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Chapter Text

The forest was quiet.  

Not the kind of quiet that meant stillness—but the kind that meant waiting.  

Sally stopped just short of the invisible line between worlds. Percy felt it too. The air ahead had thickened—soft and slow, like molasses. Like dream-stuff trying to decide whether to let him in... or spit him back out.  

Sally turned to him and gently brushed a wind-curled strand from his forehead.  

“Be polite,” she said. “Don’t tell anyone your father’s name until he claims you. Do not antagonize Zeus unnecessarily.”  

Percy sighed. “I know. Breathe, ground, reality is soft, don’t shout in divine languages unless cornered by something with scales or unreasonable legal authority.”  

Sally kissed the crown of his head. “Good boy.”  

He clutched his bag tighter. Wings twitching just under the surface. Heart just a little fast.  

Then he stepped forward—into the wards.  

The magic met him like fog made of maybe. It coiled around his arms, ran ghost fingers through his curls, tugged gently at the seams of his self like it couldn’t quite decide what he was. Mortal? Godling? Something else entirely?  

It pulsed.  

Hesitated.  

Then let him through.  

Percy exhaled.  

And promptly got startled by a centaur.  

“Ah—Percy,” said Chiron, already standing at the edge of the ward line like a man bracing for divine paperwork. “Your mother called ahead. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood.”  

Percy tilted his head. “Hi, Mr. Burner. It’s been a while.”  

Chiron blinked. “Here, I’m called Chiron, Percy.”  

“Sorry. Old habit.” Percy shrugged. “You still smell like hay and chalk.”  

Chiron gave him a look of polite exhaustion, then turned to lead him toward the Big House, hooves clicking against the flagstones like he was mentally assembling a crisis response team.  

The Big House smelled like lemonade, sunscreen, and several decades of unresolved divine trauma.  

“Ah,” said Mr. D, behind a game of solitary pinochle. “Another small demigod doomed to early tragedy. Welcome. Try not to destroy anything before dinner.”  

Percy blinked. “Hi.”  

Mr. D gave him a squinty look. His gaze lingered. “You look familiar.”  

Chiron shifted with a nervous flick of his tail. “He’s only just arrived, Mr. D—”  

“Mmm,” Mr. D said. “Reminds me of a different kind of headache.”  

Chiron sighed like a man whose internal serenity had packed its bags.  

“He’s likely tired.”  

“It’s noon,” Mr. D replied flatly.  

“Still,” Chiron said—too quickly. “Best to get him settled. I’ll have someone show him to Hermes cabin.”  

Just as Percy opened his mouth—  

“Luke!” Chiron called over his shoulder.  

A tall boy turned mid-step, raising an eyebrow.  

“This is Percy. Could you show our new camper around?”  

Before Luke could reply, Chiron was already trotting away.  

“Anxiety,” he muttered. “Breathing exercises. Panic ward protocols. Olympus help me.”  

Luke blinked after him, then turned to Percy.  

“So,” he said, still absorbing whatever just happened. “You’re new to all this?”  

Percy, very tired, very done, and not yet unpacked, simply replied: “Depends who you ask.”  

Luke laughed.  

And led him toward the cabins.  

The first thing Percy noticed about Camp Half-Blood was that it was loud.  

Not monster-fight loud. 
Not subway-at-rush-hour loud. 

Just… people loud.  

Too many heartbeats. Too many conversations happening at once. Footsteps, laughter, metal clanging on metal, someone yelling about a minotaur and a faint layer of magical interference that buzzed at the edge of his senses like bad radio static.  

By the time they reached the cabins, Percy was already chewing the inside of his cheek and clutching his seahorse charm like a grounding stone.  

And he was still mad about the Winchester thing.  

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

A few days earlier  

The treehouse swayed slightly in the summer breeze, high in the arms of Zach’s ancient willow. Late sunlight poured through the slats in golden streaks, catching the corners of snack wrappers and a glitter-covered map of “The Nearby Constellations According to Lila.” The walls smelled like cedar and wild ideas.  

Percy sat near the corner. Lila was sprawled upside down on a beanbag, legs flopped over the side like a lizard sunbathing after an existential crisis.  

