, shaky breath.

“I saw the way you rebuilt Manhattan,” Melia admits quietly. “And Luke and your parents.”

“You saw that?” Annabeth asks.

Annabeth flushes, her cheeks burning pink as she pulls the blanket tighter around herself. “My fatal flaw. That’s what the Sirens showed me. My fatal flaw is hubris—deadly pride. Thinking you can do things better than anyone else… even the gods.”

Melia tilts her head, studying Annabeth’s expression. “You feel that way?” she asks evenly.

Annabeth’s gaze drops to the deck. “Don’t you ever feel like… what if the world really is messed up? What if we could do it all over again from scratch? No more war. Nobody homeless. No more summer reading homework.”

Melia doesn’t respond immediately. Her silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

“I mean, the West represents a lot of the best things mankind ever did—that’s why the fire is still burning. That’s why Olympus is still around. But sometimes you just see the bad stuff, you know?” Annabeth’s voice grows softer. “And you start thinking the way Luke does: ‘If I could tear it all down, I would do it better.’ Don’t you ever feel that way? Like you could do a better job if you ran the world?”

Melia exhales slowly. “I think a world ruled by me would be a nightmare,” she says quietly. “Too disorganised. Too chaotic. I am of the Sea.”

They sit in contemplative silence, the gentle rocking of the Hurricane their only companion. Finally, Annabeth stands, her movements slow and deliberate.

“I’m going to rest for a bit,” she says, her voice low. “I need to think.”

Melia nods, watching her go. Something has shifted in Annabeth, a crack in her usual resolve. As Annabeth reaches the door to the cabin, she pauses.

“Melia,” she says without turning. “You… looked like you belonged down there.”

Melia’s throat tightens. “Well,” she replies after a moment, “I am a daughter of the Sea.”