Zach and Sadie were playing cards with no discernible rules, and definitely no intention of finishing the game.  

“Wait, wait, wait,” Lila said, flipping her head upright with a dramatic fwump. “You’re going to be gone the whole summer?”  

Percy nodded, arms crossed. “Apparently, I’m too young for interdimensional flights and my mom and uncle have to ‘deal with the Winchester situation.’”  

Zach looked up from the game “Winchester like… the rifle?”  

“Could be a town. Might be a demonic convergence. Honestly, they were evasive. All I know is, I can’t go with them”  

“Could be all of those,” Sadie muttered. “Winchester is definitely cursed. Name just sounds like someone forgot to bury a grudge.”  

Percy continued, “Anyway, since I can’t stay home alone while they’re doing celestial damage control, it’s summer camp for me.”  

Zach frowned. “You could stay with us. You know my grandma adores you. She still thinks you’re an angel that fell into her tomato garden on purpose.”  

“Not really,” Percy said, shrugging. “She’d want to talk to my mom. And I can’t exactly tell her, ‘Oh, she’s out of this dimension right now, fighting ancient metaphysical gun energy, leave a message after the trumpets’ Too much trouble.”  

Sadie tilted her head. “So... we won’t be able to talk all summer?”  

Percy grinned and reached into the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out his phone like a magician revealing a prized artifact. “What do you take me for? A savage?”  

He handed it to Zach, who examined it with reverence.  

“I convinced Uncle Gabe to enchant it,” Percy continued proudly. “It gets signal through any ward and doesn’t need charging. It draws energy from atmospheric awe. Or maybe divine sarcasm. The enchantment was... vague. And the only people who can track it are my mom and uncle, that was non-negotiable for mom to allow it”  

Zach’s jaw dropped. “Dude. That’s so cool. I’m totally copying this when you get back.”  

“Bet you five bucks your phone catches fire,” Sadie said, still playing cards without looking.  

“Bet you ten mine turns into a duck,” Lila added.  

Percy smiled, tucking the phone back in his hoodie. “So no matter where I am, signal or not, you can text me. Or send memes. Or summon me with the power of friendship and passive-aggressive emoji spam, I’m counting on you to keep me sane, otherwise I’m stuck at Greek LARPing Camp with no memes and a bunch of very dramatic sword people.”  

Lila flopped backward again. “Still not fair. Summer without you feels out of balance. Like toast without jam. Or spellwork without glitter.”  

Zach nodded solemnly. “Yeah, or like—like a robot with no chaos module.”  

Sadie raised an eyebrow. “I’ll live. Barely.”  

Percy looked around at them—the soft shadows in the treehouse, the quiet light of early twilight, the way Zach’s blueprints glowed faintly on the shelf, the way Lila’s sketchbook curled at the edges like it had absorbed a hundred small miracles.  

He breathed in. The cedar. The starlight. His people.  

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “You’ve got each other. And I’ll be back before you can finish one of Zach’s overengineered trebuchets.”  

Zach muttered, “You say ‘overengineered’ like it’s a flaw.”  

Lila rolled onto her stomach and groaned. “You’re going to make friends. Accidentally. You always do.”  

Sadie gave a curt nod. “Try not to trigger any minor prophecies.”  

Zach looked thoughtful. “Don’t enchant any plumbing. Unless it’s a tactical advantage.”  

Percy glanced at them all. “I’m serious. You have to keep me grounded. Send updates. Memes. News. Lies. I don’t care. I need weirdness. I need you.”  

Lila sat up and leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder. “You’ll be okay, Sea Nerd. You always are.”  

Sadie smirked. “You’re going to destroy their whole concept of subtlety, aren’t you?”  

Percy grinned. “I’d never dream of it.”  

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Luke stopped in front of the Hermes cabin, offering a crooked grin.  

“Until your godly parent claims you, you bunk here. Hermes takes all the unclaimed kids. It’s a little… cramped, but everyone’s chill.”  

“Cramped,” Percy repeated, voice flat.  

“Yeah, but we make it work. Good energy, lots of jokes. You’ll be fine.”  

Then Luke slid open the door.  

And Percy immediately began to shut down.  

It wasn’t that the room was messy. He could handle messy.  

It was the chaos.  

There were so many people. 
Most were asleep, curled up on mats and makeshift nests. 
Some were arguing about toothpaste. 
Someone in the back was trying to enchant their sock drawer. 
The smell was like a locker room had cried. 

Percy’s stomach twisted.  

His fingers tingled.  

His head got that cottony pressure feeling that always came right before something weird happened.  

He reached for his charm. Too late.  

Thrum.  

The ward around the cabin stuttered.  

He took a step back.  

Breathed in. 
Then looked at Luke and said, perfectly calm: 

“Yeah, sorry. That won’t work for me.”  

He raised his hand and...snaped  

It wasn’t loud.  

Just… final.  

Like flipping a page.  

Like the cabin had been holding its breath and finally remembered how to exhale.  

The walls shimmered.  

The floor rippled.  

And then, suddenly—  

The Hermes cabin was new.  

A spacious dorm layout that would make the fanciest boarding school weep with envy, softly glowing string lights overhead, beds, not bunks, for everyone, white wood polished and glowing faintly with warmth, a fully stocked sensory corner at the far wall with beanbags, noise-canceling headphones, fidget baskets, and weighted blankets. The air smelled like lavender and cinnamon. The windows opened to ocean breeze.  

Percy turned to Luke, smile shy. “There. That’s better.”  

Then he noticed the room had gone dead quiet.  

All the kids stared at him.  

Mouths open.  

A boy near the back whispered, “Did he snap an IKEA catalogue into reality?”  

“I can turn it back if you want…” Percy offered, lifting his hand again nervously.  

“NO!” 
Every single camper shouted at once. 

The sound was so loud Percy flinched and slapped his hands over his ears on instinct, shrinking a little.  

Luke blinked like someone who had just been hit by a tidal wave.  

He crouched slightly, voice gentle now. “Hey, Percy? Just… who exactly is your divine parent?”  

Percy peeked out from behind his fingers.  

“Oh, no,” he said cheerfully, “I learned this trick from my uncle. On my mom’s side.”  

Luke stared.  

Then sat down.  

Just. Sat.  

One of the kids poked the mattress on their new bed. “It has lumbar support,” she whispered reverently.  

Another kid pressed a wall panel. “The lights dim individually.”  

The cabin began to adjust itself again—someone found a plush beanbag that hadn’t existed before. Another camper opened a mini fridge with sparkling water. A sunlight skylight that wasn’t architecturally possible let in just enough warmth to feel like a hug.  

“Uh,” Luke said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You… sure you’re unclaimed?”  

Percy tilted his head. “Technically? Yes.”  

A beat.  

Then Percy pulled out a packet of seaweed snacks from his bag. “My mom says announcing who your divine parent is before they do it formally is ‘rude and inconsiderate with their culture.’”  

Luke just stared.  

The ceiling gently twinkled overhead with tiny, shifting stars.  

Percy walked quietly to the sensory corner, sat cross-legged, and pulled out a coloring book from his bag. He flipped to a sea monster page and began coloring.  

Luke sat next to him a few minutes later, still a little stunned.  

“So,” Luke said again, trying to shake the stunned silence from his voice, “I’m Luke, by the way.”  

Percy, still curled in his beanbag near the sensory corner, looked up from his coloring page. He capped the sea-green crayon slowly and met Luke’s eyes.  

“I know,” he said simply. “I remember you. Thalia. And Annabeth. From that night you stayed with us.”  

Luke blinked.  

Hard.  

“Wait, wait—”  

Percy just nodded, calm as the tide. “You were tired. Thalia kept sparking when she breathed. Annabeth wouldn’t stop staring at the ceiling because there weren’t any spiders.”  

Luke’s knees went weak. He sank onto the edge of one of the (very new, very supportive) beds.  

“You’re…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re Sally’s kid.”  

“Uh-huh.”  

Luke put his face in his hands for a long, quiet moment. The memory returned in full color now—not a dream, not a fluke, but real.  

A house tucked in impossible peace. 
A woman who felled a cyclops with a knife and didn’t even raise her voice. 
A kitchen that smelled like cinnamon and safety. 
And a small boy who padded into their room with a drum, played three notes that wrapped around nightmares like arms 

Luke pulled his hands away, slowly.  