Annabeth lingers for a heartbeat longer. “It was more than that,” she whispers, then disappears into the cabin.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~
XXV
~~~~ Sea of Monsters ~~~~

Melia stands at the helm of Hurricane, her voice steady as she announces, “We’re here.”

Up ahead, a saddle-shaped island comes into view, its forested hills, white beaches, and green meadows matching the vision from her dream perfectly. She murmurs, “30 degrees, 31 minutes north, 75 degrees, 12 minutes west.” The home of the Cyclops.

Clarisse huffs in irritation. “You knew the exact coordinates.”

The air is sweet, enticing, and Annabeth breathes deeply. “The Fleece.”

“If we take it away, will the island die?” Melia asks.

Annabeth shakes her head. “It’ll fade. Go back to what it would normally be, whatever that is.”

It’s a pity, but they have no choice. Camp Half-Blood hangs in the balance.

At the base of the ravine, a meadow stretches out, dotted with several dozen sheep milling about peacefully. But these sheep are enormous, the size of hippos, their presence tinged with the undeniable scent of predator. Beyond them, a path leads up into the hills. At its apex, near the edge of the canyon, stands a massive oak tree with something golden glittering in its branches.

“That’s too easy,” Ryan mutters, and Melia nods in agreement.

Annabeth’s eyes narrow. “There’s supposed to be a guardian. A dragon or…”

A sudden, horrifying sight interrupts her: a deer wanders too close to the flock and is skinned clean within moments.

“Joy,” Melia says dryly. “Piranha sheep.”

Deciding the direct path is too dangerous, Melia orders the boat to circle the island. They moor on the backside where cliffs rise sheer and daunting, towering a good two hundred feet. The climb is their best option. Ryan stays with the ship, ready for a quick getaway.

The climb feels foreign after so long at sea. The cliffs respond to Melia’s commands, creating handholds, but the land’s stillness feels wrong. The ocean seems to mourn her departure, the waves sighing against the rocks below.

They haul themselves over the top and collapse in a heap.

“Ugh,” Melia groans.

“Ouch,” Annabeth moans.

Clarisse heaves for air, saying nothing.

A sudden bellow makes them all jump. Annabeth points. The ledge they sit on is narrower than it seemed, dropping off sharply on the other side. Below, the voice echoes upward.

They crawl to the edge and peer over. Polyphemus stands below them, Grover at his side, still trapped in the ridiculous wedding dress. The Cyclops is cooking something over a fire.

“Wedding feast,” Polyphemus murmurs. “Has to be perfect. What does my bride think?”

Grover backs up, nearly tripping over his bridal train. “Oh, um, I don’t think I’ll be that hungry, dear. Perhaps—”

“Nonsense!” Polyphemus booms. “Has to be perfect.”

The Cyclops’s stench is worse up close, rancid and overwhelming. His outfit—a crude kilt and shoulder-wrap stitched from baby-blue tuxedos—is a grotesque parody of wedding attire.

Melia feels anger and grief twist inside her. If only Odysseus had been more ruthless, perhaps she would have seen her father again. The memory of Lysianassa presses forward, and she wipes at her eyes with a growl.

A flash of red darts into the cave, catching Annabeth’s attention. She grips Melia’s shoulder, hissing quietly.

Polyphemus shifts, snatching Grover like a wayward puppy. “Have to graze sheep now. Will continue feast later.” He tosses Grover deeper into the cave. “Make yourself comfortable! I’ll come back at sundown for the big event!”

He whistles sharply, and a mixed flock of goats and sheep—smaller than the piranha sheep—pours out of the cave. After they’ve all waddled past, Polyphemus rolls a boulder across the entrance as effortlessly as closing a refrigerator door. Whistling a jaunty tune, he strolls down the mountain in his grotesque groom’s outfit.

The group waits until he’s far off before scaling down to the front of the cave.

“That stupid girl!” Annabeth curses. “There’s no way we’re moving that boulder, and now we’re down to two.”

Annabeth steps back, sharp eyes scanning the slope.

They can’t risk killing Polyphemus and trapping Grover and Clarisse inside. The weight of the problem presses down on them.

“Water,” Lysianassa murmurs, the English heavy and awkward on her tongue. Her accent slips into her words. “Do you think I can use water and pull it towards us?”

She examines the gentle slope in front of the boulder, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“Maybe…if we…” Annabeth drops to her knees and starts digging.

“Quick!” Annabeth urges. “If we can dig in front of it and you can use water to pull it, then it should roll out of the way.”

Lysianassa joins her, pulling moisture from the ground to soften the dirt. They dig tirelessly, their efforts fueled by the knowledge that time is running out. As the sun arcs across the sky, the tension mounts. Polyphemus moves farther down the island, but his absence offers little comfort. He crosses the crevice to tend his man-eating sheep, who greet him with unnerving affection.

Finally, Annabeth sits back, examining their work.

“Alright,” Lysianassa breathes. “Get back. I’m not holding out hope this won’t catch his attention.”

“If he comes this way, I’ll keep him distracted,” Annabeth says grimly, pulling out her cap. She vanishes from sight, leaving Lysianassa alone with the task.

The sun dips lower. Lysianassa uncaps her water bottle and calls the water forth, weaving it into a shimmering net. She pours it into the cracks around the boulder, focusing her energy to push and pull. The rock shifts, groaning against the earth.

Gravity takes over. The boulder tumbles forward, unleashing a gust of stale air as it clears the cave entrance.

“Melia?!”

Grover practically tackles her in a goat-hug, bleating with relief.

“Grover!” Lysianassa exclaims, hugging him back. Behind them, the boulder continues its descent, picking up speed.

Grover grins. “You genius! I can’t believe—”

*BOOOOOM!*

They both jump as the boulder crashes into the far wall, splitting it clean in two. In the distance, Polyphemus’s head snaps toward the sound.

“Uh oh,” Grover breathes.

“Yep,” Lysianassa agrees.

Clarisse blurs past with a spear in hand. “Run, you morons!” she barks.

They run.

Polyphemus roars, the sound echoing across the island, reverberating through the cliffs. He can’t see them clearly, but it’s impossible to miss the giant, now-uncovered hole in the rock. His massive footsteps stomp forward in a hurry, causing the ground to tremble beneath them.

“My briiiiide!” he bellows. “Who dares!?!?”

They make it to the bottom of the platform and begin their frantic climb.

“Hey!” Annabeth’s voice calls. “Hello, ugly!”

Polyphemus’s footsteps slow. “Who said that?”

“Nobody!” Annabeth yells.

Lysianassa almost laughs out loud, but she shifts her focus to her climbing. The name resonates with her. Odysseus had used it to outwit this same Cyclops. The weight of her connection to her adoptive father presses against her chest. She fights the rising tide of emotions—pride, anger, and grief—knowing Odysseus would be proud to see his daughter wielding his legacy.

Polyphemus explodes in fury. “Nobody!” he roars, his attention immediately shifting. “I remember you!”

“You’re too stupid to remember anybody,” Annabeth taunts. “Much less Nobody.”

The Cyclops bellows furiously. Lysianassa hopes to the gods Annabeth is already on the move, because Polyphemus grabs a nearby boulder—likely something he used as a mailbox—and hurls it toward the sound of her voice.

The boulder smashes into a thousand fragments.

“Made it!” Grover cheers quietly as his head pops over the edge. He helps pull them both up.

For a terrible moment, silence stretches between them. Then Annabeth shouts again, “You haven’t learned to throw any better, either!”

Polyphemus howls. “Come here! Let me kill you, Nobody!”

“You can’t kill Nobody, you stupid oaf,” she taunts. “Come find me!”

Polyphemus barrels down the hill toward Annabeth’s voice.

“She’s having way too much fun with that,” Clarisse mutters. “Now, how do we get the Fleece? It’s guarded by particularly hungry sheep.”

“Something to distract them? Preferably not one of us,” Lysianassa says. “I don’t really have any—”

“I do!” Grover gasps. He pats his pockets and pulls out his trusty recorder.

A scream cuts through the air. They turn to see Polyphemus grinning wickedly, holding up empty air. A baseball cap flutters to the ground. There, hanging upside down by her legs, is Annabeth.

“Hah!” the Cyclops exclaims. “Nasty invisible girl! You must have freed my wife! I shall make a feast with you!”

Annabeth struggles weakly, a nasty cut on her forehead and glassy eyes betraying her dazed state.

The three of them surge forward. Lysianassa tosses Grover her dagger while Clarisse tightens her grip on her spear.

“Attack plan Macedonia,” Clarisse says, her voice steely.

“Hey!” Lysianassa yells from the platform as the other two disappear in opposite directions. “Ugly!”

She jumps down, using Maelstrom to slow her descent.

The Cyclops whirls toward her. “Another one? Who are you?”

“Put her down,” Lysianassa orders. “I’m the one who insulted you.”

“You are Nobody?”

“That’s right, I’m Nobody. Now put her down and get over here. I want to stab your eye out again.” Lysianassa smirks, her voice carrying the weight of Odysseus’s trickery.

She channels the fury of her lineage. Memories of her father’s stories flood her mind—the cunning, the daring, the defiance of the gods. This battle is a continuation of that legacy, a confrontation her soul has carried across lifetimes.

“RAAAR!” Polyphemus bellows.

He drops Annabeth onto the ground with a thud. She lands on her head and lies motionless.

Lysianassa bares her teeth. Fury boils through her veins as the Cyclops charges.

“For Pan!” Grover shouts, rushing in from the right. He darts behind Polyphemus’s ankles, his dagger slicing cleanly across a tendon. At the same time, Clarisse charges from the left, planting her spear on the ground just as Polyphemus steps forward.

The Cyclops wails in pain, stumbling as both attackers dart out of reach.

Lysianassa moves in with Maelstrom, ducking and weaving as the Cyclops swings at her. She rolls to the side and plunges the blade into his thigh.

“Get Annabeth!” she yells at Grover.

The satyr nods, rushing to retrieve the fallen girl. He grabs her invisibility cap and hoists her onto his shoulders while Clarisse and Lysianassa keep Polyphemus distracted.

Clarisse lunges and dodges with relentless precision, her spear flashing as she strikes again and again. The Cyclops pounds the ground, stomps, and grabs at her, but she’s too quick. Lysianassa remains behind him, attacking wherever she can find an opening.

Each strike feels like vindication. The weight of Odysseus’s absence presses against her chest. She knows her father would have stood here with the same resolve, facing the beast with defiance and cunning. Her movements become sharper, more deliberate, as if her memories fuel her strength.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lysianassa spots Grover carrying Annabeth toward the rope bridge. The man-eating sheep wait on the other side, but at the moment, it looks like a better gamble than this side of the chasm.

An idea sparks.

“Fall back!” she shouts to Clarisse.

She rolls away just as Polyphemus’s fist smashes into an olive tree behind her. They sprint for the bridge, the enraged Cyclops hobbling after them, bleeding and furious.

“Grind you into sheep chow!” he promises. “A thousand curses on Nobody!”

“Keep going!” Lysianassa urges.

They tear down the hill. Grover reaches the far side, setting Annabeth down as the ropes of the bridge creak under the weight of the situation. Lysianassa orders the ground behind them to sink, and the Cyclops stumbles, roaring in frustration.

“Grover!” Lysianassa yells. “The dagger!”

Grover’s eyes widen as he sees Polyphemus closing in. Understanding dawns, and he nods. As Clarisse and Lysianassa scramble onto the bridge, Grover begins sawing at the ropes.

The first strand snaps. Then another.

Polyphemus frees himself from the mud pit, lumbering toward the bridge.

The ropes are nearly severed. Clarisse and Lysianassa leap for solid ground, landing beside Grover just as he makes the final cut.

The bridge collapses into the chasm. Polyphemus roars in fury, stranded on the far side. He throws himself down, pounding the earth with his fists like a tantrum-throwing child.

“Father!” he wails. “Poseidon, if I be your son, aid me!”

Nothing happens.

They all exhale in relief, the tension breaking as they hurry to Annabeth’s side. Her breathing is steady, though her face remains pale. Lysianassa kneels beside her, her expression softening as she checks for injuries. Her heart aches, knowing that her father’s legacy has both protected and burdened her. This battle, like so many before it, feels like a piece of unfinished history, but at least for now, they’ve survived.

The gash on Annabeth’s forehead is worse up close. Her hairline is sticky with blood, and her skin is pale and clammy. Lysianassa’s gut twists at the sight. Clarisse’s face is grim as they share a nervous look.

“Grover, go get the Fleece,” Lysianassa says, her voice steady despite the tension. Clarisse kneels beside Annabeth, carefully checking her wound.

Grover starts playing a tune, the melody soft yet deliberate, letting him weave safely through the killer sheep. The creatures’ monstrous eyes track him, but the music holds them in a trance. He reaches up and lifts the Fleece off its branch. The transformation is immediate. The vibrant leaves on the oak tree begin to wither and turn yellow, the magic draining as Grover carries the Fleece away. With the golden wool draped over his arms, he keeps the tune playing, his steps cautious but quick.

When Grover returns, Lysianassa takes the Fleece from him. It’s heavier than she expects—sixty or seventy pounds of precious gold wool. It’s warm against her arms, its texture almost comforting, like the perfect weighted blanket. She spreads it carefully over Annabeth, covering everything but her face.

“Come on,” Grover murmurs, leaning closer. “Come on.”

The colour begins to return to Annabeth’s cheeks. Her eyelids flutter open. The cut on her forehead starts to close, knitting together with an almost imperceptible shimmer. She blinks up at Grover and says weakly, “You’re not… married?”

Grover grins, his relief evident. “No. My friends talked me out of it.”

“Had to,” Lysianassa adds with a faint smile, “the dress was terrible.”

“The dress?” Clarisse scoffs. “How about the groom?”

Lysianassa’s expression softens as she asks, “You okay?” Annabeth, despite their protests, begins to sit up. The cut on her face has completely healed, and her complexion glows with vitality, as if she’s been touched by divine light.

“We have to get away from them,” Grover bleats urgently, eyeing the sheep that are starting to sniff in their direction.

“Grover, keep playing. Clarisse, carry Annabeth,” Lysianassa instructs, her tone brooking no argument. Her voice carries a weight, the authority of someone who has commanded and been obeyed for lifetimes. “Keep the Fleece wrapped around you,” she tells Annabeth. “I’m not sure you’re fully healed yet. Can you stand?”

Clarisse doesn’t wait for a response. She hoists Annabeth onto her shoulder like a sack of flour, her movements efficient and strong. The group moves quickly down the beach, following Grover’s tune as Lysianassa focuses on the ship. She sends a subtle nudge through the water, signaling Ryan to bring it around.

After a few tense minutes of waiting at the water’s edge, Hurricane appears, rounding the tip of the island. The relief is short-lived. As they wade into the surf, a tremendous roar shatters the air.

Polyphemus, his rage palpable, leaps into the ravine, splashing toward them with boulders in both hands. “My Fleece!” he bellows, his voice shaking the earth.

“Swim for it!” Grover cries.

He and Clarisse plunge into the water. Annabeth clings to Clarisse’s neck, paddling with one hand as the wet Fleece weighs them down. Lysianassa urges the currents to aid them, propelling the group forward. Then she turns, her eyes locking onto the Cyclops.

With a low growl, she charges to meet Polyphemus. Boulders crash into the water around her, but she weaves through the chaos, her movements swift and deliberate, the rhythm of battle pulsing in her veins like a long-forgotten song.

“Hey, Cyclops! When you met my father, he led with peace,” she snarls, Maelstrom glinting in the fading light. The memory of Odysseus’s cunning burns in her mind—his clever words, his patience, his ability to turn even the mightiest foe into a pawn. But there is no peace in her heart now. This time, the Cyclops will not walk away.

Her attacks are relentless, arcs of water slicing from her blade and digging deep into the Cyclops’s legs. The sea itself seems to answer her fury, churning in violent harmony with her strikes. Polyphemus stumbles, his roars echoing off the cliffs like the cries of vanquished titans.

“You dare!” Polyphemus bellows, swinging a fist the size of a boulder, but Lysianassa is already gone, ducking low and driving her blade into his calf. Blood like molten iron spills onto the rocks, sizzling as it meets the seawater.

“You taunt my father’s name,” she shouts, her voice rising over the clash of waves. “You feast on the helpless and call it strength. You steal what is not yours and call it fortune. My father left you blind but breathing. I will leave you with nothing.”

Lysianassa wills the sea to rise. A twenty-foot wave surges up, lifting her onto its crest. She rides it toward Polyphemus, the salt spray whipping around her like a tempest given form. The wave crashes over the Cyclops, slamming him onto the beach with the force of a hurricane. As the water recedes, she leaps from its peak, her heel connecting with his already-damaged eye. He howls in pain, clutching his face as the wave drags him back toward the surf.

“Destroy you!” Polyphemus sputters, his voice raw with fury. “Fleece stealer!”

“You stole the Fleece!” Lysianassa shouts, her voice ringing with righteous fury. “You lured satyrs to their deaths, using it as bait for your own cruelty! The Fleece is meant to heal! It belongs to the children of the gods, not a single monster!”

“But I found it!” Polyphemus swipes at her, his massive hand tearing through the air. She sidesteps with fluid grace, Maelstrom humming in her grip like a blade forged from the very tides. “Father Poseidon, curse this thief! Aid your son!”

His cries go unanswered. The sea remains silent, its allegiance clear. Blinking hard, his vision falters as another wave—larger, angrier—slams him onto his back, pinning him against the sand.

Lysianassa climbs onto his chest, her movements steady, deliberate. The echoes of Ithaca—of her father’s legacy—thrum in her heart as she levels her sword over his remaining eye. Her voice is steady, unyielding as she declares, “The king of Ithaca bid you to remember him. Remember Me. I’m the Oceans Princess of Ithaca. I am your final moment. I am Lysianassa.”

With a final, decisive motion, she drives Maelstrom into his eye. Polyphemus’s body shudders and begins to dissolve, his roars fading into golden dust that drifts into the wind. The sea claims the remnants, its waves lapping at the shore in quiet triumph.

The wind carries only the bleating of sheep now, a haunting reminder of the silence left in the Cyclops’s wake.

Lysianassa dives into the water, the sea embracing her as she swims toward Hurricane. With a powerful surge, she launches herself onto the deck, landing with a graceful flip. She takes command immediately, directing the ship further away from the island.

No one speaks until the island is a distant dot on the horizon. Polyphemus’s screams linger faintly in the air, soon overtaken by the storm that follows them.

“Did it,” Annabeth mutters, her voice thick with exhaustion. She leans against Clarisse, who flops down beside her. Grover slowly lowers himself onto Annabeth’s other side, his legs folding beneath him.

Lysianassa ensures the Fleece remains snugly wrapped around Annabeth, then sits by her feet with Ryan. The weight of what just happened settles heavily on her shoulders.

“Get some sleep,” she tells them. The others don’t need to be told twice. Within minutes, they’re all asleep, their breaths steady as the ship carries them onward.

Lysianassa wakes first, stepping away from the sleep pile they had ended up in after the Cyclops.

The Sea of Monsters fades into the horizon, its churning waters giving way to the calmer, cerulean expanse of the open ocean. Hurricane cuts through the waves, steady and purposeful. The air feels lighter, as if the ship itself is relieved to leave the treacherous waters behind. Yet, for those on board, the relief is tempered by a lingering tension—a sense that their trials are far from over.

Lysianassa stands at the bow, her hands gripping the railing with a firmness that speaks to more than just balance. The salty breeze whips through her hair, teasing the edges of her memory. It’s not Melia who stares out at the waves; not entirely. The echoes of Ithaca, of long-forgotten battles and distant shores, ripple through her thoughts. Her posture is different now, straighter, more assured, and imbued with a gravity that wasn’t there before. She carries herself with the presence of someone who has lived lifetimes compressed into the body of a thirteen-year-old, each movement deliberate and purposeful.

Behind her, the others murmur quietly, their voices blending with the rhythmic crash of the waves. Clarisse leans against the mast, her spear propped beside her. Grover tunes his battered reed pipes, the notes faltering as his eyes dart toward Lysianassa. Annabeth sits cross-legged on the deck, her notebook open but untouched. Her sharp gaze lingers on Lysianassa, studying her with the precision of an architect analyzing a structure that’s shifting beneath its foundation.

“She’s different,” Clarisse mutters, low enough that only Annabeth hears.

Annabeth nods, her brow furrowed. “She’s… not quite the same. It’s like she’s carrying something heavier now.”

“She’s not the only one,” Grover says, plucking absently at a reed. “We’ve all been through a lot.”

“No,” Annabeth says firmly. “This is different. Look at the way she moves, the way she talks. That’s not just experience. That’s… something more. Like she’s older than any of us.”

Her voice dips slightly, betraying a hint of unease. “I… I don’t know if Melia’s still there. What if she’s… gone?”

Clarisse raises an eyebrow. “Gone? She’s right there.”

“Is she?” Annabeth’s voice tightens. “Lysianassa feels like someone else. Someone… ancient. She carries herself like she’s already lived through wars and tragedies, like she’s not a kid anymore.”

Clarisse crosses her arms. “So she’s acting like a leader. What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Annabeth snaps, then softens, “is that she might not be Melia anymore. She was my friend. I don’t want to lose her.”

On the bow, Lysianassa exhales slowly, her breath lost to the wind. The name “Melia” feels distant now, like a childhood nickname that no longer fits. Lysianassa—that name feels right, like armor she had forgotten how to wear. And yet, the fragments of her past life weigh heavily on her. She remembers flashes of Ithaca, her father’s steady voice, the salt-stained deck of his ship. She remembers Penelope’s hands, gentle and strong, weaving tales into fabric. She remembers Melania—fierce and loyal, always at her side.

But there are gaps, too. Shadows where memories should be. They frustrate her, leaving her feeling incomplete. It’s as though she’s standing on the threshold of two worlds, neither fully hers. Each fragment of memory brings with it a sense of purpose but also a profound ache for what was lost.

The coast of Florida begins to take shape in the distance. Miami’s skyline shimmers under the late afternoon sun, its towering buildings a sharp contrast to the untamed wildness they’ve left behind. The scent of the city reaches them—a mix of salt, heat, and humanity. To Lysianassa, it feels foreign, yet familiar, like a place she has visited only in dreams.

“Land ho!” Ryan calls from the wheel, his voice cutting through the somber quiet.

Lysianassa turns, her expression unreadable. She walks toward the others, her steps measured. Each step feels heavier than the last, as if the weight of her memories is pressing down on her. Annabeth and Clarisse exchange a glance as she approaches.

“We’re almost there,” Lysianassa says, her voice calm but tinged with something deeper, something ancient. “This part of the journey is over, but the battle… it’s far from done.”

Clarisse raises an eyebrow. “You’re talking like a prophecy.”

“Maybe it is,” Lysianassa replies. Her gaze flickers to Annabeth. “You’ve noticed, haven’t you?”

Annabeth nods slowly, her fingers tightening around the edge of her notebook. “You’re not just Melia anymore.”

“No,” Lysianassa admits. “But I’m not fully who I was before either.”

Grover frowns. “Is that… a good thing?”

“It’s what it is,” Lysianassa says simply. She rests a hand on the railing, her eyes distant again. “The memories are coming back. Some clearer than others. And with them… a sense of purpose. But also doubt.”

“Doubt?” Annabeth asks, her tone soft but probing.

“I’ve lived this life before,” Lysianassa says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve made choices… some wise, some… less so. What if I make the same mistakes again? What if I fail, not just myself, but all of you?”

Clarisse snorts. “You’ve already saved our butts more times than I can count. I think you’ve earned the right to make a few mistakes.”

Annabeth smiles faintly, though her unease doesn’t fully fade. “Clarisse is right. None of us are perfect. What matters is that we keep moving forward.”

Lysianassa looks at them, her expression softening. “Thank you.” Her voice wavers slightly, but there is gratitude there, mingled with a trace of something deeper—an emotion she can’t quite name.

The ship pulls closer to the harbour, the noise of the city growing louder. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the water. Lysianassa straightens, her resolve hardening as she turns back to face the horizon. The past may be a part of her, but the future—that is still hers to shape.

Annabeth lingers a moment longer, her gaze following Lysianassa. There is a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, a question left unspoken. She turns back to her notebook but doesn’t write. For all her logic and planning, there is no blueprint for navigating the changes in her friend. Lysianassa’s transformation looms between them, as vast and unpredictable as the sea.

“We need to split up here. Someone takes the Fleece and gets a flight. We don’t have time to sail all the way back,” Lysianassa says as she steps off the boat.

Clarisse’s eyes do something funny, like a spasm. She murmurs something under her breath, almost inaudible.

Annabeth looks at her sharply. “What?” she presses.

“I, uh,” Clarisse says louder, “yeah, makes sense. The Oracle said…You shall sail the iron ship with warriors of bone, You shall find what you seek and make it your own, But despair for your life entombed within stone, And fail without friends, to fly home alone.”

“Then that settles it,” Annabeth nods. “One person goes on ahead.”

“Clarisse,” Lysianassa says immediately.

They all look at her in disbelief, causing her to snort in amusement.

“It’s your quest,” she says, grinning. “Remember? We were just taking a trip.”

Clarisse’s lip twitches; for a moment, it looks like she might actually grin back.

“‘Just heading in the same direction,’” she quotes. “Do we have any money?”

Ryan holds up the bag of cash Hermes had stashed into their supplies.

Annabeth still looks hesitant, but eventually sighs. “Come on, then,” she says. “Let’s get you a taxi so you can get out of here.”

They find a taxi easily enough, and Clarisse, wearing a red-and-gold high school letter jacket with a large glittery Omega on the pocket, is off in minutes. The cab’s taillights vanish into the distance, leaving the rest of them standing on the dock.

“Melia… Lysianassa,” Annabeth says after a moment of silence, her voice catching slightly on each name as if unsure which to settle on. Her eyes flicker with hesitation, and there’s a faint crease in her brow as she continues, “that was so…”

“Generous?” Grover offers, trying for optimism.

“Insane,” Annabeth corrects. “You’re betting the lives of everybody at camp that Clarisse will get the Fleece safely back by tonight?”

Lysianassa shrugs. The motion feels heavier than it should, as if the weight of her years—both remembered and forgotten—presses against her shoulders. “Either name works. Clarisse cares about camp, and she doesn’t like to fail. Now, let’s get to the—”

Strawberries.

She turns on her heel and lunges, Riptide shooting into her hand with a familiar and comforting weight.

A blade clashes against hers.

“Hey, cuz,” says Luke, his smile a dangerous curve. “Welcome back to the States.”

His bear-man thugs appear from the shadows, one grabbing Annabeth and Grover by their T-shirt collars, the other seizing Ryan in a crushing grip.

Lysianassa glares at him, the fury in her eyes undercut by something deeper: a patience borne of lifetimes. She feels older than Luke in this moment, not just in her stance but in her thoughts. While his rage boils hot and reckless, hers simmers with the weight of countless choices and regrets. “What do you want, Luke?” she demands, her voice steady but laced with a kind of tired wisdom.

Luke’s scar ripples as his smile widens. He gestures toward the end of the dock, where a familiar white cruise ship looms in the distance. It’s the Princess Andromeda. Lysianassa feels a wave of frustration; she should have noticed it sooner.

“Come on now, Melia,” Luke says mockingly. “I want to extend my hospitality.”

They are shoved aboard the ship and herded to the aft deck, where a sparkling swimming pool with decorative fountains glistens in the evening light. A dozen of Luke’s assorted goons—snake people, Laistrygonians, and demigods in battle armour—circle them, their expressions a mix of amusement and malice.

“And here you are,” Luke says with a flourish, “on some hopeless quest to save the camp. Half-Blood Hill will be overrun by monsters within the month. The heroes who survive will have no choice but to join us or be hunted to extinction. You could still join, you know. Do you really want to be on the losing team?”

“Better than with you,” Annabeth spits.

Luke chuckles darkly. “Annabeth, Annabeth. Talk about dishonouring Thalia’s memory! I’m surprised at you—”

“If anyone is dishonouring her memory,” Annabeth says coldly, “it’s you.”

The smile falls off Luke’s face. He turns back to Lysianassa, his eyes narrowing.

“The gods are using you, Melia,” he says sharply. “Do you have any idea what’s in store for you if you reach your sixteenth birthday? Has Chiron even told you the prophecy? Told you why they keep such a close eye on you?”

Lysianassa purses her lips, refusing to rise to the bait. “I don’t care,” she says evenly. “Right now, I know what I need to know. Like who my enemies are. You can still stop this, Luke. Hermes—”

“Do NOT—” Luke explodes, his face twisting with fury, “—mention that god to me! My father abandoned me, Melia. And so I turn my back on him. Spare your words, for I’ve chosen my path. Olympus will fall, Hermes will crumble with it, and he will rise. He will be all demigods' salvation.”

The faint scent of strawberries in the air wilts and fades. Lysianassa bares her teeth, a primal snarl that feels ancient and unrelenting. The anger inside her is not just hers—it’s the fury of a woman who has seen too much, who has carried the memories of decisions and losses stretching back to Ithaca. She feels a sharp pang of pity for Luke, a fleeting thought of how young he seems.

“And everyone else?” Lysianassa challenges, her anger rising. She shifts her attention to the deck, addressing the demigods gathered there. “Do you even know who you’re fighting for?”

She sees a few of them shift uncomfortably, their eyes flickering between her and Luke.

“Do you know the monster he’s trying to bring back to life? Someone worse than the gods—”

“Ignore her,” Luke interrupts, his voice icy. “She’s like a sea snake. A slippery trickster.”

“But that aside,” Luke continues, his tone turning speculative, “the Fleece. Where is it?”

He looks them over, his sword poking at Lysianassa’s peplos and Grover’s jeans.

“Watch it!” Grover snaps, recoiling.

“Sorry, old friend,” Luke smiles without warmth. “Just give me the Fleece, and I’ll leave you to return to your, ah, little nature quest.”

“Some old friend!” Grover retorts.

Luke’s eyes narrow, his attention locking back onto Lysianassa. She meets his gaze with a grin that’s all teeth and no warmth.

“What Fleece?” she asks, her tone light with mock innocence. “We weren’t sent on a quest for a Fleece; we were just saving Grover.”

Luke goes dangerously still. Realisation begins to dawn in his eyes, dark and furious.

“You’re—Lying—” he says, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “You’re lying.”

Annabeth laughs at his expression, but she says nothing.

“The only other person who could have—” Luke’s face reddens as a horrible possibility occurs to him. “Clarisse?”

“You gave it to Clarisse?” Luke’s fury erupts, his voice echoing across the deck.

“Who?” Lysianassa asks innocently, her grin widening. Her eyes sparkle with satisfaction as she watches Luke’s composure crack.

Luke curses but doesn’t attack them. Instead, he paces in front of the swimming pool, continually cursing them in Ancient Greek, gripping his sword so hard his knuckles turn white.

A plan starts forming. Lysianassa eyes the misting fountains and turns her head slightly towards Annabeth, showing her the drachma she holds. Her fingers tremble slightly, though she masks it well; the weight of her memories and her role presses down on her like a tide.

Annabeth’s eyes lock onto her face, then move to Luke. She subtly nods, though there is a flicker of hesitation in her gaze. It’s as if she is unsure if she is following Melia or Lysianassa—two identities that seem to blur more and more with each passing moment.

Lysianassa says, “You wanted us to bring you the Fleece and save you the trouble of getting it—did you think you couldn’t?”

Luke scowls. “Why bother myself when I had you?” He sneers, “Except now you’ve gone and messed everything up.”

“Traitor!” Annabeth hisses, pushing forward and drawing his attention.

Lysianassa flicks the drachma towards the mist, her lips forming a silent prayer. She hopes the offering will be accepted in silence, her faith an anchor in the storm of her emotions.

O goddess, accept our offering.

“You tricked all of us!” Annabeth yells. “Even Dionysus at Camp Half-Blood!”

The fountain begins to shimmer, light refracting in a delicate rainbow pattern. Lysianassa uncaps Riptide, the celestial bronze blade gleaming as it draws everyone’s attention back to her.

Luke just sneers. “This is no time for heroics, Melia. Drop your puny little sword, or I’ll have you killed sooner rather than later.”

“Who poisoned Thalia’s tree, Luke?”

“I did, of course,” he snarls. “A venom straight from the depths of Tartarus.”

“Chiron had nothing to do with it?” Annabeth asks, her voice sharp and probing.

“Ha! You know he would never do that. The old fool wouldn’t have the guts.”

Her face darkens in anger. “You call it guts?” she says. “Betraying your friends? Endangering the whole camp?”

Luke raises his sword, his expression twisting with frustration. “You don’t understand half of it. I was going to let you take the Fleece…once I was done with it.”

Lysianassa grits her teeth, her grip tightening on Riptide.

“You were going to heal the Titan-Lord,” she says.

“Yes! The Fleece’s magic would’ve sped his mending process by tenfold. But you haven’t stopped us, Melia. You’ve only slowed us down a little.”

“And so you poisoned Thalia’s tree, set us up in hopes of getting the Fleece—all to help the Titan destroy the gods?”

“For someone so smart,” Luke grits out, “you seem a bit slow.”

Lysianassa stands back on her heels, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the tension to rise. “No,” she says, “I just wanted to make sure the audience could hear you.”

“What audience?”

He looks behind him. His goons gasp and stumble back, but Luke merely trembles in barely contained fury.

There, above the pool, shimmering in the rainbow mist, is an IM image of Dionysus, Tantalus, and the whole camp in the dining pavilion. They sit in stunned silence, eyes locked onto them.

“Well,” Dionysus says dryly, “some unplanned dinner entertainment.”

“I live to please,” Lysianassa snarks, her voice laced with venom. “You heard him, Dionysus. We have the proof we need.”

The god straightens, a rare flicker of approval in his eyes. For a second, an almost deathly pleased smile graces his face.

He turns to Tantalus with dark, predator-like eyes.

“It could be a trick,” Tantalus suggests, not noticing. He is too busy trying to corner a cheeseburger.

“No no,” Dionysus says, “I rather think not.”

Vines shoot out and wrap around the man’s body, pinning him in place. A few cover his mouth, muffling his exclamations.

“Come along now, children, to the target range,” Dionysus says. “We are no longer in need of Tantalus’ services, but we shouldn’t let him leave without saying goodbye.”

The campers explode into cheering.

Luke bellows with rage. He slashes his sword through the mist, and the Iris-message dissolves into shimmering droplets.

He turns and gives Lysianassa a look that spells out his murder.

“Kronos was right, Melia. You’re an unreliable weapon. You need to be replaced.”

Lysianassa tenses, the words hitting her harder than she cares to admit.

One of Luke’s men blows a brass whistle, and the deck doors fly open. A dozen more warriors pour out, making a circle around them, the brass tips of their spears dangerously close.

Luke smiles. “You’ll never leave this boat alive.”

“You’re kidding,” Lysianassa deadpans.

Next to her, Grover laughs softly, and even Annabeth huffs in amusement. Ryan smirks with a confident look.

“What?” Luke demands to know.

“Excuse the language, or don’t, but you’re really a fucking idiot.”

A shadow seems to swallow the deck.

Luke has only a single moment to curse before a wave slams down and washes him and his crew aside.

At the same time, Ryan draws a dagger, stabbing it into one of the bear brothers. Annabeth reveals her dagger and goes for the other. Neither brother stands a chance.

“Abandon ship!” Lysianassa cries, and they jump overboard into the waves.

As they hit the water, Lysianassa circles around her friends, pushing them down into the waves in little bubbles, letting Ryan swim himself. She shoots off the moment she is sure they are fine, heading back to her boat.

Just because she can, she makes sure to send a few monster waves at the boat as they leave.

“Woah,” Grover bleats when they resurface. “That’s new.”

Annabeth breathes, “Yeah. Tell you about it later.”

“Everyone hold on,” Lysianassa calls, ordering the boat to untie itself and head out to sea, “I’m going to go as fast as I can.”

Annabeth practically lunges for the door to the cabin, dragging a yelping Grover with her. Ryan grins as he stands by the mast, holding on but not going below.

Lysianassa grins, and they are off.

They race north, landing on the beach of camp four days later. Half as fast as they would have if Lysianassa hadn’t been there. Her presence seemed to push the boat faster, her connection to the sea undeniable even now.

~~

The camp is awash in a warm, healing glow.

Clarisse has made it; even just from this small glimpse, Lysianassa can tell it worked.

“So what’s our story?” Grover asks, jumping up the sand, his hooves kicking up small sprays.

Lysianassa shrugs, mooring the boat into the sand. The feel of it leaving the water tugs at her heart, like a piece of her is left floating in the tide.

“Had a dream about you, decided to go, ran into Clarisse for a bit, saved you, ran into Luke, made our way back here.”

Ryan laughs softly at the simple plan. “Succinct.”

“If they even ask, that is. Otherwise…well, don’t give information if it’s not asked for.”

A cool breeze rustles through the trees and ripples through the grass, like it’s greeting them. The glow of the fireflies down in the woods is brighter, the smell of the strawberry fields heavier, and even as they leave the beach behind, the sound of waves follows them. The moonlight lights their path.

“It worked,” Annabeth breathes in relief. “It really worked.”

“Thank the gods,” Lysianassa murmurs in agreement, her eyes locked onto the now-healthy tree in the distance. She feels a pang of emotion, but it’s distant, like looking at an old memory she can’t quite place.

No one notices their arrival, and the next morning no one gives them a second look. It’s a relief; they can’t get in trouble if no one acknowledges that they had ever broken the rules.

Chiron greets them silently with sparkling eyes, raising his goblet in hello. Dionysus glares at them, but it’s weak compared to the look he’d given Tantalus.

Tantalus has magically disappeared; Lysianassa doesn’t bother mentioning him after Annabeth tries and is met with evil, conniving looks.

Even Clarisse appears to be in good spirits. She shoves Lysianassa from behind and whispers, “Just because you were cool one time, Jackson, don’t think you’re off the hook with me. I’m still waiting for the right opportunity to pulverize you.”

Lysianassa smiles in return, much to her exasperation.

That night, as the campfire burns and the stars twinkle above, the group sits in silence. The air feels heavy, not with tension but with something unspoken. Annabeth shifts closer to Lysianassa, her expression hesitant.

“Melia,” Annabeth begins softly, then falters. “Or…Lysianassa? I don’t know what to call you anymore.”

Lysianassa’s fingers tighten around her knees. “I don’t know either,” she admits, her voice distant. “Sometimes it feels like I’m both. Sometimes it feels like I’m neither.”

Annabeth’s face crumples, her voice trembling. “But you’re Melia. You’ve always been Melia. You’re my friend. I…I don’t want to lose you.”

Lysianassa turns to her, her expression softening. “You haven’t lost me, Annabeth. I’m still here. It’s just…complicated.”

Annabeth’s tears come in a sudden flood. She leans forward, burying her face in her hands. “You’re different now. Everything about you feels…older. Like you’re not even thirteen anymore.”

Lysianassa sighs, her hand hovering over Annabeth’s shoulder before finally resting there. “I feel older,” she says quietly. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve lived a hundred lifetimes. The memories of Lysianassa are so vivid. They’re not just stories in my head. They’re mine. I’ve sailed oceans, fought wars, loved, lost…”

Annabeth looks up, her eyes red and raw. “But what about now? What about us? Are you still…Melia?”

Lysianassa hesitates, the question cutting deep. Before she can answer, another voice breaks the silence.

“You’re both,” Lucia says firmly, stepping into the circle of firelight. Her presence is calm, grounding. She sits beside Lysianassa, her gaze steady. “You’re Melia. You’re Lysianassa. But most importantly, you’re here, right now, with us.”

Lysianassa’s shoulders relax slightly, her expression softening. “I…don’t know how to balance it all,” she admits. “Sometimes it feels like Lysianassa is taking over, like Melia is slipping away.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Lucia says gently. “You’re not meant to choose one over the other. You’re meant to be both. The memories you have, the experiences you’ve gained, they make you stronger. But they don’t erase who you were—who you are.”

Annabeth sniffles, wiping at her face. “So you’re still Melia?” she asks hesitantly.

Lysianassa smiles faintly. “I’m still Melia. But I’m also Lysianassa. And I’ll always be your friend.”

The tension breaks, the weight in the air lifting. Annabeth leans against Lysianassa, her head resting on her shoulder.

Lucia watches them for a moment before standing. “We’re all a little different after this journey,” she says. “But that’s not a bad thing.” She gives Lysianassa a small, encouraging smile before walking back toward the cabins.

The fire crackles softly as they sit in silence, the stars above bearing witness to their quiet understanding. Lysianassa stares into the flames, her mind a whirl of memories and emotions. But for the first time, she feels a sense of peace. She doesn’t have to choose. She can be both.

As the night deepens, Lysianassa listens to the crackle of the flames and the rhythmic sounds of the camp settling into sleep. The weight of her dual identity still presses on her, but Lucia’s words resonate, weaving a thread of comfort through the storm of her thoughts. She glances at Annabeth, who’s still leaning against her, her breathing steadying into a light doze. For the first time since their journey began, Lysianassa lets herself lean into the moment, embracing both the strength of Lysianassa and the heart of Melia.

Over the next few days, Melia works with her cabin on improving their chariot for the reinstated races. She doesn’t care much for the prize, a month of no chores; she just wants to win, but it would be nice for Ellie and Mylo. The night before the race, she stays late in the stables, making sure their horses receive extra attention so they’re fully prepared. That’s when the scent of strawberries fills the air.

“Fine animals, horses. Wish I’d thought of them.”

“I think Dad would fight you on that,” Melia says, turning to greet the god. “Hermes.”

“Probably.” The god’s eyes glint mischievously.

This time, Hermes doesn’t look like a jogger. Instead, he’s dressed as a middle-aged postal carrier, leaning casually against the stable door. He’s slim, with curly black hair under a white pith helmet that flickers gold in the light. A mailbag is slung over his shoulder.

“Hello, Melia,” he greets. “How goes it?”

Melia settles an unimpressed look on him. Hermes chuckles, shrugging in that breezy, unaffected way gods often do.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Melia gives the horse one last brush before starting, “About Luke…”

“You weren’t able to talk any sense into him?”

“No,” Melia admits. “I’m really sorry. He was angry; any mention of you made him angrier. He… said he feels like you abandoned him.”

Hermes sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. The weight of centuries seems to settle over him for a moment.

“Do you ever feel your father abandoned you, Melia?”

Melia doesn’t reply immediately. She stares past Hermes at the stable wall, listening to the faint crash of waves on the beach. Memories stir, unbidden: Lysianassa’s heartache at never seeing Odysseus again, at dying on Ithaca's shore and knowing her father’s mercy toward Polyphemus cost her the chance at a long life. It lingers in her chest like an echo, a mix of sorrow and understanding. Finally, she says, “No. I mean… growing up, I had my mom. She’s smart and clever and… I knew. I’ve always known who I was, or at least where a part of me came from. It was kinda hard not to when I had to be in water to breathe right. And when I came here, well, Dad doesn’t like rules. He’s helped me plenty. But I know… not everyone gets those circumstances. And Kym has been in my life for years.”

Hermes’ eyes are sad but understanding. “You’re right,” he says. “But at least you reminded Luke who he was. You spoke to him.”

“I tried to kill him.”

Hermes shrugs. “Families are messy. Immortal families are eternally messy. Sometimes the best we can do is remind each other that we’re related, for better or worse… and try to keep the maiming and killing to a minimum.”

Melia huffs a quiet laugh despite herself.

In the distance, the conch horn sounds, signaling curfew.

“You should get to bed,” Hermes says. “I’ve helped you get into quite enough trouble this summer already. I really only came to make this delivery.”

He pulls an electronic signature pad from his mailbag and hands it to her. “Sign there, please.”

Melia picks up the stylus, blinking at the tiny snakes curled around it. “George! Martha!” she exclaims, bringing the stylus closer. “Hello! I didn’t think you could get any smaller.”

"Of course we can," George hisses. "We can do lots."

"Do you have a rat?" George asks after. "Or a guinea pig?"

"George!" Martha scolds. "You glutton."

“No rats or guinea pigs right now,” Melia laughs. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for some.”

She signs her name and hands the pad back to Hermes.

In exchange, he gives her a sea-blue envelope.

“Good luck tomorrow,” Hermes says. “Fine team of horses you have there, though you’ll have to excuse me if I root for the Hermes cabin.”

"And don’t be too discouraged when you read it, dear," Martha says. "He does have your best interests at heart."

Melia isn’t sure what expression she makes, but it has both Hermes and George laughing.

“Oh, wait,” Melia says as the god turns to leave. “I still have one of the gifts you gave me—the winds…”

Hermes shrugs. “Keep it. Never know when you’ll need it.” The god grins, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “Goodbye, Melia. For now.”

The white wings on Hermes’ cap flutter into motion. He begins to glow, and the smell of strawberries grows stronger, almost overwhelming.

Melia averts her eyes just as the god flashes away.

When he’s gone, she turns her attention to the envelope. They could easily communicate in other ways, so whatever this was, it had to be important.

The envelope bears strong but elegant handwriting, addressed to her. She opens it and unfolds the paper inside.

Two simple words are printed in the middle of the page:

**Brace Yourself.**

She folded the note back up and shoved it in her pocket, grumbling as she made her way to her cabin. The faint echoes of the sea followed her, a soft reminder that she could never quite escape the ocean’s pull, even on land.

~~

Chloe and Mylo trailed close behind, their small forms radiating a quiet determination. They had barely left her or Ryan’s side since they’d returned to camp. Chloe’s hand often brushed against Melia’s, seeking reassurance, while Mylo clung to Ryan like a shadow, his bright blue eyes darting nervously whenever someone came too close.

“You’re both okay now, right?” Chloe asked tentatively as they reached the cabin.

Melia crouched down to her level, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “We’re okay, Chloe. I promise. And you know what? We’re not going anywhere.”

Chloe nodded but didn’t look entirely convinced. Mylo, standing a few steps away, tightened his grip on Ryan’s sleeve. “If something happens again, we’ll help. Right, Chloe?”

Chloe’s nod was more resolute this time. “Right.”

Melia’s heart ached at their earnestness. “You two are the bravest kids I know,” she said, ruffling Mylo’s hair. “But let’s focus on having some fun for now, okay?”

The next morning, the chariot races took place. The wariness of the Stymphalian birds returning could not hamper the excitement. Ellie, with Eve as her fighter, was certain of their victory.

Chloe and Mylo stuck close to Melia and Ryan during the event, their wide eyes taking in the grandeur of the chariots and the electrifying cheers from the crowd. Chloe perched on Melia’s lap, her small fingers gripping her sleeve as the race began, while Mylo stood beside Ryan, bouncing on his toes with nervous energy.

“Come on, Ellie!” Chloe shouted, her voice rising above the din.

The race was chaotic, filled with dust clouds, sharp turns, and the occasional clash of wheels. Ellie, with Eve’s steady hands wielding their weapons, maneuvered their chariot with precision and speed. The crowd roared as they surged ahead in the final lap, crossing the finish line mere inches ahead of their competitors.

“We won!” Chloe cheered, throwing her arms around Melia’s neck. Mylo’s shout of triumph was nearly as loud as the crowd’s roar.

Ellie and Eve returned victorious, grinning and covered in dust. Chloe and Mylo rushed forward to greet them, their earlier wariness forgotten in the excitement of the moment.

As the summer wrapped up, the cabin’s bond grew even stronger. Chloe and Mylo continued to stick close to Melia and Ryan, their quiet presence a constant reminder of the trials they’d faced together and the strength they’d found in each other. Melia, with her dual identity still weighing heavily on her mind, found solace in their unshakable trust.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the campfire crackled warmly, Chloe whispered, “I’m glad you came back.”

Melia smiled, her heart full. “Me too, Chloe. Me too.”

Over the summer, Grover dissolves their empathy link for Melia’s safety and his own. It was actually Mr. D who insisted that having an empathy link in this situation was extremely dangerous for both minds.

Everything was going fine until the second-to-last night of camp.

Melia wakes up with the feeling that something is horribly wrong. Fear-electricity seeps in from under her door, flooding the room. She throws on a pair of pants quickly and stumbles through putting her shirt on the right way when Grover bursts through her door.

“Melia!” he cries out, breathing heavily like he’s been running. “Annabeth is…she…she’s lying there—”

Melia throws on her jacket over her sleep top and sprints through the door. She barely notices anything else, just shoving her way through the campers to get to the hill. She can feel her control slipping, something in the air triggering her senses. Her eyes shift to allow her to see better in the dim light, and the rain boosts her legs, pushing her forward faster. She just has to get up that hill.

Chiron appears at her side at one point, and she can smell his surprise that she’s keeping up with him. It doesn’t matter. She has to get to Annabeth. They run together up the hill, and Chiron’s presence creates a gap in the crowd large enough for her to charge through, exposing the tree and the figures next to it. The Fleece is still in the tree, so it most likely wasn’t an attack. She surges forward, brushing off Chiron’s attempts to stop her.

“Annabeth!” Melia slips and skids across the grass until she can get a better look. There’s a girl lying unconscious while another girl in Greek armor kneels next to her, checking her pulse.

The girl in armor looks up when Melia calls, and stormy gray eyes lock onto hers. “Melia!” she cries. She scrambles to her feet and slams into Melia’s chest, her helmet falling off from the force of it. “I don’t know what happened! She was just lying there—she just appeared!” Tears stream down her face and mix with the rain. She keeps running her hands through her braids, tugging at the ends, switching between looking at Melia and the girl on the ground.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Melia grabs her hands, checking her over for injuries but finds none. “Were you attacked?”

“No, you don’t understand—that’s…” The girl’s voice breaks as she starts crying again. As much as Melia wants to comfort her, something is pulling her toward the other girl.

Melia swirls Maelstrom out and stalks forward, brushing off Annabeth’s attempts to stop her. She lets her senses take over as she assesses the threat. Fear-electricity-feathers-pine invades her senses, but she can’t find any reason why the girl would be dangerous. Not until she sees her face. The girl has spiky black hair, dark eyeliner smudged by the rain, and a spray of freckles across her nose. She’s tall and strong, with long legs like a runner. And Melia knows her.

“Melia!” Grover calls as he sprints up the hill to join them, gasping. “I can’t believe…”

The air is thick with fear, so much so that it’s choking. Melia tries to ignore it as she checks the girl over, placing a hand on her pulse. The beat is faint, but it’s growing stronger with each breath. She pulls the girl up by the armpits and tries to get her arm over her shoulders. “We need to get her to the Big House; she needs a healer!”

She looks at Annabeth, but Annabeth just stands there, stunned. Even Chiron is frozen in place. Lucia and Eve fight their way through the crowd to reach Melia, offering their help.

“What’s wrong with you all?!” Melia demands.

The girl takes a shaky breath. She coughs, and her eyes flutter open—startlingly electric blue. The sight of them sends a jolt through Melia. The Fleece had done its job, fulfilling Luke’s hidden intention for it.

Thalia Grace, daughter of Zeus, is back.

The silence on the hill is deafening, broken only by the soft patter of rain and the distant roll of thunder. Melia’s grip tightens on the girl’s arm, the weight of the moment crashing down on her like a tidal wave. Annabeth’s lips move soundlessly as her eyes brim with tears, and even Chiron looks shaken, his equine legs trembling beneath him.

“It’s her,” Annabeth whispers at last, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s really her.”

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XXVI

~~~~ Interlude ~~~~

Thalia walks into the pavilion, and conversations pause. Not all at once, but like a slow ripple through the air, traveling from table to table, eyes flicking toward her, lingering. Some filled with awe, others with curiosity, a few with wariness. Even those who pretend not to look are still aware of her presence. They all are. It’s impossible not to be.