“That explains so much.”  

Percy blinked.  

He didn’t know what Luke meant exactly—but the tone felt safe. So he nodded again and offered, “You took the biggest cookie and gave it to Annabeth.”  

Luke huffed a laugh. “Yeah. She tried to save it for later.”  

“She didn’t. Loki told her it had a decaying charm.”  

“Loki…” Luke said, dazed. “That guy was glowing.”  

“Uncle Loki glows a lot. He thinks it’s dramatic. It’s not.”  

Luke wheezed.  

Then stood.  

He looked at Percy—not the boy who’d snapped a divine remodel into place, but the quiet, steady center of something very old and very new.  

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said at last, genuinely. “Camp’s better with you in it.”  

Percy smiled. Just a little.  

Then returned to his sea monster.  

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, streaking the sky with the colors of seafoam and promise.  

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

Dinner at Camp Half-Blood was a thing.  

The pavilion shimmered like something out of an old myth reimagined by a very enthusiastic theater kid. Long stone tables, one per godly cabin, overlooked the ocean. Braziers lined the edges, their flames flickering in hues no normal fire should. The smell of food—everything from grilled cheese to ambrosia-laced lamb skewers—wafted through the air with the subtle smugness of a spell that knew it was working.  

And tonight, something felt…off.  

Or rather: better.  

The Hermes cabin arrived to dinner chipper. Unsettlingly chipper.  

Nobody spoke about why.  

Not even when Clarisse narrowed her eyes and muttered, “Why are they smiling like that?”  

Not when Will Solace leaned over and whispered, “Hermes kids don’t hum. Do they hum now?”  

Even Chiron clocked it from across the pavilion, blinking as he watched a group of notoriously sleep-deprived, prank-obsessed teenagers politely pass the bread down the line like they were auditioning for a musical titled Camp: The Redemption Arc.  

Luke sat at the head of the table, noticeably more relaxed than usual.  

And Percy?  

Percy was staring at the fire.  

A golden brazier sat in the center of the pavilion, flames licking toward the sky like they were trying to whisper something in a language older than memory.  

Luke nudged him gently. “You’re supposed to burn a bit of your food. For the gods.”  

Percy blinked. “All of them?”  

“Just your parent, usually. The one who’ll claim you.”  

Percy tilted his head. “Is this… legally binding?”  

Luke choked slightly on his water. “It’s not a contract, kid. It’s more like... a message. A way of saying ‘Hi, I’m alive, please don’t smite me.’”  

Percy considered this. Then picked up a chunk of honeyed cornbread, frowned at it, and stood.  

He walked to the fire with the solemnity of someone approaching an ancient cosmic vending machine.  

And then he sighed—theatrically.  

“Okay. Look,” he said to the flame, just loud enough for the nearest people to hear: “I know you’re busy and is probably watching this whole thing like it’s cable news. Mom told me I’m not allowed to swear in offerings, so consider this: I’ve been exiled to Greek-themed daycare for the summer if I get eaten by a harpy, it’s your fault. Also—hi. Still not dead.”  

He tossed the bread in. It vanished in a curl of seafoam-colored smoke.  

The flames burped.  

Someone from Apollo’s cabin actually clapped.  

Percy turned, grumbling to himself. Then paused.  

Dug into his pocket.  

Took out three carefully wrapped peppermint-chocolate cookies (from the stash Sally had slipped in his bag).  

“Also—” he said, turning back to the brazier, “This one’s for Auntie Hestia. Thanks for the cocoa trick. House still smells like cinnamon.”  

The cookie flared with soft golden fire and the pavilion lights actually dimmed in respect.  

Percy nodded.  

“This is for my definitely not siblings Benthesikyme. And Rhodes. And Triton, who’s probably still upset I beat him at chess. Again.”  

He set the cookies gently on the edge of the fire. The moment it touched flame, it dissolved like sugar, leaving a burst of scent—sea air, coral, and something vaguely like lavender-salted fudge.  

Percy stared at the smoke.  

He returned to the table.  

The Hermes campers stared.  

Then, one by one, very casually, they each got up and made the most elaborate offerings you’ve ever seen.  

A grilled cheese pyramid. A floating mango. One girl offered up what looked like a full plate of tiny cursed pancakes that sang.  

None of them said why.  

None of them acknowledged it.  

But Percy sat back down and found someone had left him the biggest brownie.  

Luke just winked.  

“Welcome to camp, kid.”  

Chapter Text

Chiron had seen many wonders in his long life.  

He had watched the first gods rise from the seafoam. Had taught Heracles, Achilles, and that one kid who turned into a bird halfway through his training and still insisted on trying to use a spear.  

He had survived millennia of divine drama, teenage angst, and monster attacks shaped like horses.  

And yet—  

And yet—  

Nothing, nothing in his immortal experience prepared him for the moment he stepped onto the Camp Half-Blood path and looked toward Cabin Eleven.  

And found it smiling at him.  

It started subtle.  

At first glance, the cabin was the same old rectangular building tucked near the woods, paint always a little scuffed, one shutter always hanging slightly loose.  

Except today—  

The paint glowed warm amber in the early light. 
The shutters had been rehinged and dusted. 
There were window boxes. With lavender and thyme. 
One of the potted marigolds waved. 

Chiron stopped in his tracks.  

Frowned.  

Took a step closer.  

Backed up.  

Then leaned forward and squinted, muttering, “What in Tartarus…”  

The air near the cabin thrummed faintly—not a warning, not a spell—but something older. A blessing. Not Olympian. Not Titan. Something quieter. Like the whole building had sighed out centuries of tension and inhaled peace.  

The first satyr to pass by caught the look on Chiron’s face and nearly dropped his enchanted granola bar.  

“Is he… is Chiron malfunctioning?” the satyr whispered to a dryad nearby.  

“I think he double-taked so hard he reset his own myth.”  

Chiron approached with the cautious reverence one might use near sleeping dragons. Or children with legacy powers, he did not fully understand.  

He raised one hand. 
Pressed it to the wall. 

The cabin purred.  

Purred.  

Chiron yanked his hand back like it had stung him.  

“What in Apollo’s sunburn…”  

He glanced around as if expecting cameras. 
There were none. 
Just sleepy campers blinking awake behind pristine windows. One waved. Another was watering the herb boxes with a watering can. 

Chiron opened the door.  

And promptly forgot how to speak.  

Inside: the once-cramped, often-overwhelmed cabin had become a masterpiece.  

The beds were spaced with perfect symmetry, each one with its own lamp, tuning crystal, and quilt in a different calming hue. The floors were clean—not magically clean, but someone-cares-about-you clean.  

There was a reading nook, complete with a ladder, beanbags, and a collection of books on myth, art, and at least two volumes of graphic novels.  

There was a sensory corner. Chiron’s eyes caught the gentle flicker of enchanted stars on the canopy and the faint sound of trickling water in the background. Three younger campers were curled up there, giggling softly.  

The air smelled like cinnamon, sea salt, and lavender.  

And sitting in the exact center of the room like this wasn’t all completely unthinkable was—  

Percy.  

Twelve years old. 
Curly hair still damp from a morning shower. 
Wearing a Camp Half-Blood shirt two sizes too big. 
Sipping tea from a sea-green mug labeled Not a Threat (Unless Provoked). 

He looked up at Chiron.  

Smiled, wide-eyed and perfectly at ease.  

“Hi.”  

Chiron stepped inside, hooves clicking quietly on the polished floor. He turned in a full circle. Touched the nearest bedframe. Blinked at the gentle music coming from a vine-draped wind chime that shouldn’t have been inside at all.  

“What…” he began softly, then stopped.  

He cleared his throat. “What… exactly… happened here?”  

Then Luke appeared from the hall, looking like he’d just woken from the first actual full night of sleep he’d had in years.  

“Oh hey, Chiron,” Luke yawned. “Percy remodeled.”  

Chiron’s mouth opened and closed once.  

Then again.  

Finally, with the same energy one uses to admit that perhaps the universe just is weird, he sighed and said, “Of course he did.”  

“Is the moss wall too much?” Percy asked suddenly. “My uncle says moss is ‘pretentious’ but I think it’s calming.”  

Chiron blinked.  

“There’s a moss wall?”  

A section of the back room shimmered. A soft emerald green rectangle with living lichen pulsing slowly—like breath.  