She doesn’t try to command attention, but she does. It follows her like a shadow, like the rumble of thunder before a storm. The daughter of Zeus, back from the dead. A child of the Big Three.

A walking myth.

But Thalia doesn’t feel like a legend. She just feels exhausted.

Her boots hit the worn stone floor as she strides forward, her movements sharp, controlled. She keeps her head high, shoulders squared—not because she wants to, but because it’s second nature. A warrior’s stance, a fighter’s instinct, armor against the weight of the stares pressing down on her. She refuses to shrink, refuses to let them see how the attention makes her skin itch, how it coils tight in her gut like a live wire waiting to snap.

Snippets of conversation reach her ears, murmurs in hushed tones, voices half-hidden behind hands:

“That’s Thalia Grace.” “She’s so cool.” “Can she actually summon lightning?” “A daughter of Zeus! Can you imagine?”

She grits her teeth, fingers twitching at her sides, barely suppressing the urge to clench her fists. Her talons threaten to extend, the tips of her fingers tingling as her body responds to her unease. The feathers hidden within her dark hair ruffle slightly, a barely noticeable movement unless someone were watching closely.

She hates this.

She hates the pedestal they’ve put her on, the way they look at her like she’s something more, something untouchable. Like she’s an idea, not a person. A story, a symbol, not a girl who spent years as a tree, frozen between life and death, only to wake up to a world that had moved on without her.

Her gaze drifts across the pavilion, searching for an anchor, for something to pull her away from the weight of it all. That’s when she sees Melia.

At the Poseidon table, Melia sits with her cabin, completely at ease. She’s laughing, nudging Lucia, who rolls her eyes in mock annoyance. Eve snorts into her drink, Ryan grins, and Chloe—bright, eager Chloe—throws her arms around Melia’s waist, beaming up at her as if she holds the entire sea in her hands.

It’s effortless. Natural.

No one stares at them like they are something to fear or worship. They are a family, bound not by blood but by choice, by trust, by something stronger than expectation. Melia belongs.

Thalia’s jaw tightens. A sharp, hollow ache curls in her chest, one she refuses to name.

She forces herself to move, her steps carrying her toward the Zeus table—her table. The one meant for her alone. She doesn’t belong at the Poseidon table, not with Melia and the warmth of her found family. She doesn’t belong at the Athena table, or Ares, or even Hermes, despite the fact that she’s spent more time with the Hermes campers than anyone else.

No, she belongs here. At the grand, solitary table of Zeus.

She drops into the empty seat, the weight of the air around her pressing down like the promise of a coming storm. The table is large, imposing, designed for a presence much greater than hers. The golden plates glint under the pavilion lights, untouched, waiting. For a second, she imagines what it would be like if someone else were sitting there too. Jason, maybe, her little brother she barely remembers. Or someone, anyone, who would understand what it’s like to carry the name of a god and be crushed beneath it.

But she is alone.

She picks up a plate, grabs food without really seeing it. The motions are mechanical. She keeps her head down. She just wants to eat.

But the weight of their expectations doesn’t lift. It presses down, suffocating. She can feel their gazes, the whispered words. Like she’s a storm held in fragile glass, something to be admired but never truly understood.

Her fists clench again, her talons half-extending before she forces them back. She stares down at her plate, untouched, appetite fleeting.

She doesn’t belong anywhere.

Not here. Not yet.

~

The clang of metal against metal rings through the training grounds, sharp and unrelenting. Thalia’s sword meets Melia’s with force, the impact sending a tremor up her arms, but Melia doesn’t flinch. She holds her ground, fluid as the tide, her movements quick and precise.

Thalia grits her teeth. They’ve been sparring for a while now, their blades meeting in rapid succession, neither willing to yield. At first, it had been normal—footwork, calculated strikes, testing each other’s reflexes. But now, now it’s different.

Melia is keeping up with her. More than that, she’s matching her with an ease that feels like a mockery. Every time Thalia presses forward, Melia slips away like water, only to strike back with the precision of a predator. It’s infuriating.

Thalia narrows her eyes, her grip tightening on her sword hilt. She lunges, faster this time, aiming for Melia’s exposed side, but Melia pivots effortlessly, her own blade flashing as she parries. The clash is loud, reverberating in the space between them, and Thalia can feel the charge in the air beginning to shift.

A storm is coming.

Thalia presses harder, her strikes becoming faster, more aggressive. Sparks fly where their weapons meet. The wind begins to pick up, swirling dust and loose leaves around them. Dark clouds start to roll in above, the scent of ozone thickening in the air.

Melia, for her part, doesn’t back down. If anything, she rises to meet the challenge. Her stance shifts, her movements growing sharper, her body moving in perfect harmony with the shifting battlefield. She doesn’t need the storm—she has the sea. And the sea does not yield.

Their fight intensifies. Thalia swings, and Melia ducks, countering with a swift kick that Thalia barely blocks in time. Thalia retaliates, her talons extending as she rakes a clawed hand toward Melia’s arm. Melia twists away, but not fast enough. A thin scratch blooms red on her forearm.

She barely reacts.

Thalia growls in frustration, electricity crackling at her fingertips now, her power starting to bleed into the fight. Melia’s eyes flick to the shifting skies, the darkened clouds reflecting in their depths like an oncoming squall. And then, the ocean stirs in answer.

Water pulls from the damp earth, droplets rising around Melia like a shimmering shield. Her stance lowers, her grip on Maelstrom tightening. “Thalia,” she warns, her voice calm, steady. “Breathe.”

But Thalia doesn’t want to breathe. She wants to win. She wants to prove—to herself, to everyone—that she is strong, that she is not someone to be matched so easily.

Lightning crackles overhead, the air buzzing with static as Thalia launches forward, her strikes fierce, relentless. Melia meets her head-on, the ground beneath them dampening as waves of moisture roll off her in waves. The storm and the sea collide, the very elements responding to their battle.

A bolt of lightning arcs down, striking the training field a few feet away, the force shaking the ground beneath them. It’s a warning.

Still, neither of them stop.

They are too caught in the momentum, in the challenge, in the need to push each other further. But there is a fine line between proving oneself and losing control, and they are dangerously close to crossing it.

The storm above rages, the sky flashing with growing fury, and the sea within Melia surges, waves forming from the moisture in the air. Her movements become more fluid, her strength more apparent, the water responding to her in ways it never has before.

Thalia snarls, frustration bleeding into her every strike. She pushes herself harder, her talons digging into her sword’s hilt, her feathers ruffling with agitation. The wind whips around her like a living thing, surging at her command, sending waves of pressure against Melia’s defenses.

Melia grits her teeth, her patience thinning. With a flick of her wrist, a blade of water arcs toward Thalia, sharp as steel. Thalia barely dodges, a strand of her dark hair slicing away as the attack whistles past her cheek.

“Is that the best you can do?” Thalia snaps, her voice rough, a challenge in itself.

Melia’s expression darkens. “You’re not fighting to train,” she says, voice low, calm—but laced with something dangerous. “You’re fighting to prove something.”

Thalia lunges, and Melia meets her head-on. Their blades lock, faces inches apart, storm and sea clashing as power hums in the air between them.

“Maybe I am,” Thalia growls. “Maybe I need to.”

Melia doesn’t look away, doesn’t yield. “Then maybe you should ask yourself why.”

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of their heavy breaths, the weight of the storm, the crash of the unseen waves beneath them.

Then, the sky rumbles, a final warning from the heavens.

A moment later, a massive wave rises between them, forcing them apart as the sky splits with lightning. The storm has reached its peak.

And suddenly, the fight doesn’t seem like just a fight anymore. It’s a battle neither of them should win.

They stand, weapons at their sides, hearts pounding, the elements raging around them. And in the silence that follows, understanding settles between them, unspoken but undeniable.

Some fights aren’t about winning. Some are about realizing what drives them in the first place.

And that, perhaps, is more terrifying than any blade.

The crack of thunder still echoes across the training grounds as Chiron rushes in, his hooves thudding against the damp earth. The sheer force of his presence is enough to make the gathered campers step back, but it takes his firm voice to truly end the fight.

"Enough!" Chiron's command cuts through the storm, his sharp eyes darting between the two demigods. "This is not a battlefield!" His voice holds the weight of authority, enough to make even the most reckless camper hesitate.

Thalia takes a step back, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. The lightning flickering at her fingertips sputters out, but the tension in her frame remains. Melia lowers Maelstrom, the water swirling around her feet sinking back into the ground, absorbed into the earth as if the sea itself is calming.

Silence follows, the storm overhead slowly dissipating. The air is thick with unspoken words, but neither girl says anything as Chiron exhales sharply, shaking his head.

"Both of you, walk it off. Cool down before you end up bringing the whole camp into your personal storm."

Thalia doesn’t wait. She turns on her heel, storming off toward the pavilion, her feathers still ruffled with agitation. The storm inside her hasn’t faded—if anything, it’s only condensed into something sharper, something heavier. She needs water, a moment to breathe, to get away before she does something she’ll regret. She grabs a bottle from one of the tables and gulps down the cool liquid, but it does nothing to wash away the frustration still buzzing beneath her skin, the remnants of lightning tingling at her fingertips.

Melia doesn’t immediately follow. She waits, letting her heartbeat settle, giving Thalia the space she seems to need. But eventually, she trails after her at a slow, measured pace. She finds Thalia leaning against a wooden post, her fingers still flexing, still wound tight with tension, as if trying to shake off the last remnants of battle.

"You okay?" Melia asks, crossing her arms, her voice steady but not unkind.

Thalia scoffs, her lips curling in something between a sneer and a grimace. "Do I look okay?"

Melia tilts her head, unimpressed. "No. That’s why I asked."

Thalia exhales sharply through her nose, her shoulders still stiff, her claws twitching against the wood behind her. "I just needed to blow off steam. Didn’t expect you to push back so hard."

"You’re not the only one who needs to let things out," Melia replies, her voice quieter now, measured. "And you weren’t holding back. You wanted a fight. I gave you one."

Thalia sneers, her feathers bristling like an eagle caught in a trap, defensive, unwilling to show weakness. "Not all of us get a perfect little family, you know."

Melia’s expression shifts, her sharp features darkening. "You think it’s perfect? You think it was easy for me?" Her voice is firm, edged with something that makes Thalia hesitate.

Thalia scoffs, rolling her eyes, but it’s forced, hollow. "At least you have people who get you."

Melia crosses her arms, stepping closer. "And you don’t let anyone in."

Silence.

Thalia clenches her jaw, her claws flexing at her sides. It’s instinct—the need to fight, to push away before she can be hurt. It’s always easier to keep people at a distance than risk losing them. She feels it in her bones, in the way she tenses, the way every part of her tells her to walk away before this gets too real, too raw.

Melia’s gaze softens, but there’s steel in her voice. "You don’t have to be alone, Thalia."

Thalia hesitates, her breath catching. The words hang in the air between them, heavy, unspoken truths woven into them. The idea of trusting, of letting herself belong somewhere, feels dangerous—feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, the wind threatening to pull her over.

"I don’t know how," she admits finally, the confession barely above a whisper.

Melia doesn’t push, doesn’t press the wound further. She simply nods, stepping back slightly, giving Thalia the space to process the admission without drowning in it.

"Then start small," she says, offering a small, almost hesitant smile. "Start here."

~

The night air is crisp, the scent of salt and sea carried on the gentle breeze. The camp is quiet, most of its inhabitants asleep, but Melia finds herself unable to rest. Something tugs at her, a whisper in the back of her mind, drawing her toward the shore.

When she reaches the beach, she spots Thalia standing at the water’s edge, her arms crossed as she stares out at the waves. The moonlight glints off her feathers, casting faint shadows along the sand. She doesn’t acknowledge Melia at first, but Melia doesn’t take it personally. Instead, she simply walks forward and lowers herself onto the sand, sitting a short distance away.

Neither of them speaks. The waves crash softly against the shore, an unspoken rhythm between them. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, nor does it demand anything from either of them. It simply exists, like the ocean, vast and endless.

Eventually, Thalia exhales, breaking the quiet. “Do you ever feel like you don’t belong anywhere?”

Melia tilts her head, glancing at her. “All the time.”

Thalia finally looks away from the ocean, startled by the honesty. “Really?”

Melia smirks, but there’s no malice in it. “But I found my people,” she says, shifting her gaze back to the waves. “Doesn’t mean the doubt goes away. Just… makes it easier.”

Thalia doesn’t answer right away. She watches Melia for a long moment, as if trying to gauge if she really means it. The wind ruffles her feathers, and she turns her gaze back to the horizon, her expression unreadable.

“I don’t know how to do that,” she admits, her voice quiet.

Melia draws a shape in the sand with her finger, a mindless habit more than anything else. “You don’t have to figure it out all at once,” she says. “It’s not about forcing it. It just… happens. You let people in, and suddenly, one day, you realise they’re your family.”

Thalia scoffs lightly, shaking her head. “Doesn’t sound that simple.”

Melia chuckles, stretching her legs out in front of her. “It’s not. But neither is pushing everyone away.”

Thalia is quiet again, the weight of those words settling over her. She knows Melia is right. Deep down, she’s always known. But knowing and acting on it are two very different things.

The two sit in silence for a while longer, the waves their only witness. And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in a long time, Thalia doesn’t feel quite as alone.

~~

The night air is crisp against Thalia’s skin as she walks through camp, the dim glow of cabin windows casting long, flickering shadows onto the dirt paths. The quiet hum of crickets and the occasional rustling of leaves fill the silence, but it’s not enough to drown out the noise in her head. She tells herself she’s just walking to clear her mind, to shake off the fight still simmering beneath her skin. She’s not looking for something. She’s not searching.

And yet, her feet bring her here—outside Cabin 3, where warm laughter spills from the slightly ajar door, curling into the cool night air like the inviting scent of a home-cooked meal. The kind of warmth she doesn’t know how to reach for.

She hesitates, stopping just beyond the threshold, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The scent of saltwater drifts toward her, blending with the ever-present woodsy smell of camp, and beneath it all, the unmistakable presence of a family that isn’t hers. A home that isn’t hers. It shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t care.

But she stays anyway.

Inside, the younger kids are curled together on the floor, half-buried in blankets, their eyes wide as Melia spins a tale of the sea. Her voice is steady, carrying the weight of adventure, of waves crashing against the hull of a ship, of stolen treasure and distant shores. Every so often, Eve interjects with an exaggerated flourish, her hands gesturing wildly as she describes a monster twice as big as Melia originally claimed. The room erupts in groans and laughter. Lucia tosses a pillow at Eve, who ducks, grinning, while Ryan—half-asleep, his head resting on his arm—mumbles, "Get your facts straight, Eve."

It’s… easy. The way they interact, the way they fit together like a well-worn crew that’s been sailing the same ship for years. The teasing, the unspoken understanding between them, the way no one is an outsider.

She grips her arms tighter, her feathers bristling slightly in agitation. She shouldn’t be here. She doesn’t need this. She doesn’t need them.

And yet, she lingers.

Inside, Melia shifts slightly, her gaze flicking toward the doorway. Even in the dim light, her sharp eyes don’t miss much. She catches sight of Thalia, the shadow lingering just outside. For a moment, neither of them move, locked in that space between knowing and not acknowledging. Melia doesn’t call out, doesn’t demand an explanation. Instead, she just… makes space. A subtle shift, an unspoken invitation. As if to say, You don’t have to ask. Just sit down.

Thalia’s fingers flex at her sides. There’s a war raging inside her, an instinct that tells her to turn away, to leave before she gets too close . Before she risks feeling like she belongs.

She swallows hard, her throat tight, and with a sharp inhale, she shakes her head.

Not yet.

Without a word, she turns, disappearing into the dark before anyone can notice, before she can change her mind.

Inside, Melia watches the doorway for a long moment before continuing her story, her voice just as steady as before. As if nothing had changed.

~~

The training grounds buzz with energy as Melia and Eve circle each other, their movements fluid and sharp. The clash of their weapons rings through the crisp air, interwoven with the occasional burst of laughter or taunting remark. Ellie and Ryan sit on a nearby log, watching with amusement as the two exchange rapid strikes, their eyes gleaming with anticipation for the next clever feint or sudden counterattack.

"Come on, Eve! You're gonna let Melia show you up like that?" Ellie teases, grinning as Eve scowls at her before narrowly dodging one of Melia’s quick jabs. Ryan chuckles, leaning back on his elbows. "I don’t know, Ellie. Maybe Melia’s just that good."

Thalia lingers at the edge of the training field, arms crossed, watching. She isn’t sure why she came here. At first, she told herself she was just passing by, but now she finds herself unable to walk away. There’s something different about the way they spar—there’s no pressure, no expectation of proving oneself. It’s just fighting for the sake of fun, for the sake of pushing each other to be better. It’s not something she’s used to. No one is waiting for her to falter, to disappoint. It’s just them, moving like the tides, shifting in and out of each other’s space like it’s second nature.

Eve, panting slightly, suddenly steps back, lowering her stance. Her eyes flick to Thalia. “Hey, want in?”

Thalia stiffens. Her first instinct is to say no, to brush them off and leave. But there’s something in the way they move together—laughing, teasing, trusting—that makes her hesitate. It’s not about dominance. It’s not about survival. It’s just… them .

“Yeah, okay,” she says before she can talk herself out of it.

Eve tosses her a practice staff, and Thalia catches it with ease. She takes a moment to get a feel for the weapon, its weight familiar but foreign in this setting. The others shift to accommodate her presence, but it’s casual, effortless—like she’s always been there. The thought makes something tight in her chest loosen just a little.

They start slow at first, Thalia squaring off against Eve while Melia watches with a smirk, but it doesn’t stay one-on-one for long. Ellie joins in, then Ryan, and before Thalia can fully grasp what’s happening, she’s at the center of a whirlwind. They’re ganging up on her— the outsider —but not maliciously. It’s a game, a challenge, and something inside her thrums with excitement.

Lightning crackles at her fingertips as she spins away from Ellie’s strike, flipping over Ryan’s sweeping leg. She fights back with raw exhilaration, a grin splitting her face. They’re fast, coordinated, pressing in from all angles like a pack of sharks circling prey—but she’s not prey. She’s a storm, untamed and untouchable, meeting them blow for blow. Her talons flash, her eyes gleaming like an eagle in freefall, and for once, she lets herself enjoy it.

The fight stretches on longer than she expected, sweat slicking her brow, but she doesn’t care. She laughs—actually laughs—as she dodges a particularly wild swing from Eve, ducking beneath Ryan’s reach before tapping Ellie on the shoulder with the end of her staff. “Tagged,” she teases, and Ellie groans dramatically.

“Okay, okay, I yield!” Thalia finally laughs, breathless, as they all collapse onto the training ground. Her limbs ache in the best way possible, her heart pounding with something she hasn’t felt in a long time—joy. Not the frantic, reckless joy of defying death, but something warmer, steadier. Something that feels like belonging .

Ryan nudges her playfully, a grin tugging at his lips. “You fight like a bird of prey. Fast, sharp.”

Thalia smirks, tilting her head back to stare at the sky. “You all fight like a pack of sharks.”

“Yeah, and?” Eve grins, wiping sweat from her brow.

Thalia shrugs, her smirk softening just a little. “I dunno. Just… fits.”

She doesn’t say it out loud, but for the first time in a long while, she feels like she might just fit, too.

~~

The pavilion hums with the chatter of campers, the clatter of plates and cutlery filling the air as dinner is served. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread wafts through the open space, mingling with the salty breeze drifting in from the ocean. It’s a familiar scene, one that Thalia has watched from a distance since she returned, always sitting alone at the Zeus table—a single seat at a table meant for a king. A throne with no court.

She’s heading toward it now, out of habit more than desire, when a shadow moves in her periphery. Lucia strides past her, dragging an extra seat toward Cabin 3’s table with a loud, obnoxious scrape. The noise cuts through the pavilion, drawing eyes, and Thalia feels heat rise to her face as she glares at the sharklike grin Lucia throws her way.

“Oh, look,” Lucia announces, her voice all too casual. “An empty seat. Wonder who that’s for?”

Thalia scowls, crossing her arms. “I don’t belong here.”

Lucia shrugs, completely unfazed. “Neither do we, technically.”

Melia, lounging with easy confidence, simply raises an eyebrow in challenge. Across the table, Ryan leans forward, his expression neutral but his words pointed. “You fight with us. You sit with us. That makes you ours.”

Thalia falters, her fingers twitching as they flex, almost forming talons. A battle wages inside her—pride versus longing. She looks at them, at how easily they sit together, how naturally they fit. She’s always been outside the circle, on the edges, looking in. But here they are, dragging her in whether she wants it or not.

Chloe, nestled next to Melia, peeks up at Thalia with wide, earnest eyes. She tugs at Melia’s sleeve before whispering, “Does that mean she’s our sister now?”

Melia glances at Thalia with a smirk. “Looks like it.”

Thalia grumbles under her breath, but doesn’t argue as she drops into the seat. The moment her tray hits the table, there’s a sense of something shifting, like the tide pulling her into uncharted waters.

She doesn’t realize she’s tensed until she hears hushed whispers from another table.

“She thinks she’s better than everyone.”

A sneer rises to her lips, the familiar sting of being watched, judged, assumed. But before she can even turn, Eve is already moving, her growl low and sharp like a predator baring its fangs. “Got something to say?”

The whispering campers shrink under her glare, quickly turning their focus back to their food. Thalia blinks, startled. No one’s ever defended her like that—not like this, like it’s natural, like it’s expected.

Melia, utterly unfazed, simply hands Thalia a roll of bread. Chloe does the same, nudging a small plate of fruit toward her. “Eat,” Melia says, while Chloe chimes in, “You’ll fight better if you do.”

Thalia looks at them, then at the others, and realizes with a strange, unfamiliar warmth curling in her chest—maybe she doesn’t have to be alone. Maybe, just maybe, she’s found something here.

~~

The night is still, the distant crash of waves against the shore the only sound filling the quiet air. The moonlight filters through the windows of Zeus’s Cabin, casting stark shadows across the empty beds that line the vast space. Thalia lies in the center of it all, staring up at the wooden ceiling, her fingers twitching against the blanket.

It’s too quiet.

She shifts, turning onto her side, then her back again. The emptiness of the cabin presses down on her, wrapping around her like a suffocating fog. She’d spent years in a tree, alone in the dark, and yet this is somehow worse. This is a reminder of what she is supposed to be—the daughter of Zeus, powerful, untouchable. But all she feels is separate. Always separate.

With a frustrated huff, she throws off her blanket and swings her legs over the side of the bed. Restless energy burns under her skin, a storm with no release. She paces for a moment, her claws flexing at the tips of her fingers before she exhales sharply, retracting them. The thought of staying in this cavernous, empty space any longer makes her chest feel tight.

Melia had told her before, in an offhanded way, that Cabin 3 was always open to her. That no one would stop her if she wanted to visit. She hadn’t taken it seriously at the time. But now, the thought lingers, curling around her mind like a whisper of a promise.

Before she can think better of it, she grabs her jacket and steps outside. The air is cool, the distant scent of the ocean carried on the breeze, and for a moment, she just walks, letting her feet carry her forward without a destination in mind. But when she looks up, she finds herself in front of Cabin 3’s entrance.

The door is slightly ajar, the warm glow of lanterns still flickering inside. She hesitates before pushing it open, stepping into the common area. It smells of salt and wood, faintly of damp clothes and something warm—like home. It’s different from Zeus’s cabin, not just in size but in feeling. Where her cabin is vast and empty, this one is lived in, cluttered but cozy.

She glances toward the sleeping area, her sharp eagle-like eyes adjusting easily to the dim lighting. The sight inside stops her in her tracks.

The entire cabin is a tangle of limbs and soft breaths, a pile of warmth and closeness that she can’t quite process. Chloe is snuggled deep into Lucia’s side, the younger girl curled up like a kitten in the crook of her arm. Eve is half-sprawled across Ryan’s bed, her foot dangling off the side in the most uncomfortable-looking position, yet she sleeps soundly. Ryan himself is face-down in his pillow, one arm lazily draped over the edge. And Melia—Melia is leaning against the window, half-awake, her fingers drumming softly against the sill as if keeping time with the tide outside.

Thalia’s chest tightens. It’s not jealousy. Not exactly. It’s something deeper, something more raw—longing. She has never had this. Never had the comfort of simply being, of belonging, of being part of something so effortless.

She swallows, the thought of asking to stay thick in her throat. But before she can turn to leave—

“You standing there like a creep for a reason?”

Eve’s voice, groggy but sharp, cuts through the quiet. She doesn’t even open her eyes, just shifts slightly, like she’s making room for someone who won’t admit they need it.

Melia doesn’t even look up from her spot by the window. “Just sleep here. No one’s stopping you.”

Thalia scowls, the instinct to push back immediate. She mutters something about them being weird and turns as if to leave—but she doesn’t.

Instead, she exhales slowly, then, almost without thinking, she moves to the closest open space—a pile of spare blankets near the foot of Ryan’s bed. No one makes a big deal out of it, no one comments. Melia simply closes her eyes again, Eve shifts back into sleep, and the room settles.

And for the first time in a long time, Thalia doesn’t feel alone.

When morning comes, she wakes up with Chloe draped over her like a cat, Lucia’s arm somehow slung over her legs, and Ryan shoving a pillow at her head with a mumbled, “Your wings were poking me.”

Thalia groans, trying to push them off, but the warmth of it—the chaos, the closeness—seeps into her bones.

Maybe… maybe she can stay a little longer.

~~

The final day of camp dawns bright and cool, the morning air carrying the faint tang of the ocean. Melia stands outside the Poseidon cabin, her bag packed and slung over her shoulder. Chloe stands beside her, clutching her own bag, her small frame tense with the weight of goodbye. The two of them linger in the doorway for a moment, as if reluctant to leave the comfort of the summer behind.

“You ready?” Chloe asks, her voice quiet, tinged with the kind of nervousness that comes before a big change.

Melia nods, though her gaze lingers on the cabins around them, where their cabinmates and friends are saying their own goodbyes. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

They walk together to the central meeting area where the rest of their cabinmates have gathered. Mylo spots them first and rushes over, his face a mix of excitement and sadness.

“You’re really leaving?” he asks, looking up at Melia with wide eyes that shimmer slightly with unshed tears.

“Yeah,” she says gently, ruffling his hair. “But it’s not forever. I’ll see you next summer, and you better have some good stories to tell me about middle school.”

“I’ll try,” Mylo says with a small grin, though his eyes glisten. “You better write.”

“Promise,” Melia says, holding out her pinky. Mylo hooks his with hers, sealing the promise with a solemn nod before he breaks into a reluctant smile.

Eve and Ellie approach next, Ellie carrying a sketchbook under her arm. “We made something for you,” Ellie says, holding out the book. “It’s just sketches of our time at camp this summer, but we thought you’d like it.”

Melia takes the sketchbook, flipping through pages filled with memories—the chariot races, the campfire singalongs, moments of laughter and triumph. Each page brings back a surge of emotions, from joy to bittersweet nostalgia. “This is amazing,” she says, her voice thick. “Thank you.”

Eve gives her a brief, fierce hug. “Don’t let anyone push you around at your new school,” she says. “And if they try, let us know. We’ll sort them out.”

Lucia appears last, her arms crossed but her expression unusually soft. “Don’t burn down your new school,” she says, smirking. “And if you do, at least make it memorable.”

Melia laughs, pulling Lucia into a hug. “I’ll miss you too.” She lingers for a moment, holding on a little tighter than usual, feeling the weight of the bond they’ve built this summer.

Ryan, standing slightly apart, offers a quiet smile. When Melia approaches, he extends a hand. “Take care of Chloe. And yourself,” he says.

“I will,” Melia promises, shaking his hand firmly. “You look out for yourself as well, okay?”

Ryan nods. “Always.” He glances at Chloe, his expression softening. “And keep your head up, Chloe. You’re stronger than you think.”

Chloe blushes faintly but smiles. “Thanks, Ryan. You too.”

As the morning progresses, the camp begins to thin out, campers leaving with their families or catching rides back to the mortal world. Melia and Chloe board a car waiting to take them back to Sally, Melia’s mum, who’ll be waiting for them at the train station. They wave out the window as their cabinmates and friends grow smaller in the distance, their figures blending into the landscape of Camp Half-Blood one last time.

Chloe leans against Melia during the ride, her small frame trembling slightly. “I’m glad we’ll be together this year,” she says softly. “I’d miss you too much otherwise.”

“Me too,” Melia replies, resting her cheek on Chloe’s head. “We’ve got this. New schools, new adventures. And then, next summer, back to camp.”

Chloe nods, her smile small but genuine. “Yeah. Next summer.”

The train pulls into the station with a screech, the platform bustling with travelers, but Sally Jackson’s attention is fixed solely on the arriving passengers. She stands near the edge, craning her neck, her bright blue eyes scanning each face as they step off the train. Her fingers fidget with the strap of her bag, and her smile widens the moment she spots Melia and Chloe descending the steps together.

“Mom!” Melia calls, her voice cutting through the crowd. She waves, her other hand clutching Chloe’s to keep her close amidst the chaos of the platform.

Sally’s face lights up as she hurries forward. She wraps Melia in a tight embrace, pulling her daughter close. “Oh, my sea star, I missed you so much,” she murmurs, her voice trembling with emotion.

Melia hugs her back just as tightly, her throat tight. “Missed you too, Mom.”

Sally pulls back just enough to take Melia’s face in her hands, studying her intently. “You’ve grown so much. And your hair…is that a braid? You look beautiful, darling.” Her eyes glimmer with unshed tears before she turns to Chloe, enveloping the younger girl in an equally warm hug. “And Chloe, my other little sea star. Look at you! You’ve gotten taller.”

Chloe giggles, hugging Sally tightly. “Not much taller,” she says, but her grin is wide.

Sally pulls back, placing a hand on each girl’s shoulder. “Let me look at you both. You look like you’ve had quite the summer.”

Melia exchanges a glance with Chloe, both of them smiling faintly. “You could say that,” Melia says.

Sally’s expression softens. “Well, you’re home now, and I’ve got everything ready for you. Your favourite dinner, clean sheets, and…” she gives Chloe a playful smile, “a new sketchbook waiting on the desk.”

Chloe’s eyes light up. “Really?”

Sally nods. “Of course. I’ve been waiting all summer to spoil you both.”

As they leave the platform, Sally keeps an arm around each girl, her presence radiating warmth and security. The ride home is filled with chatter—Sally’s questions about camp, Chloe’s enthusiastic recounting of the chariot race, and Melia’s more measured responses, her thoughts still partially lingering on Camp Half-Blood and the summer’s events.

When they arrive at the apartment, the familiar scent of home washes over them. The faint aroma of baked cookies mingles with the sea breeze wafting through the open windows. Sally ushers them inside, taking their bags and placing them near the couch.

“Go wash up,” she says. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Melia and Chloe exchange amused looks but do as they’re told. The comfort of home, of Sally’s care, feels like a balm after the trials of the summer. When they return to the kitchen, the table is set, and a spread of their favourite foods awaits them. Chloe gasps in delight.

Over dinner, Sally listens intently as the girls share stories of their summer, though they carefully omit the more harrowing details. Sally’s laughter fills the room when Chloe recounts her attempts to outmaneuver the Hermes cabin during one of the simpler, safer games tailored for the younger campers. "It wasn’t the real Capture the Flag," Chloe explains, "but we still had to dodge and run a lot!"

“And did you win?” Sally asks, her eyes twinkling.

Chloe grins. “No, but it was close!”

Sally smiles warmly, her gaze shifting to Melia. “And you? How was it?”

Melia hesitates, her thoughts swirling with memories of battles, friendships, and the growing weight of her dual identity. But looking at her mother’s kind eyes, she feels a sense of calm. “It was…a lot. But I learned a lot too. About myself. About…everything.”

Sally nods, her expression understanding. “You’ve always been stronger than you know, Melia. And whatever you’re carrying, you’re not carrying it alone. Remember that.”

Chloe reaches over and squeezes Melia’s hand, her small gesture a reminder of their bond.

After dinner, the three of them settle on the couch, wrapped in blankets as they watch a movie. Chloe leans against Sally, her sketchbook balanced on her knees, while Melia sits on the other side, her thoughts quieter but no less heavy.

For the first time in months, she feels a sense of peace. Home might not have the same magic as Camp Half-Blood, but it has its own kind of power—a place where she can rest, where she can be Melia, or Lysianassa, or maybe just a daughter coming home.

As the credits roll and the apartment grows quiet, Sally kisses both girls on the forehead. “Goodnight, my sea stars. I’m so glad you’re home.”

Melia watches her mother disappear down the hall, her heart full but conflicted. She looks at Chloe, who has already dozed off against a cushion, and smiles faintly. Whatever the school year brings, she knows she’s not alone. And when the summer comes again, she’ll be ready to return to Camp Half-Blood—ready for whatever awaits.

For now, she lets herself close her eyes, the sound of the city outside blending with the steady rhythm of home.

~~

It has been a couple of days since Melia returned home, her mind wrestling with the transition back into modern life. Memories of Lysianassa persist, growing sharper with each passing morning, as if the ancient life is creeping closer to eclipsing her own. Some days, she feels more like Lysianassa than Melia—an old soul trapped in a young body, the lines between her identities blurring as they start to merge.

On the eve of the new school year, the weight of her dual existence presses harder than ever. Melia struggles to sleep, tossing and turning in her bed. Her large shark plushie is clutched tightly in her arms, her face buried against its soft surface as if it could shield her from the memories intruding upon her mind. Finally, exhaustion pulls her under, and her dreams are anything but restful.

In her dream—or perhaps a memory—Lysianassa moves with deliberate steps, leaving the grandeur of the palace in her wake. The setting sun paints the gardens in deepening shades of gold and crimson, the vibrant hues splashing over the roses and delicate greenery as she makes her way through them, heading toward the cliff's edge. Each stride is purposeful, an unspoken statement of determination. Her hand instinctively reaches for the straps of her armour, securing its protective layers over her chiton. She pauses to touch the smooth silver ring adorning her finger, its cool metal a reminder of what lies ahead. With a subtle twist, the ring transforms into a gleaming silver kopis. The sword's blade shimmers like rippling waves of the ocean, catching the evening light in its ethereal blue hue. The hilt is wrapped in supple black leather, comforting and familiar in her grasp. The single cutting edge curves gracefully, exuding both elegance and lethality, an extension of her will forged in the depths of Atlantis, tempered by the ocean's trenches.

With the familiar weight in hand, Lysianassa resumes her walk, her expression unreadable. The gardens soon give way to wild terrain, the cliffs beyond marking the boundary between the kingdom and the chaotic freedom of the sea. She doesn't react as the shadow detaches itself from the side of a tree, falling in beside her. Melania steps out, her movements almost feline as she glides to Lysianassa's side. She is similarly armoured, the spear in her hand tipped with a dark, almost ominous iron that seems to drink in the shadows around it.

"Did you really think I would let you go alone?" Melania asks softly, her voice trying and failing to hide the deep worry that churns inside her.

Lysianassa stops just before the final climb to the cliff's edge. The world seems to narrow around them, the distant sound of the waves crashing below blending into the golden sunset. She turns, meeting Melania's gaze. "No, I didn’t," she admits, her voice carrying a mix of resignation and gratitude. "Part of me hoped you wouldn’t—that you'd stay and look after them. But I knew you’d want to stand beside me."

Melania smiles, and without hesitation starts up the climb. "Good," she says, her voice carrying a warmth that reaches Lysianassa's heart. "I promised you that I would stand beside you. Plus, it’s hardly proper to be your bodyguard if I’m not guarding your body."

Lysianassa laughs, the sound a balm against the looming darkness of their fate. "I still find it funny when you use that excuse for outsiders when they ask about you sleeping in my room."

Melania’s laugh echoes gently on the breeze, the humour a small moment of light amidst what lies ahead. They reach the edge of the cliff, pausing for a moment to take in the raging seas below, the stormy waters around Ithaca churning violently. The wind whips their hair back, and salt spray coats their skin.

"So what's the plan?" Melania asks, her voice steady but her eyes searching Lysianassa’s face.

"We can’t let them pass us. Once they have me, they will have the price demanded in the dream. A child for a child," Lysianassa explains, her voice tinged with determination as she twirls her blade, the weight a familiar comfort. The salt air swirls around her, adding a certain sharpness to her expression. "But I plan on taking as many of these monsters with me as I can."

Melania takes a step closer, her violet eyes softening with something deeper than worry—something fierce, protective. "Then we do it together. And if I can't say it again, Lys… I love you," she says, adjusting her grip on her spear, letting a coldness seep into the air, her divine nature responding to her resolve.

Lysianassa smiles, stepping forward to cup Melania’s face, pulling her into a deep kiss. Her heart aches with the moment’s fragility, holding on tightly as their lips meet. When they break apart, their more divine traits begin to emerge. Lysianassa’s scales glisten along her skin, catching the last of the sunlight, and Melania’s large, dark wings unfurl behind her, exuding both power and grace.

Their shared smile is an exchange of promises as they ready themselves. Melania adjusts her stance, her violet eyes shimmering with an otherworldly glow, her oval-shaped pupils narrowing into slits, feral and intense. Her dark wings spread out wide, majestic and deadly, the feathers ruffling as they catch the breeze. She rolls her shoulders, settling into a battle stance, her grip on her spear steady as her wings brace against the oncoming storm.

Lysianassa, meanwhile, feels the pull of her heritage. Her teeth elongate into razor-sharp points, her skin shimmering as silvery scales cover her arms and legs, providing natural armor. Her pupils dilate to let in every ounce of fading light, and gills unfurl along her neck, readying her for the dive to come. She feels the surge of the ocean calling to her, its raw energy thrumming beneath her skin.

They turn as one to face the oncoming horde—wild cyclopes, serpentine creatures, and monstrous sea goats. The enemy forces spread across the cliffside, a grotesque tide spilling forward to challenge them. Lysianassa waits, her eyes never leaving the advancing cyclopes as they begin to scale the cliffside. Her gaze sharpens, her lips parting to reveal teeth that are far too numerous and far too sharp. She throws a glance at Melania and offers a fierce grin before sprinting forward, diving off the edge of the cliff in one fluid movement.

The air rushes past her, and with a twist and a flip, her legs merge together, forming a powerful fishtail that glimmers with the iridescence of oceanic blues and greens. A dorsal fin extends from just below her hips, and she plunges into the churning water, her form fluid and sleek—a siren born for the sea. Her kopis gleams in one hand, her other clawed hand raking through the water. The sea welcomes her, amplifying her speed and strength. She moves like a force of nature, cutting through her enemies with precision—a serpent’s head rolls, a sea goat is felled by her blade—golden ichor spills and swirls in the dark waters around her. Her blood mingles with the monsters', but she pushes on, her mind singularly focused on buying time.

Above the waves, Melania strikes the first cyclops that climbs over the ledge, her spear piercing its eye with a sickening crunch. She uses her taloned feet to kick herself off, diving into the air, her wings folding then snapping open to glide through the downpour that has begun. The rain slicks her feathers, her movements agile and fierce. She uses her control over rock and earth to send chunks of stone careening into their enemies, keeping them off-balance, never allowing them to group together. She moves like lightning—quick, sudden, and unforgiving.

She dives down, her talons sinking into a cyclops’s shoulder as she drives her spear into its neck. The creature stumbles, roaring in pain before it crashes down. She kicks off, her wings carrying her upward again, but something in the air changes—an icy chill runs down her spine, and a pulse of pain shatters her concentration. A watery cry reaches her ears, a sound that strikes her heart like a dagger.

Below, Lysianassa is tiring. Even with the ocean to bolster her, she cannot keep up with the relentless swarm. She slays another serpent, but her movements are slowing. One particularly vicious serpent gets inside her guard, its fangs piercing into her shoulder. Lysianassa screams, ripping it away, but it’s too late—the monsters sense her weakness, and they converge.

A serpent-like creature lunges forward, its spear poised, and Lysianassa cannot bring her kopis around in time. The spear pierces her side, driving deep. She chokes on a scream, her blood mingling with the seawater. The ocean seems to recoil, as if in protest, and her strength fades, her body going limp.

Melania dives, wings folding as she cuts through the water, her spear twirling in a desperate attempt to reach Lysianassa. Her heart pounds in her ears, her soul screaming in defiance. The monsters close in, their jaws snapping, but she reaches her—wraps an arm around her love, pulling her close. Melania’s wings beat powerfully as she breaks the surface, gasping for air, and with every ounce of strength she has left, she takes flight.

Arrows and spears cut through the air around them, the storm seeming to rage in sympathy with their struggle. Melania pushes herself, her breath coming in laboured gasps. The cliffside draws near, but as they approach, a spear finds its mark, piercing her back. She cries out, her wings faltering, and they crash onto the ground, tumbling in a tangle of limbs and feathers, the spear snapping in half.

Lysianassa slips from Melania’s arms, her body limp, her blood soaking into the earth. Melania, dazed and bleeding, crawls across the muddy ground, ignoring the pain searing through her body. She pulls Lysianassa’s head into her lap, brushing back the strands of black hair from her face. Their eyes meet, and neither speaks, for they both feel it—the inevitable end.

The earth and sea seem to weep for them. The wind howls, and raindrops mingle with the blood-soaked soil. Where their blood touches, asphodel blooms, rising from the earth, their delicate white flowers swaying in the tempest’s embrace.

Melania leans forward, her lips brushing against Lysianassa’s forehead. Her voice is soft, barely a whisper against the storm. "Together," she says, her eyes closing as she feels her own strength fade.

Lysianassa nods, her fingers weakly tightening around Melania's hand. There is comfort in Melania's presence, and as her consciousness slips, she senses something else—a second presence, divine and familiar, standing beside them. The presence radiates warmth, augmenting Melania's power, wrapping them in a cocoon of peace. Their two hearts beat as one for a fleeting moment, and then all is still.

~~

Melia bolts upright in bed, her heart racing and her breath coming in sharp gasps. Her room is dark and silent, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. She clutches her shark plushie tightly, her hands trembling. The memory—or nightmare—lingers, vivid and raw.

She presses a hand to her chest, trying to steady her breathing. The lines between Melia and Lysianassa feel thinner than ever, the weight of her past life pressing heavily on her shoulders. For a moment, she closes her eyes, the sound of the storm and the clash of battle still echoing in her mind.

Melia stumbles out of her bed, her legs shaky as though they might give out at any moment. Her breaths come in ragged gasps, her chest heaving as though she had been underwater for far too long. The remnants of her dream—or memory—linger in her mind like smoke, suffocating and inescapable. She grips the counter in the kitchen for balance and fumbles for the faucet, splashing cold water onto her face. The droplets trail over her skin, mixing with the faint sheen of sweat from her restless sleep.

Her reflection in the window startles her. The silvered light of the moon catches the faint sheen of scales that have emerged on her cheeks and neck, and her onyx black eyes seem to glint with an otherworldly depth. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to push it all down, to regain control. Her hands tremble as she grips the edges of the sink, leaning forward, willing herself to calm down.

The light switches on, and Melia flinches at the sudden brightness. She turns her head to see Sally standing in the doorway, her expression soft but immediately concerned. Sally’s hair is slightly tousled from sleep, and she wears a light robe tied loosely at the waist. Her eyes take in Melia’s disheveled state, lingering briefly on the scales and her unnatural eyes, but there is no fear in her gaze—only care.

Sally steps forward without hesitation, placing a gentle hand on Melia’s shoulder. Her touch is warm, grounding, and Melia feels a tiny thread of stability begin to anchor her to the moment.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sally asks softly, her voice a calm tide against the storm raging in Melia’s chest.

For a moment, Melia hesitates. Her mouth opens, but no words come. The weight of her memories presses down, threatening to crush her under their force. Finally, she nods, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… yeah. I dreamed… or remembered my death.”

Sally’s hand tightens slightly on Melia’s shoulder, her eyes widening in shock. “Your death?” she repeats, her tone laced with disbelief and worry. But she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t recoil. Instead, she gently steers Melia toward the small kitchen table, guiding her to sit down. “Here, sweetheart. Sit with me.”

Melia lets herself be guided, her legs still shaky as she collapses into the chair. Her hands clutch the edge of the table as though it might drift away from her. Sally takes the seat next to her, her hands folded neatly, waiting, her expression patient and full of quiet strength.

“It felt so real,” Melia begins, her voice shaking. “I was… Lysianassa. The storm, the cliffs, the… monsters. They just kept coming. Melania was there with me, and we fought, but…” Her voice breaks, and she looks away, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We didn’t make it. We didn’t…”

Sally reaches out, covering one of Melia’s trembling hands with her own. Her grip is firm but comforting, a silent reminder that she’s not alone. “Take your time,” Sally says gently.

Melia takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I could feel everything,” she whispers. “The pain, the fear… but also this overwhelming love for her, for… everything we were trying to protect. I’ve had dreams before, but this wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory. I remember how it felt to… to know I was going to die. To feel her arms around me, holding me as everything faded.”

Sally’s face crumples slightly, her lips pressing together as she absorbs Melia’s words. Her free hand moves to brush a stray lock of hair from Melia’s face, her thumb grazing over the faint scales. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be to carry. To… remember.”

Melia blinks back tears, her voice breaking. “I don’t know who I am anymore, Mom. I’m Melia, but I’m also… her. Lysianassa. And it’s like… the more I remember, the more I feel like I’m losing myself. Like Melia is disappearing.”

Sally’s expression shifts to one of quiet determination. She pulls Melia into a gentle embrace, her arms wrapping around her protectively. “You’re not disappearing,” she says firmly. “You’re still my Melia. No matter what you remember or what you’ve been through, you’re still you. And you’re not alone in this. Whatever you need, I’m here. Always.”

Melia leans into her mother’s embrace, the warmth of it soothing the jagged edges of her emotions. For a moment, she lets herself be held, the steady rhythm of Sally’s heartbeat grounding her.

When they finally pull apart, Sally brushes a tear from Melia’s cheek. “You don’t have to figure this out all at once,” she says softly. “We’ll take it one step at a time. And if you ever feel like you’re slipping away, remember that you have people who love you, who see you for who you are—not just who you were.”

Melia nods, her throat too tight to speak, but her gratitude shines in her eyes. She grips Sally’s hand tightly, holding on to the anchor her mother provides.

“Now,” Sally says, her voice lighter, though still tinged with concern, “how about we make some tea? It’ll help settle your nerves.”

Melia gives a small, shaky smile. “Yeah. Tea sounds good.”

As Sally moves to the stove to prepare the tea, Melia watches her, the kitchen bathed in the soft glow of the overhead light. The storm inside her has quieted for now, but she knows it’s not over. Still, with her mother by her side, she feels a little more prepared to face whatever comes next.

Sally hums softly as she works, the familiar sound a balm against the turmoil in Melia’s mind. When the tea is ready, Sally sets a steaming mug in front of her and sits down again, watching her daughter with an unyielding gaze of love and support.

“Whatever happens, Melia,” Sally says, her voice soft but firm, “you’re stronger than you know. You’ve lived through so much, and you’re still here. That says a lot about who you are.”

Melia sips her tea, the warmth spreading through her, and nods again. She doesn’t have all the answers, but for the first time in a long while, she feels a spark of hope. Together, they sit in the quiet comfort of the kitchen, the promise of a new day waiting just beyond the horizon.

~~

The hum of fluorescent lights echoes faintly off the tiled walls of the swimming club as Melia tightens her goggles and adjusts her swim cap. The pool stretches out before her, a serene expanse of blue that mirrors her focus. Around her, the muffled sounds of other swimmers splashing and coaches shouting encouragement blend into white noise. Her world narrows to the lane lines and the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Kymopoleia, dressed casually in a sea-green tracksuit that shimmers faintly as if caught under the surface of the ocean, leans against the starting block. She watches Melia with a critical eye, her laid-back demeanour masking the intensity of her assessment. Kym’s presence, calm yet commanding, keeps the poolside chatter to a respectful murmur.

“Alright, Melia,” Kym calls, her voice cutting through the ambient noise like a sharp wave crest. “Let’s see a full 200-metre freestyle. Focus on your turns. Smooth and fast. Don’t waste momentum.”

Melia nods, stepping onto the starting block. She adjusts her stance, feeling the solid edge beneath her toes, and takes a deep breath. With Kym’s sharp whistle, she launches herself into the water, her body slicing through the surface with practised ease. The world above dissolves into a muted blur, leaving only the rhythm of her strokes and the powerful push of her legs.

She counts her strokes, her turns precise, her kicks strong. The pool water feels alive against her skin, like an old friend urging her forward. By the time she finishes, her chest heaves as she grips the edge of the pool, pushing her goggles up onto her forehead. She looks up at Kym, her heart pounding.

Kym nods approvingly. “Better. Your push-offs still need work—you’re losing half a second each turn. We’ll fix that before the competition.” She reaches down to offer Melia a hand, pulling her out of the pool with surprising ease. “Dry off. It’s time to work on something…bigger.”

Melia raises an eyebrow, grabbing her towel. “Bigger?” she asks, drying her face and shaking the water from her legs.

Kym’s grin is almost mischievous. “We’re going to push your divine limits. You’re fast in the water, Melia, but speed isn’t enough. Control and power matter just as much.”

Minutes later, they’re in a secluded section of the pool, shielded from prying eyes by a strategically placed screen and Kym’s subtle manipulation of the water around them. Kym steps back and crosses her arms, her expression serious now.

“Alright,” Kym begins. “Summon it.”

Melia hesitates for a moment before she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. The chlorine scent of the pool fades, replaced by the salt of the ocean in her mind. She extends her hand, and the water around her responds. It rises in elegant, twisting tendrils, shimmering faintly as if lit from within. Her movements are precise, the water obeying her will as she guides it into a spiralling column that dances above the surface.

Kym nods. “Good. Now condense it. Make it as dense as possible.”

Melia frowns in concentration, her brow furrowing. The spiralling water begins to shrink, the shimmering tendrils pulling tighter together. The air hums with energy as the column compresses into a tightly wound orb, hovering above her palm.

“Not bad,” Kym remarks, her voice calm but encouraging. “Now, let’s see if you can hold it while you move.” She gestures toward the pool. “Swim a lap. Keep the orb intact.”

Melia’s eyes widen slightly. “While swimming?”

Kym’s grin returns. “You think control only matters when you’re standing still? Move.”

Taking a deep breath, Melia steps back to the pool’s edge, the orb still balanced in her hand. She dives in, the cool water embracing her as she starts her lap. The orb remains intact above her palm, but every movement sends ripples of instability through it. She grits her teeth, focusing on maintaining its shape as she glides through the water.

By the time she reaches the end of the lap, her arm trembles with the effort of holding the orb together. She surfaces, gasping, but the orb remains. Kym claps slowly, the sound echoing in the quiet.

“Not perfect, but a solid start,” Kym says, walking closer. “Now imagine doing that in a storm. With waves twice your height and the wind fighting you at every turn.”

Melia groans, dropping the orb back into the pool. It dissipates with a quiet splash. “I’m guessing that’s the next step?”

Kym’s laugh is low and warm, filled with the promise of more challenges to come. “Exactly. But first, we refine this. You’ve got potential, Melia, but potential only takes you so far. Let’s make sure you’re ready for whatever comes next.”

Melia nods, her resolve hardening. As challenging as it is, she can’t deny the excitement that builds in her chest. With Kym’s guidance, she feels closer to understanding not just her powers but herself. She takes a deep breath and prepares for another round, the pool’s waters swirling in anticipation of what’s to come.

They spend the next hour pushing Melia’s limits. Kym introduces increasingly difficult exercises, from balancing multiple orbs to weaving them together into intricate patterns. “Precision is key,” Kym reminds her. “The more control you have, the more you can accomplish under pressure.”

At one point, Kym has her create a whirlpool in the middle of the pool, its swirling current strong enough to drag smaller objects into its centre. Melia struggles at first, the vortex collapsing in on itself, but with Kym’s patient guidance, she manages to stabilise it. The water spins with a hypnotic rhythm, and Melia feels a surge of pride at her accomplishment.

“Good,” Kym says, her approval evident. “Now keep it going while I do this.” With a flick of her wrist, Kym sends a wave crashing into the pool. The sudden disturbance threatens to undo Melia’s hard work, but she grits her teeth, focusing on maintaining the whirlpool’s stability.

By the time they finish, Melia is exhausted but exhilarated. She leans against the pool’s edge, her breathing heavy. Kym sits beside her, her usually sharp demeanour softened by a rare smile.

“You’re getting there,” Kym says, her voice quiet but encouraging. “Remember, Melia, it’s not just about strength. It’s about knowing when to use it.”

Melia nods, her mind already racing with thoughts of what she’s learned. As she gathers her things to leave, she feels a renewed sense of purpose. The journey ahead may be daunting, but with Kym’s guidance, she knows she’s ready to face whatever comes her way.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XXVII

~~~~ Interlude ~~~~

The apartment smells of freshly baked cake and cinnamon, the air warm with the coziness of home. Streamers hang from the ceiling, looped in soft blues and greens like the rolling waves of the sea. A banner reading Happy Birthday, Melia! stretches across the living room, hand-painted by Sally herself. Every corner of the space reflects the love and effort Sally has poured into making this day special for her daughter. Even though she had celebrated her actual Birthday at camp, Sally had wanted to still throw Melia a party.

Melia stands in the middle of the living room, slightly overwhelmed but smiling. She wears a soft blue dress Sally picked out for her, one that reminds her of the sea without being too fancy. Chloe buzzes around her like a small whirlwind, excitedly pointing out every decoration. "Look! That’s the dolphin from the sea foam game we played!" Chloe exclaims, giggling as she holds up a plush that’s part of the décor.

The doorbell rings, and Sally hurries to answer it, wiping her hands on her apron. In walks Eve, her ever-confident presence commanding the room as she steps in with Drew in tow. Drew looks around, clearly not used to such a warm and homely setting but nods in approval at the decorations. Eve grins and hands Melia a small gift bag. "Happy Birthday, Princess," she teases. "Don’t open it until later, though."

Melia raises an eyebrow but nods. "Thanks, Eve. And Drew! I didn’t know you were coming."

Drew shrugs with a half-smile. "Eve wouldn’t stop talking about this party. Figured I’d tag along and see what all the fuss was about."

Ryan and Mylo arrive shortly after, bringing more energy into the room. Ryan hands Sally a bouquet of flowers he’d picked up on the way, a shy grin on his face. Mylo rushes over to Chloe, the two quickly disappearing into a corner to giggle over some shared secret.

Just as Melia is about to thank Sally again for the effort, a strong gust of wind rattles the window, and the room falls silent. A faint sound of crashing waves fills the air, and then the front door opens of its own accord. Kymopoleia steps inside, her presence as commanding as the storm yet tempered by a laid-back ease. She’s dressed in casual sea-green slacks and a flowing top that shimmers like the ocean under moonlight, exuding the relaxed confidence of someone entirely at home in the world. Behind her are Rhode, who looks closer in age to Sally with sun-kissed skin and coral-streaked hair giving her a mature elegance, and Benthesikyme, who carries herself with an air of regality that places her squarely between Kym and Rhode in age. Her sharp, piercing eyes, the color of the deepest ocean, scan the room with curious intrigue.

"Happy birthday, Melia," Kymopoleia says with a warm smile, her voice carrying the calm before a storm. Unlike the formal tone she’d used in the past, her relaxed demeanor sets everyone at ease. She’s not just a guest; she’s part of the family. "You didn’t think I’d miss it, did you?"

Melia’s eyes widen in surprise, but she quickly recovers, stepping forward. "Thank you, Kym. And you brought guests."

Kymopoleia gestures to her sisters. "Rhode and Benthesikyme wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

Rhode smiles warmly, holding out a beautifully wrapped box. "We brought you something. It’s… from the sea."

Melia takes the gift, her fingers brushing against the smooth shell of the wrapping. "Thank you. I’ll treasure it."

Benthesikyme nods approvingly, her sharp gaze softening as she takes in the room. "It’s… quaint," she says, her voice melodic but tinged with curiosity. "I like it."

Sally steps forward, undeterred by the divine presence. "Please, come in. You’re just in time. I’ve made plenty of food."

As the party unfolds, the room fills with laughter and chatter. Sally’s cooking wins over even Drew, who’s caught sneaking a second helping of cake. Ryan and Eve exchange competitive banter over a board game, while Rhode and Benthesikyme sit with Sally, intrigued by her stories of raising Melia. Kymopoleia, ever the calm before the storm, watches quietly, a small smile playing on her lips as she observes Melia surrounded by those who care for her. She even joins Chloe in a silly card game, her divine aura softening to match the warmth of the occasion.

When it’s time for presents, Melia’s eyes glisten with emotion as she opens each one. There’s a charm bracelet from Ryan, each charm a miniature sea creature. Chloe proudly hands her a handmade card adorned with glitter and seashells. Drew’s gift is surprisingly thoughtful—a journal bound in teal leather. "For your… memories," she says awkwardly, looking away as if embarrassed.

Finally, Melia opens the gift from Kymopoleia and her sisters. Inside is a small vial of water that seems to glow faintly. "This is from the springs of Calypso’s island," Kymopoleia explains. "It’s said to bring clarity and peace when needed most."

Melia swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."

As the evening winds down, Melia finds herself standing by the window, watching the city lights twinkle like stars. Kymopoleia joins her, silent for a moment before speaking.

"You’re doing well," Kymopoleia says simply. "Balancing the past and the present."

Melia looks at her, the weight of her dual identity pressing heavily on her shoulders. "Some days it feels impossible."

Kymopoleia places a hand on her shoulder. "The sea never forgets, Melia. But it also never stops moving forward. Neither should you."

Melia nods, her resolve strengthened. She turns back to the room, where laughter and warmth fill the air.

~~

Melia sits at her desk, her pencil tapping an uneven rhythm against the lined paper as her eyes flit over the worksheet in front of her. The letters seem to dance across the page, swirling into indecipherable patterns that mock her efforts. She squints, trying to focus, but the more she stares, the more the words refuse to make sense. The hum of fluorescent lights above her grates against her nerves, mingling with the muffled chatter of her classmates. The classroom smells faintly of dry-erase markers and old textbooks, a stark contrast to the salty air of the ocean she so often longs for.

“Melia,” the teacher’s voice cuts through her frustration. “Are you following along?”

Melia forces herself to look up, her fingers curling tighter around her pencil. Mrs. Donovan stands at the front of the room, her expression hovering somewhere between impatience and pity.

“Yes, ma’am,” Melia lies, her voice quieter than she intends. She can feel the stares of a few classmates lingering on her, their curiosity sharp and invasive.

“Good,” Mrs. Donovan says, though her tone suggests she’s unconvinced. “Then maybe you can answer question three for us?”

Melia’s stomach sinks. She glances down at the worksheet again, the swirling letters taunting her. Her memories of lessons on Ithaca rise unbidden to the surface—practising recitation under olive trees, the rhythmic chants of ancient poetry, the hands-on learning that came with crafting and survival. None of it prepared her for this modern maze of rote memorisation and endless paperwork.

“Uh…” she stammers, her mind blank. “I…”

“It’s okay,” Mrs. Donovan interjects, her smile tight. “Let’s move on. Sam, can you help us out?”

The heat rises to Melia’s cheeks, and she hunches lower in her chair, the tapping of her pencil quickening. Her gaze drifts to the window, where the sunlight filters through the leaves of a tree outside. She imagines the wind carrying her far away, back to the sea, where things make sense.

Lunch offers little reprieve. The cafeteria is a cacophony of noise and chaos, and Melia picks at her food, her appetite absent. Chloe’s absence is felt keenly; her cousin’s school is across town, making it impossible to talk during the day. The loneliness gnaws at her, leaving her feeling adrift.

She sits at the edge of the lunchroom, her tray untouched. The hum of voices around her is a dull roar, and she finds herself scanning the room for any sign of familiarity. But there’s none. Just the buzzing chaos of a world that feels foreign to her.

Her memories of Ithaca creep in again. She recalls shared meals under the open sky, the laughter of friends as they recounted tales of the day’s exploits. Here, the laughter feels hollow, distant. A group of students nearby bursts into giggles, and she glances their way, only to find them whispering and casting glances in her direction.

She turns back to her tray, her shoulders hunching. The weight of their judgment presses against her, and she’s suddenly very aware of how different she feels.

After school, Melia trudges through the front door of Sally’s apartment, her bag feeling heavier than it should. Sally is in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepares dinner. The scent of something warm and comforting wafts through the air.

“Hey, Melia,” Sally greets her, turning with a smile. “How was school?”

Melia hesitates, considering brushing it off, but the weight of the day presses too heavily on her shoulders. She slumps into a chair at the kitchen table, dropping her bag to the floor.

“It…sucked,” she admits, her voice tinged with frustration.

Sally wipes her hands on a towel and sits across from her, her expression soft with concern. “Want to talk about it?”

Melia sighs, rubbing her temples. “It’s just…so different. Everything feels wrong. The teachers don’t get it. They don’t understand why I can’t just…read faster, or focus longer. And the kids…they look at me like I’m weird.”

“You’re not weird, Melia,” Sally says gently. “You’re unique. And I’m sorry they’re not giving you the support you need.”

Melia’s hands tighten into fists. “It’s not just that. I…I keep remembering things. From…before. On Ithaca, we learned by doing. We talked to each other, practiced together. There weren’t these endless worksheets and stupid tests. I feel like…like I’m trying to fit into a mold that isn’t made for me.”

Sally reaches across the table, resting a comforting hand over Melia’s. “You don’t have to fit into their mold. You’re doing your best, and that’s all that matters. We’ll figure this out together.”

Melia’s eyes sting, but she blinks back the tears, nodding. Sally’s unwavering support feels like an anchor, steadying her in the storm of her emotions.

“Thanks, Mom,” she says softly.

Sally smiles, squeezing her hand. “Anytime, sweetheart. Now, how about you help me set the table? Dinner’s almost ready.”

Melia stands, the tension in her chest easing just a little. As she moves to grab the plates, she resolves to keep trying, even when it feels impossible. She might not belong to this world entirely, but she’s here now, and she’ll find a way to navigate it—one step at a time.

The next morning, as Melia gathers her things for school, she glances at herself in the mirror. Her reflection stares back, the weight of her memories and the day ahead etched into her features. She smooths down her hair, her fingers brushing against the small necklace Sally had given her on her first day. It’s a simple charm, but it feels like a piece of home—a reminder that she’s not alone. Next to it rests the charm from Amphitrite, a gift from her first quest to recover the Lightning Bolt, its intricate design catching the morning light. The two charms together feel like a connection between her two worlds, grounding her in the present while honoring her past.

“Ready?” Sally’s voice calls from the living room.

Melia takes a deep breath, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “Yeah,” she says, though her voice wavers slightly. As she steps out of her room, Chloe bounds past, her own bag swinging wildly.

“Good luck today!” Chloe calls out with a grin, already halfway out the door to catch her own bus.

Melia smiles faintly, her heart aching with a mix of gratitude and longing. Chloe’s cheerful energy is infectious, but the knowledge that they’ll be separated for most of the day weighs heavily on her. She’s grateful for Sally’s presence, for the warmth of home that awaits her at the end of each school day. It’s enough to keep her moving forward, even when the path feels impossibly steep.

The school day begins much the same as the last: a blur of murmured greetings in the hallways, the scrape of chairs as students settle into their desks, and the quiet rustle of papers as teachers distribute worksheets. Melia slides into her seat, her fingers brushing against the necklace charms resting just below her collarbone. The cold touch of Amphitrite’s gift grounds her, while Sally’s charm feels like a whisper of encouragement. She takes a deep breath and opens her notebook, determined to give the day her best effort.

First period is math, and the numbers on the board blur almost immediately. The teacher, Mr. Carlson, drones on about quadratic equations, his voice a monotone that struggles to hold her attention. Melia tries to follow along, but the concepts feel alien. Her pencil hovers over the page, poised to write, but no words come.

“Melia,” Mr. Carlson says, snapping her out of her daze. His eyes narrow slightly. “Do you have the answer to problem four?”

She freezes, her mind a blank slate. The question on the board looks like a cryptic riddle, the kind she’d expect to hear in a temple’s echoing halls rather than a classroom. “Uh…” she stammers, feeling the weight of the class’s eyes on her.

“It’s okay,” he says, his tone too neutral to be reassuring. “Let’s have someone else try.”

The next student answers correctly, and the class moves on, but Melia’s cheeks burn. She clenches her fists under the desk, willing herself to focus, but the frustration simmers just beneath the surface. Memories of lessons on Ithaca resurface—the tactile learning, the spirited debates under the shade of olive trees. The stark contrast leaves her feeling more out of place than ever.

By lunchtime, her energy is drained. She carries her tray to the farthest corner of the cafeteria, where she’s least likely to be noticed. The chatter of her classmates feels distant, a constant hum that she can’t quite tune out. Picking at her food, she glances at the empty seat across from her and wishes Chloe could be there. Her cousin’s laughter and steady presence always made even the loneliest moments feel less daunting. Now, the void of her absence feels vast.

The alienation of eating by herself is a stark reminder of how disconnected she feels in this modern world. A few students at a nearby table burst into laughter, casting glances her way, and she lowers her gaze to her untouched tray.

“Is this seat taken?”

Melia looks up to see a boy from her history class standing there. His dark brown hair is messy, and his glasses sit slightly askew on his nose. He shifts nervously, clutching a book against his chest.

“No,” she says cautiously. “Go ahead.”

He sits, placing his book on the table: The Odyssey. Her heart skips at the sight of the familiar title.

“You’re reading that?” she asks, unable to hide her curiosity.

He nods. “It’s for a project, but I actually kind of like it. The way it’s written is hard to follow sometimes, though.”

Melia can’t help but smile faintly. “Yeah, the translations don’t always capture it. The original…” She trails off, catching herself. “I mean, I’ve heard the original language is more lyrical.”

His eyes light up. “That’s what my teacher said too. Have you studied it?”

“Something like that,” she says, a cryptic edge to her voice. The conversation feels like a lifeline, anchoring her in a world she’s struggled to connect with.

For the first time that day, she doesn’t feel completely alone.

~

Later, after dinner, Melia sits cross-legged on her bed, her homework spread out in front of her. Chloe peeks in from the doorway, her arms clutching the dolphin plushie she never seems to part with.

“How was school today?” Chloe asks, padding into the room and plopping down on the edge of the bed.

Melia shrugs. “It was…better. I met someone who’s into Greek stuff. It was nice to talk about something familiar.”

Chloe’s face brightens. “See? I told you it’d get better.” She pauses, her gaze falling on the charms around Melia’s neck. “You wear those every day now.”

Melia nods, her fingers brushing against them. “They remind me of who I am. Where I come from. It’s easy to forget when everything feels…wrong.”

Chloe scoots closer, leaning her head against Melia’s shoulder. “You’re the coolest person I know, even if the other kids don’t see it. They’re dumb.”

Melia laughs softly, ruffling Chloe’s hair. “Thanks, Chlo.”

“Anytime,” Chloe says, grinning. “Now, do you want me to help with this?” She points to the open math textbook.

Melia looks at her, arching an eyebrow. “Do you even know algebra?”

Chloe shrugs. “Nope, but I’m really good at cheering you on.”

Melia shakes her head, her smile lingering. “Alright. Let’s give it a shot.”

As they dive into the problems together, Chloe’s energetic commentary and exaggerated “moral support” draw a few reluctant laughs from Melia. The problems don’t seem as insurmountable with Chloe’s infectious optimism filling the room.

~~
The apartment is filled with the warm scent of buttery popcorn, the dim lighting casting a cozy glow over the living room. A pile of blankets is spread out across the couch, and the TV hums softly as the opening credits roll.
Chloe bounces slightly on the couch, her excitement barely contained. “You’re going to love this, Melia, I swear,” she says, her voice brimming with anticipation.
Melia, sprawled out on one side of the couch, groans dramatically, tossing a piece of popcorn in the air and catching it with her mouth. “Chloe, you said that last time, and I still have nightmares about that talking snowman.”
Sally chuckles as she walks back into the room with an extra bowl of popcorn. “Just give it a chance,” she says, settling into her usual spot in the middle of the couch. “Besides, movie night rules say that whoever picks the movie gets to make everyone watch it without complaints.”
Melia huffs but grins. “Fine, fine. But if I see another talking animal that bursts into song, I’m choosing the scariest movie next time.”
Chloe just smirks, her attention already focused on the screen as the movie begins. She’s curled up under the biggest blanket, tucked between Melia and Sally, and somewhere between the first musical number and the halfway mark, she unconsciously leans into Sally’s side. Her head rests against Sally’s shoulder, her body relaxing against her warmth, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Sally shifts slightly, just enough to pull the blanket up around Chloe’s shoulders. The movement is so subtle, so instinctual, that Chloe doesn’t even register it.
Melia notices. She watches the way Sally’s fingers gently brush against Chloe’s arm, the quiet affection that has become second nature between them. She sees the way Chloe sighs softly, as if she’s safe, as if she belongs here without question. Melia doesn’t say anything—just smiles to herself and turns back to the movie.
By the time the credits roll, Chloe’s eyelids are heavy, and she’s sinking deeper into the couch. Sally shifts, getting up carefully to collect the empty popcorn bowls, and that’s when it happens.
“Thanks, Mom…” Chloe mumbles sleepily, her voice barely above a whisper.
A heartbeat of silence follows. Chloe’s entire body tenses as the words settle, as if she’s only just realized what she said. Her eyes snap open slightly, panic flickering across her face.
Sally pauses, standing beside the couch, her expression unreadable for just a moment. Then, she smiles—soft, warm, filled with nothing but quiet understanding. “Of course, sweetheart,” she says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Chloe blinks, her lips parting slightly as the tension drains from her shoulders. She glances at Melia, who meets her gaze with a knowing look but says nothing. Just a small, understanding nod.
Sally walks away, heading to the kitchen, humming softly under her breath.
Chloe exhales, burrowing a little deeper into the couch, and this time, when she leans back into the blankets, she lets herself believe it.
She is home.
~~

The night is still and quiet when Melia drifts off to sleep, her thoughts weighed down by the challenges of balancing her mortal life and the memories that refuse to fade. As sleep claims her, the world around her shifts, and she finds herself standing on a vast, barren plain under a sky filled with ominous, swirling clouds. The air is cold, heavy, and sharp with the scent of rain and ozone, the kind that heralds a storm.

Ahead, the horizon glows faintly with an unnatural golden light. The ground beneath her feet is cracked and parched, yet every step she takes echoes as if she’s walking on stone. Melia's heart races; the landscape feels both alien and disturbingly familiar. Her hand instinctively moves to her necklace, the charms from Sally and Amphitrite resting against her chest, grounding her in the surreal scene.

A low growl rumbles behind her, and she turns sharply. Emerging from the shadows is a colossal lion, its mane shimmering like molten gold and its single eye glowing with an otherworldly silver light. The Nemean Lion, she realises, its hide impenetrable and its presence overwhelming. It paces slowly, its gaze fixed on her, predatory and unyielding. The beast roars, the sound reverberating through the air and shaking the ground beneath her.

"Melia."

The voice is a whisper, carried on the wind, but it freezes her in place. She whirls around, searching for its source, and sees a figure cloaked in shadow. They stand at a distance, their features obscured, but their presence radiates authority and menace. The golden glow on the horizon intensifies, casting long, flickering shadows that seem to twist and reach toward her.

"The choice lies before you," the figure intones, their voice cold and measured. "To fight or to fall. The path you tread is fraught with peril."

Before Melia can respond, the ground beneath her splits open, and she tumbles into darkness. The wind rushes past her as she falls, her screams swallowed by the void. When she lands, it is with a jarring thud, and she finds herself in a dense forest. The air is damp and heavy, the shadows between the trees alive with faint, whispering voices. The leaves above block out all but the faintest traces of moonlight, creating an oppressive sense of claustrophobia.

Melia moves cautiously, her steps muffled by the thick underbrush. The whispers grow louder, resolving into words she can almost understand. Ahead, the forest seems to part, revealing a narrow path lined with ancient, gnarled trees. She follows it, her heart pounding in her chest, until she comes across a clearing.

In the center stands a girl, her silver hair gleaming in the dim light, her posture rigid and her expression unreadable. She is clad in hunting attire, her bow slung over her shoulder and her quiver bristling with arrows. The girl’s eyes, sharp and piercing, lock onto Melia with a gaze that seems to see through her.

“You have little time,” the girl says, her voice steady and commanding. “The pieces are already moving. If you falter, the consequences will be dire.”

“Who are you?” Melia asks, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound firm. “What’s happening?”

The girl doesn’t answer directly. Instead, she tilts her head, her expression softening slightly. “You’ll know soon enough. Follow the signs, Melia. Trust in the sea and the stars.”

The girl turns and walks away, disappearing into the forest as if swallowed by the shadows. Melia tries to follow, but the path twists and shifts, the trees growing impossibly close together until there is no way forward. The whispers return, louder and more insistent, until they coalesce into a single, chilling voice:

“The time is near. The storm cannot be stopped.”

The ground shifts again, and Melia is pulled into another vision. She stands in a grand chamber carved from black stone, its walls etched with glowing golden runes. At the centre lies a massive sarcophagus, its surface smooth and ominous. The air hums with power, a malevolent force that presses against her chest, making it hard to breathe.

As she steps closer, the runes flare brighter, and the lid of the sarcophagus begins to shift. A deep, resonant voice fills the chamber, shaking her to her core.

“Awaken,” it commands. “The age of the gods is at its end.”

The lid slides open, and a blinding light engulfs the room. Melia shields her eyes, but the force of the light pushes her back, and she falls. The last thing she hears before she wakes is the sound of laughter—cold, cruel, and triumphant.

She bolts upright in her bed, her breathing ragged and her heart pounding. The room is dark and silent, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. She clutches the necklace around her neck, her fingers trembling as she traces the familiar shapes of the charms.

The dream—no, the vision—is etched into her mind, every detail vivid and unshakable. She knows it was more than just a dream. It was a warning, a glimpse of what lies ahead.

“The storm cannot be stopped,” she whispers to herself, the words chilling her to the bone. Despite the fear curling in her chest, determination hardens her resolve. Whatever challenges await, she knows she must face them head-on. She is not alone, and she will not falter.

~~

Melia lounges on the couch, her legs tucked under her as she holds her phone, the enchanted device warm and slightly metallic under her fingers. Chloe sits cross-legged on the floor, her own phone glowing faintly in the dim light of the living room. The protective enchantments shimmer faintly in the magical spectrum, a quiet reassurance that their devices won’t endanger them or reveal their location to monsters.

“Okay, let’s see what the others are up to,” Chloe says, her tone bright as she opens their group chat titled “Cabin Chaos.”

Melia’s phone buzzes as the latest flurry of messages floods in. The screen displays a mix of usernames and avatars, each uniquely representing their friends:

#Lucia:# 'Okay, seriously, Ryan, what is up with that pumpkin costume? It’s not even October yet!'

#Ryan:# 'It’s called preparation, Lucia. The best warriors always plan ahead. Besides, it’s comfy.'

#Eve:# 'Comfy? You look like a walking jack-o’-lantern. Don’t come crying to me when the Hermes cabin pranks you.'

#Ellie:# 'Guys, focus! Who’s bringing snacks to the next video call? I’m not sitting through another lecture from Ryan about “pumpkin tactics” on an empty stomach.'

Chloe snickers, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she types:

#Chloe:# 'Melia’s got dibs on snacks. She’s been hoarding cookies like a dragon.'

Melia rolls her eyes, but a small smile tugs at her lips. She quickly types back:

#Melia:# 'Correction: I’m 'sharing' cookies, Chloe. Unlike some people, I don’t eat the last bag of crisps and pretend it wasn’t me.'

The group chat explodes with laughing emojis, followed by:

#Mylo:# 'I vote Chloe brings cookies next time. Fair is fair.'

#Lucia:# 'Seconded. Also, Ryan, if you show up in that pumpkin outfit on video, I’m screenshotting it for the camp bulletin board.'

#Ryan:# 'You wouldn’t dare.'

#Eve:# 'Try her, Ryan. I’d pay good drachma to see that.'

Chloe giggles, glancing up at Melia. “They’re relentless. Poor Ryan.”

Melia shakes her head, her fingers pausing above the keyboard. “He brings it on himself. But… maybe we should defend him? Just a little?”

Chloe considers, then types:

#Chloe:# 'Be nice to Ryan. He’s just expressing his… unique sense of style.'

#Lucia:# 'Fine, fine. No screenshots. This time.'

#Ellie:# 'Aw, Chloe, always the peacemaker.'

#Melia:# 'Don’t let her fool you. She’s only defending him because she’s trying to distract us from the cookie theft.'

The messages come rapid-fire:

#Lucia:# 'The plot thickens.'

#Eve:# 'I KNEW IT.'

#Chloe:# 'Melia! Traitor!'

#Ryan:# 'Wait, Chloe’s the cookie thief? I feel betrayed.'

#Mylo:# 'This is why trust is important, people.'

Melia laughs, the sound filling the cozy room. Chloe playfully tosses a pillow at her, which Melia easily catches. They’re interrupted by another buzz.

#Lucia:# 'On a serious note, how’s school going for you two?'

Melia’s smile falters slightly as she types:

#Melia:# 'It’s… an adjustment. New school, new challenges. You know how it is.'

#Eve:# 'Let me guess. Teachers still don’t get the whole ADHD-Dyslexia-demigod thing?'

#Melia:# 'Bingo.'

#Chloe:# 'She’s handling it, though. Plus, we’ve got Kym’s swimming lessons to blow off steam.'

#Ellie:# 'Good. Keep at it, Melia. You’ve got this.'

The chat settles into a quieter rhythm, the teasing and laughter giving way to supportive words and encouragement. Melia leans back against the couch, a warmth spreading through her. Even with all the challenges, she’s grateful for her friends—a chaotic, messy, wonderful group that makes everything feel a little less overwhelming.

As the conversation winds down, Chloe types one last message:

#Chloe:# 'Miss you guys. Camp can’t come soon enough.'

The replies come almost instantly:

#Lucia:# 'Miss you too. Hang in there, both of you.'

#Eve:# 'And remember, no matter what happens, we’ve got your backs.'

#Ryan:# 'Even if Chloe is a cookie thief.'

#Ellie:# 'Always.'

#Mylo:# 'Don’t forget to save me some cookies for next summer.'

Melia smiles, her heart a little lighter as she types:

#Melia:# 'We’ll see you soon. Take care, everyone.'

As the chat quiets, she sets her phone aside and looks at Chloe, who’s already halfway through another message. Melia chuckles softly, ruffling Chloe’s hair. “We’re lucky to have them.”

Chloe nods, her grin wide. “The best cabinmates ever.”

The two fall into a comfortable silence, the glow of their phones dimming as the night deepens.

~~

The late afternoon sun bathes the ocean in shimmering gold, casting its glow over the tranquil waves. The salty breeze carries the sound of laughter across the water as Melia and Chloe splash about near a pod of dolphins. The dolphins leap gracefully, their sleek bodies cutting through the air before diving back into the water, sending gentle sprays in their wake.

Melia and Chloe glide effortlessly through the water, their mermaid tails shimmering with the colors of the ocean. Melia’s tail, a deep iridescent blue with streaks of silver, glints like the sea under moonlight, while Chloe’s, a vivid emerald with golden accents, reflects the vibrant life of the coral reefs. Their laughter mixes with the playful clicks and whistles of the dolphins as they dart around them, their sleek forms cutting through the water with ease.

“Melia, did you see that one? It did a flip!” Chloe calls out, her voice bright and full of awe. She reaches out toward a dolphin that chirps in response, its joyful sounds resonating in their minds. The magic of their connection allows them to understand the sea creatures, their playful words weaving into the fabric of the ocean around them.

“I saw it! They’re showing off for you,” Melia replies, grinning as she rolls in the water, her braided hair floating like a halo around her. She clicks back at the dolphins in their language, eliciting a series of amused chirps and a playful splash that leaves Chloe giggling.

The water around them bubbles and shifts, a shadow passing beneath the surface. Chloe freezes for a moment, her emerald tail curling slightly. “What… what was that?” she whispers.

Melia tilts her head, her onyx black eyes catching the sunlight as she smiles reassuringly. “Relax, it’s just our other friends coming to say hello.”

As if on cue, a sleek, grey fin breaks the surface, followed by the unmistakable form of a shark gliding gracefully through the water. Chloe’s tail flicks nervously, but Melia places a calming hand on her sister’s arm. “It’s okay. Sharks aren’t the monsters people make them out to be. Watch.”

Melia dips beneath the waves, her movements fluid and natural. She swims alongside the shark, her presence serene and confident. “Hello, great hunter,” she says softly in the language of the sea. The shark slows, turning slightly to acknowledge her words. Melia’s hand brushes its side, and the creature’s energy radiates calm trust.

Resurfacing, Melia flicks her tail to send a playful spray toward Chloe. “See? Nothing to be afraid of. They’re just curious.”

Chloe hesitates, her brows furrowed, but the sight of Melia so at ease emboldens her. Tentatively, she swims closer to the shark, her hand outstretched. “Hello,” she murmurs, her voice carrying through the water. The shark’s movements remain calm, almost curious, as it allows Chloe to brush her fingers against its rough skin. “Wow,” Chloe breathes. “It feels so different than I thought it would.”

“That’s because they’re misunderstood,” Melia explains, her voice gentle. “Just like us, they have their role in the world. They’re not mindless predators—they’re part of the balance.”

The dolphins rejoin them, playfully circling around Chloe and Melia, their joyful chirps harmonizing with the rhythm of the waves. Chloe laughs as one of the dolphins splashes her with its tail, then dives underwater to swim alongside the shark, a picture of trust and harmony.

Melia watches her sister, a soft smile playing on her lips. For a moment, the weight of her memories and responsibilities fades, replaced by the simple joy of sharing this connection with Chloe and the ocean. She takes a deep breath, her gills flaring slightly, and dives down again, beckoning Chloe to follow.

They weave through the water together, their laughter mingling with the clicks and whistles of the dolphins. Schools of brightly colored fish scatter around them, their iridescent scales catching the light in dazzling patterns. The shark swims a little ahead, leading them toward a reef teeming with life. Coral structures rise like underwater castles, and sea anemones sway gently in the currents, their vibrant colors painting the ocean floor.

Chloe’s eyes widen in wonder. “This is amazing,” she says, her voice muffled by the water as she pops her head up. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Melia surfaces beside her, treading water effortlessly with her powerful tail. “The ocean has a way of reminding us how small we are, but also how connected everything is. It’s why I feel at home here.” She reaches out to adjust Chloe’s goggles, her protective instincts shining through.

The sun begins to dip lower on the horizon, casting the sky in hues of orange and pink. Melia gestures toward the distant shore. “We should head back soon. Mom’s probably wondering where we are.”

Chloe nods reluctantly, glancing back at the dolphins and the shark as if saying goodbye. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice carrying a hint of reverence.

The sun has nearly set by the time Melia and Chloe wade out of the water, their mermaid tails shimmering in the fading light as they transform back into their legs. Droplets of seawater glisten on their skin, catching the fiery orange and pink hues of the sky. The air is filled with the soothing sounds of waves gently crashing against the shore. Chloe skips ahead, her laughter light and carefree, while Melia walks behind her, carrying a small bundle of seashells they’d collected.

“Did you see how close that dolphin got? I could almost touch its nose!” Chloe beams, spinning in the sand.

Melia smiles, shaking her head fondly. “You’re getting better at talking to them. I think they like you.”

Chloe’s eyes light up. “Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely,” Melia replies, her tone warm but distracted. Her onyx black eyes scan the horizon, a nagging sense of unease prickling at the edge of her consciousness. The wind has shifted slightly, carrying with it a faint, acrid smell that doesn’t belong to the ocean.

As Chloe bounds up the sandy path toward their belongings, Melia’s footsteps slow. The beach, once serene, feels charged with an unnatural energy. Her memories from Ithaca stir, warning her of the unnatural silence in the dunes. The usual chorus of seagulls has vanished, leaving an unsettling stillness.

“Chloe, wait,” Melia calls out, her voice firmer than she intends. Her sister stops and turns, confusion flickering across her face.

“What’s wrong?” Chloe asks, her voice tinged with concern.

Before Melia can answer, the sand beneath their feet shifts unnaturally, rippling like water. A low, guttural growl reverberates through the air, and the acrid smell intensifies. Melia’s heart leaps into her throat as a massive, serpentine creature bursts forth from the sand, its scales glistening with a sickly green hue.

“Dracaenae,” Melia hisses, her instincts kicking in. The creature’s upper body is humanoid, with long, clawed fingers and glowing yellow eyes that burn with malevolence. Its lower half is a thick, muscular serpent tail that coils and uncoils with deadly precision.

Chloe’s gasp is sharp and frightened. “Melia, what do we do?”

“Stay behind me,” Melia commands, her voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through her veins. She drops the seashells and unsheathes Maelstrom, her silver kopis gleaming in the dim light. The blade hums faintly, responding to her touch.

The Dracaenae hisses, its forked tongue flicking out as it lunges toward them. Melia sidesteps with practiced ease, slashing at the creature’s side. The blade bites into its scales, drawing dark ichor that sizzles as it hits the sand. The monster shrieks, recoiling momentarily.

“Run, Chloe! Get to the rocks!” Melia shouts.

Chloe hesitates for only a second before sprinting toward a cluster of boulders near the shoreline. The Dracaenae’s eyes flick toward her retreating form, and it begins to slither in her direction.

“No, you don’t,” Melia growls, planting herself between the creature and her sister. She raises her free hand, summoning the ocean’s power. A column of seawater rises behind her, crashing down onto the Dracaenae with enough force to stagger it. The monster screeches, flailing against the torrent.

Chloe scrambles up the rocks, turning to watch as Melia presses her advantage. Her sister moves with a grace that seems almost otherworldly, her braided hair whipping around her as she strikes with precision. But the Dracaenae is relentless, its claws swiping dangerously close to Melia as it fights back.

“Melia, look out!” Chloe screams.

The warning comes just in time. Melia ducks as the Dracaenae’s tail whips through the air, narrowly missing her head. She rolls to the side, coming up in a crouch. With a fierce cry, she thrusts Maelstrom forward, plunging the blade into the creature’s chest. The Dracaenae freezes, its glowing eyes widening in shock before it lets out a final, ear-piercing screech and disintegrates into golden dust.

Melia staggers back, breathing heavily as she watches the remnants of the monster scatter in the wind. Her grip on Maelstrom tightens briefly before she sheathes the blade. She turns toward Chloe, who is climbing down from the rocks with wide, teary eyes.

“Are you okay?” Melia asks, rushing to meet her sister.

Chloe nods shakily. “I…I think so. Are you?”

Melia kneels, placing her hands on Chloe’s shoulders. “I’m fine. You did exactly what you needed to do. You were brave.”

Chloe sniffles but manages a small smile. “That was scary. But you were amazing, Melia.”

Melia hugs her tightly, the adrenaline slowly ebbing away. “Let’s get home,” she says softly, glancing warily at the dunes. “We’ll talk to Mom about reinforcing the wards around the beach.”

Chloe nods, clinging to her sister as they make their way back toward their belongings. The ocean’s waves seem calmer now, lapping gently at the shore as if to reassure them. But Melia can’t shake the lingering sense of unease. She’d protected Chloe this time, but the attack is a stark reminder that danger is never far away for a demigod.

As they reach their towels and bags, Chloe hesitates, glancing back at the ocean. “Do you think the dolphins knew something was coming?” she asks quietly.

Melia follows her gaze, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe. The sea always seems to know when something’s wrong. We’ll need to pay closer attention next time.”

They gather their belongings in silence, the earlier joy of their swim overshadowed by the reality of their lives. As they walk up the path toward home, the horizon darkens, and the first stars begin to peek through the sky. Melia places an arm around Chloe’s shoulders, holding her close. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she’d face them—for her sister and for herself.

When they reach the house, the warm glow of the lights inside is a welcome relief. Sally greets them at the door, her concern evident as she takes in their expressions. “Everything okay?” she asks, her tone gentle but probing.

Melia exchanges a glance with Chloe before nodding. “We’re fine,” she says, though the weight in her voice doesn’t go unnoticed. “But a Dracaenae attacked us on the beach.”

Sally’s brows knit together, but she steps aside, ushering them inside. “Let’s get you both cleaned up first. Then we can figure out whatever needs to be done.”

As the door closes behind them, the world outside feels a little less threatening. For now, they are safe, wrapped in the warmth of their family and the knowledge that, together, they can face whatever comes next.

~~

It’s a crisp autumn Saturday when Melia steps into the warm, inviting atmosphere of the coffee shop. The scent of roasted beans mingles with a hint of cinnamon from the seasonal specials. She spots Lucia immediately, seated by the window with a cup of steaming coffee in her hands. Her brown hair catches the sunlight streaming through the glass, casting a soft glow around her head. Melia waves and heads over, her boots tapping lightly on the wooden floor.

“Hey, kiddo,” Lucia greets with a smile as Melia slides into the chair across from her. Despite the teasing nickname, her tone is warm and affectionate. “Glad you made it.”

Melia grins, setting her bag down. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

Lucia chuckles. “Same here. Want anything? I already ordered, but we can get you something.”

Melia glances at the menu chalked above the counter and shakes her head. “I’ll grab something in a minute. Let’s talk first.”

Lucia nods, her green eyes softening. “So, how’s school treating you?”

Melia shrugs, a small frown tugging at her lips. “It’s…different. Modern schools aren’t really designed for people like us, you know? And having memories of a completely different education system doesn’t help. Sometimes I catch myself thinking in terms of tutors and scrolls instead of classrooms and textbooks.”

Lucia laughs softly. “I can only imagine. How’s Chloe handling her school?”

“She’s doing great,” Melia says, her smile returning. “She’s got friends, and she’s adjusting well. It’s just hard not having her around during the day. We used to talk about everything.”

Lucia tilts her head, studying Melia. “You really do take that older sister role seriously, don’t you?”

Melia’s expression grows thoughtful. “I guess I always have. Even before…” She trails off, her fingers tracing the rim of the table. “Even before all these memories came back, I’ve always felt responsible for Chloe. But now…now I remember Telemachus, too. How I used to look after him, make sure he was safe, teach him what I could. It’s…strange, having those memories. Like a part of me never stopped being his big sister, even though it’s been centuries.”

Lucia’s gaze softens. “That’s a lot to carry, Melia. But I think it’s also a strength. You’ve had practice, even if it’s from a different life. Chloe’s lucky to have you.”

Melia’s cheeks flush slightly at the praise. “Thanks. It’s just…sometimes I’m afraid I’m not doing enough. Or that I’m going to mess up somehow.”

Lucia leans forward, resting her arms on the table. “That’s normal. Being the oldest isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being there, showing up, and doing your best. Trust me, I’ve had my fair share of doubts with the cabin. But they don’t need me to have all the answers; they just need to know I’ve got their back.”

Melia nods slowly, her gaze distant as she processes Lucia’s words. “It’s funny,” she says after a moment. “Sometimes, I feel like I’m still trying to be the same person I was on Ithaca. But then there are days when I feel like someone completely new. Like I’m both Melia and Lysianassa, but also neither.”

Lucia smiles gently. “Maybe that’s because you’re becoming something else entirely. Someone who’s taking the best parts of both lives and making them her own.”

Melia blinks, her lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Well, you’ve got time to figure it out,” Lucia says, reaching over to give Melia’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “And you’ve got people who care about you, ready to help whenever you need it.”

Melia squeezes back, her heart feeling lighter. “Thanks, Lucia. I’m glad we got to do this.”

“Me too,” Lucia says with a grin. “Now, how about you order something before I finish my coffee and have to drag you up to the counter?”

They both laugh, the sound warm and easy, as Melia finally stands to place her order. She decides on a caramel latte, drawn to the idea of its sweet, comforting warmth. As she waits for her drink, she glances back at Lucia, who is scrolling through her phone with a relaxed smile. For the first time in days, Melia feels a little more at peace, her worries tempered by the knowledge that she’s not alone in her struggles.

When she returns to the table, drink in hand, they dive into more lighthearted topics. Lucia tells her about a hilarious incident in the cabin involving Mylo and a poorly aimed arrow, and Melia shares stories about Chloe’s latest obsession with marine biology. The two of them laugh so hard that the barista glances over with a bemused smile.

As the afternoon stretches on, their conversation meanders from jokes to deeper musings. Lucia talks about the weight of being a role model for the younger kids in the cabin, and Melia listens intently, finding comfort in their shared experiences. When the sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the coffee shop, Melia realizes just how much she’s missed moments like this—simple, genuine connections that ground her amidst the chaos of being a demigod.

“Thanks for today,” Melia says as they step out into the crisp evening air. The sky is streaked with hues of pink and orange, the kind of sunset that feels almost magical. “I really needed this.”

Lucia smiles, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Anytime, kiddo. And remember, you’re not alone. We’ve got each other’s backs, no matter what.”

Melia nods, her heart swelling with gratitude. As they part ways, she feels a renewed sense of determination. She may still be figuring out who she is, but with friends like Lucia by her side, she knows she’ll find her way.

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XXVIII

~~~~ The Titan’s Curse ~~~~

Westover Hall looks like an evil knight’s castle. It’s all black stone, with towers, slit windows, and a big set of wooden double doors. It stands on a snowy cliff overlooking a vast, frosty forest on one side and the grey, churning ocean on the other.

Melia gives it a seven out of ten stars, because, while beautiful, the fact that it’s a military boarding school is sad.

“What a waste,” Thalia unwittingly echoes her thoughts. Her face is squished up against the window; she peers up at the building through the fog.

The reflection in the glass tells Melia that Annabeth is also side-eyeing the building, but she looks to be more critiquing how it’s built rather than what it’s used for.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to wait?” Melia’s mum asks. She’s spent the whole eight-hour drive worrying.

“I’m sure, Mum,” Melia says. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

“She’s right,” Thalia pipes up. “Thank you for the ride, Ms Jackson, but we’ve got it from here.”

“If you’re sure…”

Melia makes sure to kiss her on the cheek and hug her goodbye before getting out into the blistering cold. Thalia follows after her own hug, and Annabeth merely nods politely as she scoots out.

Melia hunkers down into her coat.

Once the car is out of sight, Thalia says, “She’s great.”

“She is,” Melia says lowly, staring up at the dark towers of Westover Hall, trying to ignore the cold. “How are you only wearing that army jacket?” she complains lightly, looking at Thalia. “I’m in like three layers and freezing already.”

Thalia grins sharply in return. “Eagles are fine in the cold.”

“We’d better get inside,” Annabeth interrupts. “Grover will be waiting.” She leads the way in after rifling through her bag to check on her supplies.

The oak doors groan open, and the three step into the entry hall in a swirl of snow.

“Whoa.”

The place is huge. The walls are lined with battle flags and weapon displays: antique rifles, battle axes, and a bunch of other stuff.

Overkill.

Melia’s hand goes to her pocket where Riptide is waiting, while her other hand thumbs the ring on her finger—Maelstrom—under her gloves.

“Something’s wrong,” she murmurs.

She can already sense it. Something dangerous.

The air is muggy, filled with the stench of monster and something like lions. It practically crushes the smell of asphodel, lilies, and upturned dirt—a scent that spikes memories of Ithaca. Familiar and unsettling all at once.

“Agreed.” Thalia rubs her silver bracelet, the one that hides her fear-striking shield.

Annabeth starts to say, “I wonder where—”

The doors slam shut behind them.

“Oh,” Melia says dryly, “how lovely. We’ll just stay awhile.”

She pulls down her scarf and stuffs her gloves into her pocket.

There’s music echoing from the other end of the hall. It sounds like dance music.

The three of them exchange glances.

“I don’t like this,” Annabeth says.

“You don’t say,” Melia replies, trying to lighten the tension, though her hand hasn’t left her pocket.

Thalia snorts, though her eyes are sharp as she scans the hall. “Let’s find Grover before the party starts without us.”

“Agreed,” Annabeth says curtly.

They stash their bags behind a pillar and start down the hall. They don’t get very far before a man and a woman march out of the shadows to intercept them. Both have short grey hair and black military-style uniforms with red trim. The woman has a wispy mustache that twitches when she talks, and the man is clean-shaven, his face sharp and hawkish. They both walk stiffly, like they have sticks rammed up their spines.

More importantly—

“Monster,” Melia hisses, ducking her nose into her scarf. The acrid scent prickles at her senses, a mix of rancid meat, burning fur, and something sickly sweet, like rotting flowers. It’s cloying and sharp, the kind of smell that settles in the back of the throat and makes her stomach turn. Her skin crawls.

Thalia steps forward to greet them, her stance deliberate and calm, though Melia catches the tension in her shoulders.

“Well?” the woman demands, her voice clipped and impatient. “What are you doing here?”

Thalia snaps her fingers. The sound is sharp, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. Annabeth flinches, her gaze darting to the gust of wind that ripples outward from Thalia’s hand, stirring the stale air.

“We go to school here,” Thalia says smoothly, voice low but steady. “You remember: I’m Thalia. This is my sister, Melia, and our friend, Annabeth. We’re in the eighth grade.”

The man, a tall figure with mismatched eyes—one a piercing blue, the other an unsettling gold—glares down at them like they’ve personally offended him by breathing.

He turns to his colleague. “Ms. Gottschalk, do you know these students?” His voice is deep and precise, each syllable spoken with clinical detachment.

Thalia elbows Melia subtly.

The woman blinks, like someone’s flipped a switch in her brain. Her glare softens into vague confusion. “I…yes. I believe I do, sir.” Her eyes narrow again as she studies them, the suspicion lingering. “Annabeth. Thalia. Melia. What are you doing away from the gymnasium?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Melia interjects quickly, leaning into the role of clueless student. “I forgot where the bathroom was again. The halls are super confusing.” She offers a sheepish smile, burying her hands deeper into her coat pockets where Riptide and Maelstrom sit reassuringly close.

Ms. Gottschalk hums disapprovingly but steps aside. The man, whose name tag reads “Dr. Thorn,” doesn’t move. His golden eye gleams like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Run along now, children,” he says at last, voice dripping with disdain. “You are not to leave the gymnasium again.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Thalia replies, practically dragging Melia and Annabeth down the hall. They pick up the pace as soon as they’re out of earshot.

“What do you think he is?” Annabeth murmurs, her sharp grey eyes flicking back toward the shadows where the two adults disappeared.

“Dunno,” Melia hums in consideration, her brows furrowing. “But definitely not human… and definitely not good. We need to move fast. This way. I think I can smell Grover.” She doesn't mention the smell of Asphodels that hangs in the air as well.

The hall grows louder as they follow the muffled beat of music. It leads them to the gym, where the dance is in full swing. Glittering lights spin across the polished floor, and kids in formalwear chatter and laugh in groups.

But Melia’s attention cuts straight to the corner.

Grover is slumped at a table with a kid who has dark, silky hair and pale skin.

“Grover!” Melia calls softly, striding across the gym. Thalia and Annabeth flank her, silent but alert.

Grover’s head jerks up, and his eyes widen. “Melia? What… how did you…”

“And who’s…” Melia trails off as she locks eyes with the boy. Recognition flashes through her, like sunlight cutting through murky water.

It’s the little kid. The one from the Lotus Casino.

The boy’s head snaps up from his notebook. His face breaks into a grin. “Hi!” he exclaims. “You!”

Grover groans, rubbing his face. “Oh, gods. You know each other?”

Melia smiles, charmed by the boy’s enthusiasm. “You’re Nico, right?”

“Yeah!” Nico beams, his dark eyes lighting up. “Wow, I never thought I’d see you again. You’re… Melia?”

“That’s me.” Melia motions to her companions. “This is my cousin, Thalia, and our friend, Annabeth. I see you’ve met my other friend, Grover.”

Nico greets them with a cheerful wave, his fingers stained black with what looks like ink—or maybe something else. Thalia bares her fangs in a grin, and Nico’s eyes go wide with delight. Melia can practically see the curiosity sparking in him as he studies Thalia’s features.

Melia takes a moment to study Nico, too. The way his eyes shift, curious and observant, reminds her of someone. There’s an edge to him, like a blade yet to be sharpened. And his fingers… she notices the faint whiff of underworld magic curling off him, like smoke.

“How’s it going, Grover?” Melia slips to Grover’s side, giving him a teasing nudge as Nico bombards Thalia with questions.

Grover groans again, dropping his head onto the table. “You. You always manage to do this. Of course, you’ve run into him already.”

Melia snickers, unable to help herself. “What’s the problem?” Annabeth asks, arching an eyebrow.

Grover straightens, tugging nervously at his red cap. He’s taller than Melia remembers, and a few more whiskers have sprouted along his chin. The baggy jeans and sneakers hide his goat legs well, though his black t-shirt—which says something about “Grunt”—looks comically out of place at a dance.

“As Melia said,” Grover mutters, “this is one of the half-bloods I’ve found.”

“One?” Annabeth’s sharp mind locks onto the word instantly. “You mean…”

Grover exhales heavily. “Yeah. I found two.”

Melia claps him on the back with a grin. “Really showing a pattern here, Grover. You’re on a roll.”

“Tell me about it. Nico di Angelo, 10, and his sister, Bianca di Angelo, 13; I’m unsure of their parentage but they’re strong.”

“I’m guessing the problem has to do with the Dr. Thorn guy we ran into on the way in…”

Grover nods. He nervously looks around the room, as if the monster might jump out of the shadows at any second.

“This is actually the closest I’ve gotten to either of them in weeks,” Grover admits. “He keeps getting in my way; it was luck that Bianca asked me to watch her brother while she ran to the bathroom. I don’t think he’s positive yet, but this is the last day of term. I’m sure he won’t let them leave campus without finding out…”

“So we need to be careful,” Melia mutters. She smiles when Nico glances at her, flashing her own sharp, shark-like teeth.

Nico grins back, revealing two blunt but strong rows of teeth. Like a ram’s.

Thalia’s eyes flash above the boy’s head. She looks incredibly pleased, standing over Nico protectively as if daring anyone to take a step too close.

Melia’s smile falters as a scent hits her like a crashing wave. It pulls her head around before she realises she’s moved. The air shifts, full of something ancient and achingly familiar: asphodels and pomegranates, earth soaked in rain, a hint of sea salt carried on a phantom breeze.

She knows that scent.

Her heart lurches painfully as a girl approaches the table.

She looks like Nico—the same delicate features, though hers are sharper, framed by long, wavy black hair that falls down her shoulders like a curtain. Her pale skin, almost luminescent under the gym lights, is speckled with faint freckles along her nose. A floppy green cap sits atop her head, its brim shadowing her face, but it doesn’t hide her eyes. Those striking violet eyes peek out beneath it, searching—nervous—as though she can feel something wrong in the air.

Melia’s throat tightens. Her pulse roars in her ears, drowning out the chatter of the gym. It’s her.

It’s her.

“Thank you,” the girl says softly when she reaches them. Her voice has a gentleness to it, a faint accent that tugs at the edges of Melia’s mind like an unfinished dream. “Come along, Nico. You mustn’t bother them.”

Melia opens her mouth, willing herself to respond. Her voice feels like it’s caught in her chest.

“No, no,” she manages at last, her tone light despite the storm raging in her head. “He wasn’t bothering us. What’s your name? I’m Lys…Melia.”

The name almost slips, almost shatters her fragile mask. She clamps her teeth together to stop herself from saying more, to stop herself from falling to her knees as the girl—as Bianca—looks at her.

Those violet eyes lock onto hers. For a moment, everything else disappears.

A plot of lilies in front of a marble tombstone. An owl with bright yellow eyes perched on the edge of a windowsill. A wolf howling as it faces the endless sea. A rocking boat drifting across the surface of a moonlit lake. The reaching hand of a wave curling up a golden beach. An olive tree atop a lonely cliff, its roots tangled in ancient stone, standing guard above the raging sea below.

Melia gasps quietly, dragging herself back to the present, to the gym, to Bianca staring at her with confused familiarity.

“Oh, but we really should…” Bianca begins, but the words falter on her lips. Her shoulders drop slightly, like she’s forgotten what she was going to say. Her head tilts, and her brows furrow faintly, like she’s trying to piece something together.

“Have we met before?” Bianca asks suddenly.

Melia’s heart stutters. She fights to keep her breathing steady, her smile in place, but her soul feels as though it’s been turned inside out.

“No,” Melia lies softly, the word burning on her tongue. “I don’t think so.”

Bianca stares a second longer, and Melia swears she sees something flicker in those eyes—a hint of recognition, like a memory clawing its way out of a dream. Then it’s gone. Bianca shakes her head, giving a small, polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Come on, Nico,” Bianca says, reaching for her brother’s arm.

Nico protests, but Melia barely hears them. She’s still standing there, rooted to the spot, her heart aching with an intensity she thought she’d buried lifetimes ago.

Melania.

She’s here.

And she doesn’t remember.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Thalia greets, her own smile softening. “We’re actually here to talk to you…”

Melia’s head snaps up, her instincts flaring like fire in her veins. She can feel it—the moment about to shift.

“Children.”

The word slashes through the moment, sharp and sudden.

They all tense.

Dr. Thorn looms over the siblings, his figure casting an oppressive shadow that seems to stretch farther than it should.

“Di Angels,” he says, his voice curling around the name like a serpent.

“It’s di Angelo,” Nico mutters under his breath, glaring up at the man with the kind of defiance only a ten-year-old can muster.

Dr. Thorn doesn’t react to Nico’s correction. His golden eye gleams.

“You will come with me. Your guardian is here.”

Both children shuffle uncomfortably, Bianca’s hand instinctively tightening around her brother’s. Melia notes every tiny movement—the way Bianca shields Nico with the slightest turn of her body, the flicker of doubt in her eyes.

“Is something wrong?” Bianca asks, her voice polite but edged with unease. “We were told they were going to pick us up tomorrow…”

“Plans have changed,” Dr. Thorn interrupts before she can finish. His tone brooks no argument, the words snapping like a trap. “They are here today. Follow me.”

Melia’s fingers flex. Her pulse thunders. She watches Bianca’s hesitation—the uncertainty etched on her face. The same face. The same eyes. Every instinct in Melia screams that something is wrong—that if she lets Bianca leave, something terrible will happen.

She can’t let her go.

Nico glances at Melia, his expression pleading, his dark eyes wide with unspoken words.

It’s okay , Melia tries to convey with a small, forced nod. Play along.

Bianca swallows, gives Nico’s hand a reassuring squeeze, and they allow themselves to be steered away. Melia watches Dr. Thorn grip them—not gently, like a teacher guiding students, but like a predator hauling prey. He holds them by the scruffs of their necks, as if they’re kittens he can control.

Melia’s stomach knots. Her jaw tightens, and she forces herself to stay calm, though every muscle in her body screams to act.

“Thalia,” Melia says quietly, voice low and tense. “I’ll go left.”

Thalia nods, slipping away like a shadow, her eyes dark and her lips pulled back in a silent snarl. She looks ready to tear something apart.

“Grover, can you get into contact with camp?”

“Will do,” the satyr says, his voice tight with worry. He shifts nervously on his hooves, glancing toward the siblings as they disappear through the door. “I’ll follow after. Be careful.”

Annabeth pulls her Yankees cap low over her head, vanishing from sight as she follows silently after the siblings.

Melia moves last, uncapping Riptide with a soft hiss. The faint golden glow of the blade cuts through the dim hallway as she slinks along the left side, keeping Dr. Thorn in her sights. Her senses sharpen. The air feels heavier here, oppressive. The smell of owl feathers, monster musk, and asphodel clogs her lungs. Her hand grips the hilt of her sword tighter.

She won’t let him take them.

Not her.

Melania.

The name echoes in her head like a heartbeat, the very essence of who Bianca is—was—and the life Melia refused to lose again. Memories flash behind her eyes: the lilies, the olive tree above the sea. The waves curling around an outstretched hand. The soft voice that once whispered her name across lifetimes.

She pushes it all down. She can’t think about it. Not now.

She follows Thorn through the doorway and into the dark hallway beyond, silent as a hunter.

Her eyes stay fixed on Bianca and Nico. Bianca walks stiffly, still holding Nico’s hand, her head turning slightly like she can sense something isn’t right but can’t quite place it. Thorn’s grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he seems to pull them along faster, his back straight, his strides sharp and purposeful.

Melia’s chest burns with quiet fury.

She will not let something happen to Bianca. Not again.

She speeds up, each step quiet, precise, her eyes locked on Thorn like she’s tracking a mark.

Whatever happens next, Melia swears this time she will not fail.

Melia draws Maelstrom, the faint silvery glow of the blade lighting her way as she follows the thick stench of monster and asphodels through the halls. The oppressive weight of it grows stronger with every step, prickling her senses like needles against her skin.

The corridor stretches dark and empty until it reaches its end. Melia pushes open a heavy wooden door and steps back into the main entry hall. Her breath catches when she sees the di Angelo kids on the far side of the room. They stand frozen, wide-eyed, staring at something just beyond her.

Melia’s steps slow as dread curls in her gut. Thorn is nowhere in sight, but—

There’s something else here.

A chill brushes the side of her face, and she feels it—the presence lingering just out of view. Fabric shifts, soft and deliberate, near her side. Melia’s grip tightens on Maelstrom, her other hand instinctively brushing the scar on her shoulder.

“Quickly,” Melia murmurs, eyes darting toward the nearest door. “Go.”

Bianca grabs Nico’s arm, pulling him into motion. The two siblings break into a run, their footsteps echoing unevenly across the marble. Melia shifts to cover their retreat, keeping her eyes on the shadows where Thorn should be.

Then it happens.

WHIIISH!

A sound cuts the air, like an arrow or a dart. Melia barely processes it before pain blossoms in her shoulder, white-hot and searing. She stumbles, gritting her teeth to stifle a cry as she clamps a hand against the wound. The sting spreads like fire through her veins.

Poison, she realises bitterly, her vision swimming for just a second. Why is it always poison?

She whirls around, blade raised, but the space behind her is empty. Her pulse hammers in her ears. The entry door slams shut. The faint traces of asphodels, owl feathers, and parchment are snatched away with the closing gust of wind.

A cold laugh echoes through the hall.

“Yes, Melia Jackson,” Dr. Thorn says, stepping into the faint glow of Maelstrom’s light. His accent mangles the name—as if twisting it into something wrong.

Melia’s lips pull into a snarl. The familiar burn of anger rolls through her, burning hotter than the poison.

Dr. Thorn emerges fully into view. The man still looks human, but his ghoulish features begin to fray at the edges. His skin looks stretched too tight; his teeth are impossibly perfect and white, and his mismatched brown and blue eyes gleam unnaturally as they catch the swordlight.

“Thank you for coming out of the gym,” Thorn sneers. “I hate middle school dances.”

Melia manages a vicious grin despite the pain.

“Thank you for being an idiot,” she shoots back. “I do so love when monsters have a shit attention span.”

Thorn’s face twitches. His attention flickers past Melia, toward where Bianca and Nico had been moments ago. The shock on his face quickly melts into rage.

Before Thorn can react, there’s a sharp crack behind him—like the snap of a whip—followed by a shrill cry. Aegis slams down onto Thorn’s head with bone-rattling force.

It doesn’t kill him. It doesn’t even stop him for long. But it buys time.

“Time to go!” Thalia yells.

Before Melia can protest, Thalia crashes into her shoulder, dragging her toward the doors. Melia winces but stumbles along, glancing over her shoulder at the creature peeling himself off the ground. Thorn growls, a guttural, predatory sound that makes Melia’s skin crawl.

“Thals—” Melia starts, voice tight, “we should—”

“Too late!” Thalia snaps.

They burst through the front doors. Thalia slams them shut behind them with a dull boom, and they sprint forward, following the hurried footprints left in the snow.

“Keep moving!” Thalia barks, pulling her shield onto her arm. Melia forces her legs to keep up, despite the burning ache spreading from her poisoned shoulder.

Thorn is following. Melia can feel him, even if she doesn’t see him yet. When she risks a glance back, she sees his dark silhouette emerging from the doors. He isn’t running. He doesn’t need to. His movements are deliberate, methodical. He’s speaking into something—a phone, maybe—and Melia catches a few words: …a package.

The chill in her blood intensifies.

The woods thin suddenly, spilling them out onto a snow-covered cliff. Melia skids to a halt, heart racing as her boots dig into the frost. She can feel the sea hundreds of feet below—the unmistakable churn of waves thrashing against rock. The air is thick with salt and mist, sharp and cold in her lungs.

There’s something else, too. Something pure and ancient lingering in the air—a mix of fur and scales, sweetness and strength. It coils just beyond the edge of her senses, as though hiding in the mist itself.

Melia squints into the darkness. All she can see is shifting grey and the abyss below.

“Enough of this!” Thorn snarls, his voice echoing off the cliffs as he corners them, his monstrous silhouette half obscured by the swirling mist. “Where are they?!”

“Where’s who?” Melia demands, gripping Thalia’s wrist with her free hand. Her sword shifts in her other, glowing faintly like a star. Her legs tense, every nerve alight with instinct.

They could jump. The sea below calls to her. But something tells her it won’t matter.

“Go ahead,” Thorn sneers, as if reading her thoughts. “I would kill you both before you ever reached the water. You do not realise who I am, do you?”

Melia’s eyes narrow. The snow swirls more thickly, caught on sudden gusts of wind—

Frozen water.

Her eyes widen. She straightens slightly, focusing inward, reaching for the pull of the sea in the snow. For a heartbeat, she feels it stir.

A flicker of movement snaps her focus back. Behind Thorn, something whips forward—a tail—and a missile whistles through the air so close it nicks Melia’s ear.

Pain shoots down her neck; the shock shatters her concentration.

“Thalia,” Melia hisses as she staggers. Thalia pushes her behind her shield, her face sharp with fury.

“What do you want?” Thalia demands, her voice a growl.

Thorn smiles cruelly, his teeth too white, too perfect. “I wanted those other two brats, but you will do. You will be meeting my employer soon enough. He is an old friend of yours.”

“Luke,” Melia snaps. Her voice drips venom.

“No friend of mine,” Thalia spits, baring her teeth.

Thorn’s face twists in distaste. “You have no idea what is happening. I will let the General enlighten you. You are going to do him a great service tonight. He is looking forward to meeting you— especially you, Melia Jackson.”

“The General?” Melia mocks his accent, stalling for time. She can smell the others. They’re close.

Thorn’s gaze flickers toward the horizon. “Ah, here we are. Your transportation.”

A distant searchlight breaks through the mist. The rhythmic chopping of helicopter blades grows louder, closer.

“Where are you taking us?” Thalia growls.

“You should be honoured,” Thorn sneers. “You will have the opportunity to join a great army. And if you do not… well, we have many monstrous mouths to feed. The Great Stirring is underway.”

“The Great what?” Melia demands, trying to keep him talking.

“The stirring of monsters,” Thorn explains with a dark smile. “The worst of them, the most powerful, are now waking. Monsters that have not been seen in thousands of years. They will bring death and destruction the likes of which mortals have never known. And soon, we shall have the most important monster of all—the one that will bring about the downfall of Olympus!”

Thalia stiffens. Melia’s teeth bare in an instinctive snarl, her heart pounding.

Then, chaos.

An invisible force slams into them—a blur of motion that sends Melia sprawling into the snow. It’s brilliant, perfectly timed… and it hurts.

Annabeth plows into them at such an angle that Thorn’s next volley of missiles zips harmlessly over their heads.

Thalia scrambles to her feet, her face dark with rage, and charges. Grover appears from the treeline, his reed pipes already at his lips, weaving frantic notes that shake the earth.

Thorn’s monstrous roar rattles the air as the real battle begins.

Grover thankfully stays close. He covers for them, darting behind Thorn and striking at the back of his knees with surprising precision. Thorn lets out a bellowing roar, spinning wildly as Grover vanishes back into the treeline, quick and nimble.

If someone has never seen Thalia charge into battle, they have never been truly frightened.

Thalia’s spear extends with a metallic hiss from the collapsible Mace canister she carries, its sharp tip crackling with energy. In her other hand, Aegis flashes to life, the infamous Medusa face emblazoned across the shield’s center. The eerie glow around it, coupled with Thalia’s presence, makes the air hum like a live wire.

Most people would drop everything and run. Thorn merely flinches and growls.

The most terrifying part of Thalia, though, is the electricity. It rolls off her in waves, shimmering and sharp, like a thousand unseen knives ready to strike. Her aura is thundercloud-dark and angry, and now she is well and truly pissed .

“Come on, then!” Thalia shouts, jabbing her spear toward Thorn’s face. Sparks leap from the tip, tiny bolts arcing through the air like hungry fingers reaching for him.

Thorn snarls and swats the weapon aside. His right hand morphs mid-swipe, orange fur rippling as it twists into a lion’s massive paw tipped with claws the size of daggers. The blow strikes Thalia’s shield with a deafening clang, sending sparks scattering like fireworks.

Thalia grunts, rolling back and landing on her feet just as Thorn lunges again.

The sound of helicopter blades grows louder behind Melia. The rhythmic whump-whump reverberates through her ribs, but she doesn’t dare look back. She twirls Maelstrom in her hand, the silvery blade catching faint light as she scans for an opening.

Another sharp whistle cuts through the air.

Thorn launches a volley of missiles—jagged spikes shooting from his leathery tail. Melia’s eyes widen as the tail comes into view, thick and segmented like a scorpion’s, its tip bristling with deadly barbs. The projectiles ricochet off Aegis in a shower of sparks, but the force of the impact knocks Thalia onto her back, her shield skidding away into the snow.

“Thalia!” Melia shouts, her heart slamming against her ribs.

Grover springs out from the treeline again, reed pipes already pressed to his lips. The frantic melody he plays rings sharp and wild, like something pirates would dance to, and the ground answers. Thick, ropey vines erupt from beneath the snow, slithering like serpents before wrapping around Thorn’s legs.

The monster bellows, his movements jerky as he claws at the vines. Then he begins to change .

Thorn’s form bulges grotesquely, his human proportions stretching and snapping as he shifts into his true shape. His torso expands, broad and rippling with muscle. Orange fur sprouts along his limbs, and his hands become monstrous paws tipped with claws. His head remains disturbingly human, but his mouth twists into something feral. His spiky, leathery tail lashes furiously, whipping thorns in all directions.

“A manticore!” Annabeth exclaims, her voice cracking with urgency.

Melia’s stomach drops. She’s read about manticores—monsters of near-legend, unstoppable predators. Seeing one in person is far worse.

The manticore tears through Grover’s vines like they’re paper. It turns toward them with a guttural snarl, baring its teeth.

“Get down!” Annabeth cries.

Melia barely has time to react before Annabeth yanks her sideways. The two of them hit the snow hard as a thorn zips past, so close it nicks Melia’s bomber jacket, slicing a clean tear into the leather. The cold bites into her skin, but she doesn’t care.

A sharp thwack and a yelp break the chaos.

Grover lands next to them with a heavy thud, clutching his side.

“Yield!” Thorn roars, his monstrous voice booming through the clearing like thunder.

“Never!” Thalia’s voice rings out defiantly.

Melia twists around just in time to see Thalia charging across the snow, her face set in a look of fury that would make Zeus himself think twice. For a moment, Melia thinks she’ll run Thorn clean through.

Then the sound hits.

The helicopter thunders out of the mist behind them, its searchlights blazing against the darkness. Melia squints against the glare, the light turning the snow into a field of blinding white. The machine hovers just beyond the cliffs, sleek and black, its sides bristling with weapons—military-grade rockets, by the looks of it.

Mortals? Melia thinks wildly, panic flaring in her chest. How could mortals be involved in this? And why?

The searchlights pin Thalia in place. She cries out, raising an arm to shield her eyes.

“Thalia, no!” Melia shouts.

The manticore seizes the moment. Thorn’s tail whips forward with brutal precision, slamming into Thalia and sending her sprawling across the snow. Aegis spins away in one direction, the spear in another.

“No!” Melia forces herself to move, the ache in her poisoned shoulder forgotten. She sprints forward, her boots skidding on the ice. Thorn’s tail lashes toward Thalia again, but Melia gets there first.

With a grunt, she brings Maelstrom up in a wide arc, deflecting the spike before it can strike Thalia’s chest. The impact rattles her arms, the force nearly tearing the blade from her grip.

“Move!” Melia barks, positioning herself over Thalia. She can feel the manticore’s eyes on her, the weight of its gaze sharp and predatory.

“Now do you see how hopeless it is?” Thorn sneers, his human-like face twisted into something vile. “Yield, little heroes.”

The helicopter hovers ominously, its searchlights sweeping across the field, trapping them in a cage of light. The manticore looms in front of them, claws flexing, his tail twitching like a scorpion preparing to strike.

They are pinned. Trapped between a monster and the impossible.

Melia isn’t going to let it end here.

“You’re not winning this fight,” she growls, baring her teeth.

Behind her, Thalia lets out a strangled hiss, her voice thick with fury.

“Not a chance,” Thalia grits out.

Melia adjusts her stance, Maelstrom gleaming faintly in her hand. The odds don’t matter. The monster doesn’t matter.

All that matters is keeping the others safe.

Then Annabeth’s head snaps to the side. Melia doesn’t need her hearing to know what catches her attention.

It’s a clear, piercing sound: the call of a hunting horn blowing in the woods.

The manticore freezes. For a moment, no one moves. There’s only the swirl of snow—Melia can feel it—and wind and the relentless chopping of the helicopter blades.

“No,” Thorn hisses. His face contorts in disbelief, as if his worst nightmare has come to life. “It cannot be—”

His sentence is cut short when something shoots past Melia like a streak of moonlight. A glowing silver arrow sprouts from Thorn’s shoulder. He staggers backward, his howl of agony echoing through the clearing.

“Curse you!” Thorn roars. He unleashes his spikes, dozens of them at once, into the woods where the arrow came from. But just as fast, silver arrows shoot back in reply. It almost looks as though the arrows intercept Thorn’s thorns in midair, slicing them cleanly in two.

Melia’s nose fills with a strange mix of smells. The contrasting scents of bear and deer, predator and prey, wash over her like a wave—wild, blood-tinged, yet somehow softened by something rich and nutty. Beneath it all lingers the crisp, clean scent of earth after heavy rain.

The manticore pulls the arrow from his shoulder with a shriek of pain. His breathing grows heavy. Melia tries to swipe at him, Maelstrom gleaming faintly in the snowlight, but Thorn dodges and slams his tail sideways. The blow sends Melia sprawling to the ground, the air rushing from her lungs. Thalia’s arms hook under Melia’s shoulders, hauling her unsteadily to her feet.

Then the archers emerge from the woods. They are girls, a dozen or so, dressed in silvery ski parkas and jeans. They look young—the youngest maybe ten, the oldest about early twenties. Each carries a bow, their arrows shimmering silver as moonlight. They advance on the manticore with expressions of calm, deadly determination.

Melia notes their scent as they pass—the same muted musk of bear and deer—but her gaze quickly flickers to the leader among them.

“The Hunters!” Annabeth cries.

In Melia’s ear, Thalia mutters, “Oh, wonderful.”

The tallest archer steps forward, her bow drawn and ready. She is tall and graceful, with coppery skin that glows faintly in the pale light. A silver circlet, delicate and intricate, weaves through her dark hair like a halo. She looks regal, powerful—a princess from an ancient age. Her scent is distinct—saffron and rose water, undercut by something Melia does know: the faint, ephemeral scent of starlight, a smell she has not forgotten in centuries.

Melia’s breath catches. She knows her.

Zoë.

Memories hit her like a tidal wave. She remembers standing at Zoë’s side beneath ancient oaks, listening to Artemis speak of the Hunt, the wild freedom they would share. She remembers Melania’s hand clasping hers, whispering excitedly about joining them. They had planned to follow the goddess, to become Hunters together…before the war came. Before the world tore everything apart.

Melia’s throat tightens as she looks at Zoë now, unchanged, eternal. She feels like a shadow standing before the moonlight.

“Permission to kill, my lady?” Zoë asks, her voice cool and composed.

The scent of the forest intensifies—the smell of earth, pine, and rain-soaked leaves.

“This is not fair!” Thorn wails, panicked. “Direct interference! It is against the Ancient Laws!”

“Not so,” a second voice replies, firm and melodic. Another girl steps forward, younger than the first. She is no older than thirteen, with auburn hair gathered into a ponytail and silvery yellow eyes that glow like the moon itself. Her face is otherworldly—ethereal and impossibly beautiful—but her expression is steely, dangerous.

Melia’s breath catches in her throat. She knows this girl.

Artemis.

“The hunting of all wild beasts is within my sphere,” Artemis declares. Her gaze is fixed on Thorn, and the weight of her words falls like a stone. “And you, foul creature, are a wild beast.”

She turns to the taller Zoë Nightshade.

“Zoë, permission granted.”

Thorn snarls, desperation replacing his earlier confidence. “If I cannot have these alive, I shall have them dead!”

With that, he lunges at Thalia and Melia, knowing they are weak and dazed.

“No!” Annabeth screams, charging forward.

“Get back, half-blood!” Zoë commands, her voice sharp. “Get out of fire!”

Annabeth doesn’t listen. She leaps onto Thorn’s back, driving her knife deep into his mane. The manticore howls, twisting and spinning in circles, his tail flailing wildly as Annabeth clings on for dear life.

Melia sees Annabeth’s wings flicker into view—short, panicked feathers ruffling and fluttering against the storm.

“Fire!” Zoë orders, voice ringing across the clearing.

“No!” Thalia cries, but it’s too late.

The Hunters let their arrows fly. The first strikes Thorn in the neck. The second embeds itself in his chest. Thorn staggers backward, wailing, “This is not the end, Huntress! You shall pay!”

Before anyone can react, the manticore lunges for the edge of the cliff, Annabeth still on his back. With one final roar, Thorn leaps, and they both vanish into the darkness below.

All that remains is Annabeth’s invisibility cap, crumpled in the snow.

“Annabeth!” Melia gasps, her voice hoarse.

She pushes herself to her feet, Thalia pulling up alongside her, but the danger isn’t over. The helicopter rattles above them, snapping gunfire into the snow. The Hunters scatter, but Artemis stands calm and resolute, gazing up at the machine with a look of mild irritation.

“Mortals,” Artemis says, voice soft but commanding, “are not allowed to witness my hunt.”

She raises her hand, palm out. The helicopter doesn’t explode—it simply dissolves , breaking apart into a flock of ravens that scatter into the night.

The clearing falls silent.

The Hunters regroup, their arrows lowered as they advance toward Melia, Thalia, and the others. Thalia steps in front of Melia before anyone can blink, squinting hard through the blur of light and snow, her pupils fluttering. It doesn’t stop the hard edge to her glare.

Zoë Nightshade halts when she sees her.

Zoë’s gaze sharpens, her eyes narrowing as if she senses something familiar. Her bow dips ever so slightly, her expression flickering between confusion and recognition. “You…” she breathes, voice barely above a whisper, but full of meaning.

“Zoë Nightshade,” Thalia spits, assuming Zoë was speaking to her, her voice trembling with anger. “Perfect timing, as usual.”

Zoë’s gaze shifts to the Thalia. “Two half-bloods and a satyr, my lady.”

“Four,” Melia wheezes, leaning heavily against Thalia’s shoulder. “Grover…”

“I’ll get them!” Grover bleats, excusing himself before darting back into the woods.

When he returns with Nico and Bianca, the siblings look wide-eyed and overwhelmed. They crowd close to Melia, but it’s Bianca who catches the attention of the goddess.

Artemis stops, her silvery eyes narrowing as they flick between Melia and Bianca. Zoë and some of the older Hunters still their movements, as if recognising something, their expressions a mix of disbelief and awe.

“You,” Artemis says softly, her gaze locking on Melia. Her voice carries the weight of ages, like wind sweeping through ancient trees. “You again.”

Zoë’s mouth tightens as she looks between Melia and Bianca. “Impossible,” she mutters, though her voice lacks conviction.

Artemis studies Melia for a long moment—and then Bianca. Something glimmers in her expression, recognition tempered by curiosity.

“Some souls are woven into the hunt across lifetimes,” Artemis murmurs. “It seems fate has a long memory.”

Melia swallows, feeling the weight of the goddess’s words as a shiver runs down her spine. Beside her, Bianca’s brow furrows in confusion, though her hand drifts unconsciously toward Melia’s.

“Annabeth…” Grover’s mournful voice cuts through the moment.

Artemis sighs, her gaze softening. “I am sorry,” she says. “But your friend is beyond help. None of you are in any condition to be hurling yourselves off cliffs.”

Melia places a hand on Grover’s shoulder, shaking her head when he looks at her.

“She didn’t land in the water,” Melia murmurs. “I would’ve known…”

But no…she hadn’t reached the water below, the water Melia would so like to be in. The smell of owl and parchment had disappeared.

They’d find her. That was a promise.

Melia lifts her gaze to the goddess before her.

Artemis stands regal and cold, her eyes brighter and sharper than the winter moon. A brilliant, wicked set of silver antlers tower from her head, the tips dipped in gold. A laurel wreath of amaranths and cypress pines rests atop her brow, tiny red blossoms trailing into the thick braid of her auburn hair. The crimson amaranths glow starkly against her hair, like tiny drops of blood caught in moonlight. Her eyes… Melia has seen no eyes like them. They are the moon, twin orbs of silver light speckled with faint, darker craters, as if holding the very surface of the celestial body within them.

Blood drips from the long claws at her fingertips.

One moment, she is dressed as the other Hunters, simple and practical. The next, she wears a white chiton and a deep blue himation embroidered with constellations that seem to shift when Melia looks at them. Her bare feet are caked with dirt, the leather cords wrapped around her shins leaving faint imprints against her pale skin.

“Ah,” Artemis says, her voice like clear ice, tinged with something softer, something old. Her gaze settles on Melia with unnerving precision, as though reading through every thought she tries to bury. “It has been so long. It is always interesting to meet one with such sight.”

Zoë tenses beside her, her eyes leaving Thalia and flicking to Melia with a faint trace of confusion and familiarity, as if trying to place a memory just out of reach.

Grover gasps. “Lady Artemis! You’re so…wow!”

Thalia rolls her eyes.

“Whoa,” Bianca says softly, stepping unconsciously to Melia’s side. “Hold up. Who…who are you people?”

Artemis’ expression softens as she turns her gaze to Bianca. “It might be a better question, my dear girl, to ask who are you? Who are your parents?”

Bianca glances nervously at Nico, who stares at Artemis with unabashed awe. Melia stands so close to her that she can feel the faint tremble in Bianca’s shoulders. A pulse of something ancient and protective surges through her—a need to reach out , to anchor Bianca like she had in another life. But she holds herself back, her fists curling at her sides.

“Our parents are…dead,” Bianca says finally, her voice small. “We’re orphans. There’s a bank trust that pays for our school, but…”

“But that’s not quite right, is it?” Melia asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it cuts through the clearing. She keeps her eyes on Bianca, forcing herself to focus on now rather than the tidal wave of memories crashing into her.

Bianca falters, her dark eyes darting to Melia. “It doesn’t,” she admits quietly, “it doesn’t feel right.”

“You are a half-blood,” Zoë says, stepping forward. Her voice holds its usual authority, but her gaze lingers a second longer on Melia—a look Melia tries to ignore, though her chest aches under the weight of it. “One of thy parents was mortal. The other was an Olympian.”

“An Olympian…athlete?” Bianca frowns, though Melia notices the confusion flickering in her eyes, the way her brow furrows as if she’s almost remembering something.

“No,” Zoë corrects. “One of the gods.”

“Cool!” Nico says, grinning.

“No!” Bianca’s voice quavers. “This is not cool!”

Nico, oblivious to her panic, bounces in place with excitement. Melia places a hand on his shoulder and flicks his ear, grounding him back to the moment.

“Hey!” Nico complains, swatting her hand away.

“I’ll answer all your questions later,” Melia murmurs. “Promise.”

“Way to go,” Thalia mutters under her breath, glaring at Zoë. “Send her right into a panic attack, why don’t you?”

Zoë glowers back. “I speak the truth. She must face it.”

Melia keeps her gaze on Bianca, watching her unravel. Bianca’s breathing quickens, and for a fleeting second, Melia considers reaching for her hand. The instinct claws at her, an ache that feels far too old and far too raw. But she stops herself—Bianca is so close physically, but emotionally? Emotionally, she feels like she’s a world away.

“Mel...Bianca,” Melia says carefully, forcing her voice to steady. “I know it’s hard to believe. But the gods are still around. Trust me. They’re immortal. And whenever they have kids with regular humans, kids like us, well…our lives are dangerous.”

Bianca stares at her, the tearful disbelief in her expression threatening to undo Melia completely.

“Dangerous,” Bianca whispers. “Like the girl who fell.”

Thalia turns away sharply. Even Artemis’s expression dims with the weight of that reminder.

Melia feels something splinter in her chest. The image of Annabeth disappearing over the edge burns behind her eyes—and then another memory, one she tries to suppress. Another cliff. Another lifetime. Melania’s hand slipping from hers.

“It’s okay,” Melia says softly, her words trembling. She forces a thin smile onto her face, though it feels brittle, fragile. “Seriously. There’s a reason we came after you. Annabeth’s smart—she doesn’t do things without thinking them through.”

“Even if they lead her off a cliff?” Bianca asks tearfully.

“Especially if they lead her off a cliff,” Melia replies, the ghost of a strained laugh escaping her lips. Especially if they do.

Thalia huffs, her eyes glistening slightly before she turns her face away.

In the silence that follows, Nico raises his hand. “What about Dr. Thorn? It was awesome how you shot him with arrows! Is he dead?”

“He was a manticore,” Artemis says, her voice calm. “Hopefully, he is destroyed for now, but monsters never truly die. They re-form over and over again, and they must be hunted whenever they reappear.”

“Or else they’ll hunt us,” Thalia adds grimly.

Bianca shivers, hugging herself. “That explains…Nico, you remember last summer? Those guys who tried to attack us in the alley in D.C.?”

“And that bus driver,” Nico chimes in. “The one with the horns. I told you that was real!”

“That’s why Grover has been watching you,” Melia explains gently. “To keep you safe.”

“Grover?” Bianca stares at him, wide-eyed. “You’re a demigod?”

“Well, a satyr, actually.” Grover kicks off his shoes, displaying his goat hooves proudly.

Bianca looks ready to faint.

“Grover,” Thalia groans, slapping a hand over her face. “Put your shoes back on. You’re freaking her out.”

Melia turns back to Bianca, heart thundering in her chest as she says the words that hurt more than they should.

“Bianca, we came here to help you. You and Nico need training to survive. There’s…there are places you can go. Camp Half-Blood, where all Greek demigods are accepted to train.”

Her voice stays steady, but the thought gnaws at her. What if Bianca doesn’t choose camp? What if she doesn’t choose her?

Bianca shakes her head. “I don’t—”

“There is another option,” Zoë interjects.

“No, there isn’t!” Thalia snaps, glaring daggers at her.

Melia’s hand touches Thalia’s shoulder, grounding her. She forces herself to smile at Bianca, though her chest feels like it’s caving in.

So close…and yet so far.

“We’ve burdened these children enough,” Artemis announces. “Zoë, we will rest here for a few hours. Raise the tents. Treat the wounded. Retrieve our guests’ belongings from the school.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And, Bianca, come with me. I would like to speak with you,” Artemis says, casting a glance at Melia and offering a faint nod of acknowledgment. The nod loosens a knot in Melia’s heart, but it also leaves a hollow ache, a reminder of how far Bianca feels from her despite standing so close.

“What about me?” Nico asks.

Artemis considers the boy. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind speaking more with Grover about camp. I’m sure he would be happy to entertain you for a while…as a favour to me?”

Grover just about trips over himself getting up. “You bet! Come on, Nico!”

Nico and Grover walk off toward the woods. Grover starts his camp spiel, his enthusiasm infectious. Bianca hesitates, watching them go, then turns her gaze back to Melia and Thalia.

Thalia shakes her head, forming an ‘X’ with her hands. Behind her, Melia smiles, the gesture soft but carrying the weight of her inner turmoil. She nods, silently urging Bianca to take the step forward, though her heart clenches at the thought.

Artemis leads a confused-looking Bianca along the cliff. The Hunters begin unpacking their knapsacks and making camp. Zoë pauses to glance at Melia again, her expression tinged with familiarity, before moving on to oversee preparations.

Melia exhales slowly, her hands trembling as she forces herself to stay still. Bianca is walking away with Artemis, and every step feels like another barrier rising between them. Melia’s memories of who Bianca was—who she could be —clash violently with the girl she is now. But Melia refuses to let those past lives shape her actions. Bianca is her own person, even if Melia’s soul cries out for a connection that feels impossibly far.

“The nerve of those Hunters! They think they’re so…Argh!” Thalia growls, breaking the heavy silence.

“Story for another time?” Melia murmurs, her voice steadier than she feels. “Are your eyes okay?”

Thalia takes a moment to breathe, her shoulders rising and falling as she fights to regain control. Finally, she stands up straight. “Yes,” she says, “but not now. And my eyes are fine, I just need…”

She stares pensively off into the snow, her expression a mixture of anger and exhaustion, tinged with something unspoken.

“Go on,” Melia urges gently, forcing a small smile. “Go walk it off. I’ll be fine.”

Thalia doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at her. Her face is a stony barrier, her expression reminiscent of her father’s thunderous temper. Without another word, she stomps off into the snow, leaving Melia standing there alone.

Melia’s smile falters as the silence settles back in. She wraps her arms around herself, staring out toward where Bianca and Artemis disappeared. She’s not Melania, she reminds herself. She doesn’t remember. She doesn’t have to.

But the ache in her chest doesn’t fade. She turns her gaze to the snow beneath her feet, whispering softly to herself, “I’ll protect you anyway.”

Chapter Text

~~~~ Tides of Life ~~~~

XXIX

~~~~ The Titans Curse ~~~~

Melia pushes a harsh breath out of her nose the moment she sits down in front of the fire. She curls into herself, a hand on her side, as she observes the Hunters.

They set up their campsite in a matter of minutes. Seven large tents, all of silver silk, curve in a crescent around one side of the bonfire. One of the girls blows a silver dog whistle, and a dozen white wolves emerge from the woods. The wolves begin circling the camp like vigilant sentinels, their sleek coats gleaming in the firelight. The Hunters walk among them, feeding them treats without hesitation, murmuring soft words of affection. Falcons perch high in the trees, their sharp eyes gleaming like molten gold as they keep watch over the camp. Even the weather seems to bend to the goddess’s will—the air remains cold, but the biting wind dies down, and the snow ceases to fall, leaving a serene stillness in its wake.

Thalia paces in the snow at the edge of camp, weaving among the wolves without a trace of fear. She pauses occasionally, glancing back at Westover Hall, now completely dark and looming on the hillside beyond the woods. Her fists clench and unclench at her sides, her jaw tight as if she’s chewing on a thought too bitter to swallow.

The electric tension that usually surrounds Thalia has faded, leaving only the earthy scent of oak and pine. It’s still strong, but there’s a sadness to it, a weight that presses heavily on the air. Melia can feel it even from a distance, the ache of something unresolved.

One of the Hunters approaches, carrying a backpack. She sets it down gently beside Melia before turning to leave. But she freezes mid-step, her head tilting slightly as the scent of oceans and storms—a smell as distinct as the scent all Hunters carry—reaches her nose. Her eyes widen, and she speaks softly in a voice that carries a musical lilt, her words flowing like a song in ancient Greek.

“Lysianassa?”

Melia’s head lifts slowly, a small, bittersweet smile gracing her lips. “Kallirrhoe,” she replies, her voice gentle but laden with the weight of memory.

The Hunter’s expression shifts to shock, her seafoam-green eyes shimmering in the firelight. Her features are strikingly similar to Melia’s own, as all children of the sea tend to share certain qualities. Kallirrhoe’s skin carries a faint iridescence, as though she’s been kissed by the light reflecting off the waves. Her long, wavy hair is the deep blue of the ocean at twilight, streaked with silver like crests of foam catching the moonlight. Scales glimmer along the sides of her neck and at her wrists, their delicate patterns shifting subtly as the firelight dances across her skin. Her voice trembles when she speaks again, disbelief mixing with a tentative joy.

“You…you remember…” she stammers.

Melia nods, shifting slightly to sit straighter despite the ache in her side. “My life in Ithaca, yeah. My second life…not everything, though. It’s like something’s holding parts of it back.” Her eyes soften as she meets Kallirrhoe’s gaze. “But I remember you.”

Kallirrhoe sinks down to her knees beside Melia, her hands trembling as she clasps them together. Her usual composure as a Hunter seems to falter, revealing a raw vulnerability that Melia has rarely seen in the Hunt’s disciplined ranks. “I never thought…after so many years, I never thought anyone would remember me from back then,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “You were…you were my friend.”

Melia’s smile grows warmer, though a flicker of guilt passes through her eyes. “We didn’t get much time, did we? Between your duties with the Hunt and everything on Ithaca…” She trails off, the unspoken grief of lost time hanging in the air between them.

“I missed you,” Kallirrhoe admits, her voice breaking. “When the war came, I wanted to return, but…I couldn’t. I had my duty to the Hunt. You had your duty to Ithaca.” Her sea-green eyes glisten with unshed tears as she adds, “But I never forgot you. Not for a single moment.”

Melia places a hand gently on Kallirrhoe’s shoulder, her touch light but grounding. “And I’ll never forget you. Even if the memories come back in pieces, you’re a part of me. You always have been.”

Kallirrhoe’s shoulders shake slightly, but she manages a small, wavering smile. “You sound just like her. Like the Lysianassa I knew. Brave and kind and…so full of life.”

Melia’s hand tightens briefly before letting go. “Maybe because she’s still in here,” she says softly, tapping her chest. “But I’m Melia now. I’ve had lifetimes to grow into someone else. And you…you’re still you, but different. Stronger.”

Kallirrhoe chuckles wetly, brushing a hand against her cheek to catch a stray tear. “The Hunt does that to us. Changes us. But…sometimes I wonder what I’ve lost, too.” She glances toward the other Hunters, who move with precision and confidence as they finish setting up camp, then back at Melia. “Do you think we…will ever have the chance to truly know each other again?”

Melia looks into her eyes, seeing both the girl she knew in Ithaca and the Hunter she’s become. “Maybe. Maybe not in the same way. But we’re here now, aren’t we? That’s a start.”

Kallirrhoe nods, her smile steadier now, though her eyes still shimmer. “It is. And it’s more than I ever hoped for.”

They sit together in silence for a while, the fire crackling between them. The wolves pass by occasionally, their white coats brushing against Kallirrhoe’s knees as if sensing her need for comfort. Above them, the stars emerge one by one, their light piercing through the thinning clouds. The peace feels fragile, but for now, it holds.

Saffron and rose water drift closer, carried on a cool, ethereal breeze.

“Melia Jackson.”

Zoë Nightshade stands before her, her dark brown eyes intense and a slightly upturned nose giving her an air of quiet elegance. With her silver circlet and proud expression, she looks every bit like the leader of Artemis’s Hunters.

“Come with me,” she says. “Lady Artemis wishes to speak with thee.”

Melia stiffly gets up, her side still sore, and follows her to the largest tent. The scent of saffron deepens as they step inside.

Bianca is already seated next to Artemis, looking more at ease than she has at any point that evening. The firelight plays gently across her features, and Melia feels a pang of conflicting emotions—the strange distance that remains between them, and the lingering hope that she can protect Bianca, no matter what decisions lie ahead.

The smell of asphodels, lilies, and sea salt begins to tinge with something else, something subtle but unmistakable.

The interior of the tent is warm and comfortable. Silk rugs and pillows cover the floor. At the centre, a golden brazier burns with a steady flame that produces no smoke. Behind Artemis, on a polished oak display stand, rests her massive silver bow, its design carved to mimic the elegant curve of gazelle horns. The walls are adorned with animal pelts: black bear, tiger, and others Melia doesn’t recognize.

Beside Artemis sits a living deer, its glittering fur and silver horns shimmering like moonlight incarnate. Its head rests contentedly in the goddess’s lap as she idly strokes its flank.

“Join us, Melia Jackson,” Artemis says, her voice both commanding and serene.

Melia slowly lowers herself onto the silk-covered floor across from the goddess, her movements deliberate as she tries to mask the discomfort in her side. Artemis studies her with an intensity that misses nothing, her sharp gaze dissecting every detail.

“Lady Artemis,” Melia begins in ancient Greek, her tone formal, the words flowing with ease. She switches to English, her tongue clumsy after the elegance of her first words. “It has been too long since we have actually spoken.”

Artemis’s brow raises slightly, the only indication of her surprise, while Zoë lets out a soft gasp. The Hunter’s eyes flicker with a hint of astonishment. “I had heard rumours that the Princess of Ithaca had followed her father’s trail through the Sea of Monsters.”

Melia nods, her expression steady. “It is true.”

Artemis inclines her head, acknowledging the statement without further comment. “At any rate, Melia, I’ve asked you here so that you might tell me more of the manticore. Bianca has reported some of the…disturbing things the monster said. But she may not have understood them fully. I would like to hear them from you.”

Melia recounts everything Thorn had revealed, her voice measured as she relays the details. She keeps her eyes on Artemis, watching the goddess’s expression carefully.

When she finishes, Artemis places her hand on her silver bow, her fingers trailing over its surface thoughtfully. “I feared this was the answer,” she murmurs.

Zoë leans forward, her expression taut. “The scent, my lady?”

“Yes.”

“Scent?” Melia asks, her brow furrowing.

“Things are stirring that I have not hunted in millennia,” Artemis says, her voice distant, as if recalling long-buried memories. “Prey so ancient I have nearly forgotten their existence.”

Her gaze sharpens, pinning Melia in place. “We came here tonight sensing the manticore, but he was not the one I seek. Tell me again, exactly, what Thorn said.”

Melia hesitates, sifting through the monster’s words in her mind. “He said…somebody called the General was going to explain things to me.”

Zoë’s face pales, her hands clenching tightly. Melia frowns, her mind racing as she studies Zoë’s reaction. The sharp fear and tension in Zoë’s expression ignite a spark of recognition in Melia. There’s only one person who could provoke such a visceral response from Zoë. Could it be him? The thought churns uneasily in her gut. Before she can ask, Zoë turns to Artemis, beginning to speak, but Artemis raises her hand to silence her.

“Go on, Melia,” the goddess says.

“Thorn was talking about the Great Stirring,” Melia continues. “He said, ‘Soon we shall have the most important monster of all—the one that shall bring about the downfall of Olympus.’”

Artemis becomes so still she could be mistaken for a statue. The brazier’s golden light reflects off her silver antlers, casting faint, flickering shadows on the tent walls.

“What…” she finally says, her voice faint and strained, “what creature does he mean?”

Artemis shakes her head slowly, her expression dark. “I’ve been too slow to see the signs,” she murmurs. “I must hunt this monster.”

Zoë looks as though she is holding back fear, her jaw tight as she nods. “We will leave right away, my lady.”

“No, Zoë. I must do this alone.”

“But, Artemis—”

“This task is too dangerous even for the Hunters. You know where I must start my search. You cannot go there with me.”

Zoë’s face falls, but she bows her head in acquiescence. “As…as you wish, my lady.”

Artemis’s form seems to flicker, her presence growing heavier, more divine. “I will find this creature,” she vows. “And I shall bring it back to Olympus by the winter solstice. It will be all the proof I need to convince the Council of the Gods of how much danger we are in.”

“You mean convince Mr. If-I-Can’t-See-It-Then-It-Doesn’t-Exist,” Melia mutters. Then, louder, she adds, “You know what the monster is?”

Artemis’s grip tightens on her bow. “Let us pray I am wrong.”

Melia tilts her head. “Can goddesses pray?” she asks before she can stop herself.

The question hangs in the air, startlingly sincere.

Artemis’s lips quirk slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Even immortals, Melia Jackson,” she says, “must hope.”

“Before I go, Melia Jackson, I have a small task for you. I want you to escort the Hunters back to Camp Half-Blood. They can stay there in safety until I return.”

“What?” Zoë blurts out. “But, Artemis, we hate that place. The last time we stayed there—”

“Yes, I know,” Artemis interrupts. “But I’m sure Dionysus will not hold a grudge just because of a little, ah, misunderstanding. It’s your right to use Cabin Eight whenever you are in need. Besides, I hear they rebuilt the cabins you burned down.”

“Dionysus might not hold a grudge,” Melia mutters, “but the other campers sure do.”

Artemis looks at her and frowns.

“You’re not very…well liked at camp,” Melia says carefully, hating how the Hunters are seen by many at Camp Half-Blood. Her memories from Ithaca and her life between only deepen her frustration. “Your Hunters haven’t left very good impressions. Excuse me for saying it but…there’s a reason you rarely receive offerings from campers, even from the girls.”

Artemis’s frown deepens. She turns to Zoë with a sharp, stern look.

Zoë ducks her head, muttering something inaudible about foolish campers.

“It would seem I need to have a word with my Hunters before I go,” Artemis says, her tone icy. “But there is one last decision to make.” She turns her gaze to Bianca. “Have you made up your mind, my girl?”

The tension in the air thickens. Melia can feel it like a storm brewing on the horizon. Asphodels and lilies war with a forest, their scents twisting as though battling for dominance.

Bianca hesitates, her brow furrowing as she glances at Melia, searching her face for something unspoken. “I’m still thinking about it.”

Artemis nods slowly, her silver eyes gleaming as they shift between Bianca and Melia. “If you are ready, simply ask Zoë what you must do. Know that I will accept your pledge the moment it is said.”

Bianca exhales quietly, a near-silent sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she says. “I…I will.”

“Good,” Artemis replies, her voice carrying finality. “Now both of you, go. Dawn is approaching. Zoë, break camp. You must get to Long Island quickly and safely. I shall summon a ride from my brother.”

Zoë’s expression sours, but she nods and gestures for Bianca to follow her. The younger girl hesitates for a moment, casting another glance back at Melia before leaving.

Once they’re gone, Melia turns back to the goddess. “A ride from your brother, huh?”

Artemis’s lips quirk slightly, the faintest hint of amusement softening her expression. “Yes. It’s time for you to meet my rather chaotic brother, again.”

As the Hunters work swiftly to break camp, Melia forces down some ambrosia Artemis had shoved her way earlier. It had dealt with the lingering poison, but swallowing it had been like choking down dry cardboard.

Artemis stands at the edge of the clearing, staring into the east as if waiting for something. Her expression is pensive, distant. Finally, she sighs softly and speaks, her voice low and thoughtful. “I would offer you a place in the Hunt like I have done twice before, but I can feel the threads of Fate around you and Bianca. Hers don’t hold her as tightly as yours do.”

Melia tilts her head slightly, her expression guarded. “Thank you for the consideration either way,” she says carefully. “I’m not sure what my answer would be if you did ask.” Her gaze shifts toward Bianca, who has returned to Nico’s side. The siblings are speaking quietly in Italian, their connection palpable.

Artemis watches Melia’s line of sight, her own gaze softening just a fraction. “Every time I have known that to get one of you, I must get you both,” she says. “Even the first time, you were tied together. The first time I offered, war prevented you. The second time, it was duty that kept you. And now, Fate keeps you.”

Her form shimmers faintly, her divine presence momentarily more pronounced. For a fleeting moment, her appearance shifts: her silver eyes gleam with a deeper, cooler light, and her posture gains an air of unyielding focus, like a hunter who never misses her mark. The wild energy of the Hunt sharpens, becoming something more disciplined yet still primal, imbued with a silent, calculated ferocity. The image fades just as quickly, leaving the goddess as she was before, her presence no less commanding.

Melia looks back at her, her voice quiet but firm. “It’s not just Fate, you know. It’s choice, too. Even if the threads pull tight, it’s still my choice to follow them.”

Artemis studies her for a long moment, her silver eyes piercing. “Then let us hope, Melia Jackson, that your choices lead you to where you need to be.”

Artemis steps away slightly as Thalia and Grover approach, huddling close to hear what had happened in Melia’s audience with the goddess.

“What did she say?” Thalia demands.

Melia explains what Artemis had tasked her with.

Grover turns pale. “The last time the Hunters visited camp, it didn’t go well.”

“I mentioned that,” Melia says. “She said she’d speak with them, but I’m not sure if it’ll do anything.”

“At least Bianca hasn’t joined them,” Thalia says, her tone heavy with disgust. “It’s all Zoë’s fault. That stuck-up, no good—”

Melia’s gaze sharpens as she cuts Thalia off with a low growl. The sound is feral, instinctive, and it silences Thalia mid-sentence.

“Don’t,” Melia says firmly. “You don’t have to like them, but you will respect them. They’ve been fighting monsters longer than any of us—and they’ve lost just as much as we have.”

Thalia makes a disgusted noise but doesn’t argue further, though her expression remains stormy.

“Who can blame her?” Grover asks, trying to lighten the mood. “Eternity with Artemis?” He heaves a big, dramatic sigh.

Thalia rolls her eyes. “You satyrs. You’re all in love with Artemis. Don’t you get that she’ll never love you back?”

“But she’s so…into nature,” Grover swoons, his eyes dreamy.

“You’re nuts,” Thalia mutters.

Melia snorts softly, the tension easing. “Nuts and berries,” Grover says, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “Yeah.”

“Less on the berries,” Melia quips, her tone wry. “How about blood?”

Grover startles, blinking rapidly. Across from them, Artemis tilts her head slightly, her silver eyes glittering with faint amusement. Her lips twitch as though holding back a smile.

Finally, the sky begins to lighten. Artemis mutters, “About time. He’s so-o-o lazy during the winter.”

“I feel that,” Melia mutters back. “Snow? Cold? Leave me indoors or underwater and go away.”

For a fleeting moment, it almost sounds like the goddess is laughing.

There’s a sudden burst of light on the horizon. A wave of warmth and the rich scent of honey and bay laurels washes over them.

“Don’t look,” Artemis advises. “Not until he parks.”

Melia averts her eyes, noticing that the others are doing the same. The light and warmth intensify, becoming almost divine in its radiance. Then, just as suddenly, the light fades, leaving the air charged with anticipation.

There, just a few feet from Melia, is a red convertible Maserati Spyder. The car glows with heat, its metal so hot that it has melted a perfect circle into the snow around it, steam rising in faint curls.

The driver steps out, his smile wide and blinding. He looks about seventeen or eighteen, and for a fleeting second, Melia sees Luke—the sandy hair, the outdoorsy good looks. But then the feeling vanishes, because this god isn’t Luke at all. There’s a brightness to his smile, a playful sharpness that feels both inviting and dangerous.

He’s dressed casually in jeans, loafers, and a sleeveless T-shirt. The smell around him is overwhelming: honey and herbs, bay laurels and snakes—a wild mix barely contained. His energy radiates like the warmth of the car he steps from.

Thalia hums softly, her interest barely concealed.

“Little sister!” Apollo calls out. If his teeth were any whiter, they might have blinded everyone even without the sun car. “What’s up? You never call. You never write. I was getting worried!”

Artemis sighs heavily. “I’m fine, Apollo. And we both know I was born first, little brother. By seven days, in fact.”

Apollo’s grin sweetens, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yes, I know, but I was quite referring to your height.”

Artemis grumbles something under her breath, and Melia has to stifle a snicker.

“So, what’s up?” Apollo asks, his gaze sliding over the group. “Got the girls with you, I see. A few others…” His eyes land on Melia, trailing down and locking onto hers.

His eyes shift. They’re a wildflower blue at first, soft and inviting, but then they brighten, shot through with molten gold. The gold overtakes his pupils, spreading to the edges of his irises, as if his eyes are filling with golden tears that never fall. It’s almost too much to look at; the brightness radiates heat and power.

Apollo’s horns, mirroring Artemis’s, spiral gracefully from his head, though his are gold, tipped with silver. A laurel wreath of vibrant green and gold sits atop his curls, radiating light and dripping tiny, sparkling chains of lapis lazuli teardrops. His hair is long and golden, and a sheer cream veil attached to the laurel crown cascades down his back like sunlight through mist. He wears a short cream chiton fastened with a bow-shaped pin on one shoulder and a deep orange himation embroidered with constellations in gold thread.

Soft green scales glitter along his arms, catching the firelight. His nails are sharp and curved like Thalia’s, though shorter, and dipped in red, chalky as if coated with crushed herbs.

“How wonderful!” Apollo exclaims, his voice as bright as the morning sun. When he smiles again, his teeth are sharp, wolf-like. “How exciting! Come, sister, I feel a haiku coming on.”

The Hunters groan in unison, clearly familiar with this routine.

Artemis does not smile, but her eyes glint with the same amusement Apollo’s hold.

“Green grass breaks through snow. Artemis pleads for my help. I am so cool.”

He grins at the group, clearly expecting applause.

“That last line was only four syllables,” Artemis points out dryly.

Apollo frowns, his radiant glow dimming slightly. “Was it?”

Melia watches the exchange like a tennis match, unable to stop her own lips from twitching in amusement.

“Yes,” Artemis says. “What about I am so big-headed?”

“No, no, that’s six syllables. Hmm.” Apollo begins muttering to himself, counting syllables under his breath.

Zoë turns to the others, her expression one of long-suffering patience. “Lord Apollo has been going through this haiku phase ever since he visited Japan. ’Tis not as bad as the time he visited Limerick. If I’d had to hear one more poem that started with, There once was a goddess from Sparta—”

“How about I am so awesome?” Melia suggests, her voice tinged with sarcasm.

Apollo gasps in delight. “Yes! That’s five syllables! How perfect!”

He bows dramatically, clearly pleased with himself.

Just because she can, Melia claps for him.

Thalia slaps her hands down, but Apollo preens all the same.

“And now, sis,” Apollo says, straightening. “Transportation for the Hunters, I presume? Good timing, I was just about ready to roll.”

“These demigods will also need a ride,” Artemis says, gesturing toward the group. “Some of Chiron’s campers.”

“No problem!” Apollo replies, his gaze sliding over each of them. “Let’s see…Thalia, right? I’ve heard all about you.”

Oh, Melia would definitely be teasing her about this later.

“A new half-sibling. Hm, still shaking off the effects of the tree?”

Thalia pales, her eyes narrowing. “How did you—”