“Oh.” Chiron’s voice was very small. “There is.”  

As he backed to leave, still visibly stunned, a drawer opened by itself and passed him a blue sugar cookie. Chiron took it without thinking and exited the cabin like someone walking backward out of a temple they hadn’t meant to pray in.  

Outside, the marigolds waved again.  

He waved back.  

Because manners.  

And later that day, it would be immortalized in camp lore:  

The day Chiron—the immortal centaur, veteran of ten thousand prophecies, master of restraint and calm—double-taked so hard he accidentally invented a new form of magic.  

The Apollo kids wrote a song. 
The Hermes kids' printed t-shirts. 

The title?  

"Respectfully Confused: The Ballad of Cabin Eleven 2.0"  

Chapter Text

The practice arena was warm with early sun. The sand shimmered faintly where the mist hadn’t quite burned off, and the dummies stood like bored spectators in their battered armor.  

Percy stood, training sword in hand, watching Luke with rapt attention. His borrowed bronze blade felt warm. Not alive, exactly, but curious—like it was waiting to see what he’d do.  

Luke rolled his shoulders and adjusted his grip on his own weapon, a well-worn xiphos with a handle wrapped in fraying red leather. He wore no armor, just the classic orange shirt and training pants, scuffed from years of use.  

“All right,” he said, voice calm but brisk. “First lesson: form. Swordplay’s about balance, control. Not about strength. Think flow, not force.”  

Percy nodded.  

Luke stepped behind him and gently corrected the angle of his elbow, the position of his hips. “You don’t want your stance too wide. You’re not bracing for an earthquake. You want to move. Light feet. You’re a dancer, not a tree.”  

Percy blinked. “I’m not really a dancer.”  

“You are now.”  

They worked through the warm-up sequences: footwork, directional parries, a few half-speed strikes. Percy followed the steps precisely. Thoughtfully. But with a strange undercurrent of... restraint. Like he was holding something back.  

Luke circled him, watching. “Good. You’re quick. Don’t muscle the blade—let it speak. You’re guiding it, not dragging it.”  

“I like that,” Percy murmured. “Let it speak.”  

Luke grinned. “Exactly. Now, let’s try a simple spar. No pressure. Just flow.”  

They circled. Luke took the lead—testing, not aggressive. A probing strike. A twist. A faint feint.  

Percy flowed like water. Sidestepped cleanly. Parried without hesitation.  

Luke raised an eyebrow.  

He feinted left, spun, and swung—controlled, measured.  

Percy blocked. Ducked. Slid in, moved faster than he should’ve.  

The next moment, Luke’s sword hit the sand. And so did Luke.  

Flat on his back. Breathless.  

Percy stood blinking down at him, still holding his blade lightly, almost sheepish.  

Luke stared at the sky for a full two seconds.  

Percy shifted on his feet. “Was that... too fast? I thought we were doing a real pass.”  

Luke exhaled slowly. “Oh, we were.”  

Percy frowned. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”  

He hesitated, then added, awkward and honest: “Would now be a good time to mention that my mom and uncle started training me in combat when I was nine?”  

Luke groaned.  

Sat up. Ran a hand through his hair, now full of sand and something that might’ve been mild existential dread.  

“You could have opened with that, Percy.”  

Percy looked mortified. “I didn’t want to be rude. You were really focused explaining and I don’t like when people interrupt me when I’m focusing and you seemed really in a rhythm and I thought—”  

He broke off, fidgeting with the little seahorse charm at his neck, eyes going vaguely distant.  

Luke stared at him, then huffed a laugh and waved a hand. “It’s okay, Percy.”  

The kid looked up. Surprised. “Really?”  

Luke picked up his sword, dusting it off. “I’ve worked with ADHD demigods who mistake the word ‘duel’ for ‘hit everything with a stick until it’s on fire.’ You—” he pointed the sword at Percy, “—are not that.”  

Percy smiled, shy and small. “You don’t seem mad.”  

Luke smiled back, slower. “Oh, I’m mad. But mostly at my own ego.”  

He stood and stretched, wincing slightly. “You hit hard.”  

Percy shrugged. “Kinda runs in the family.”  

“Do not say that where Zeus can hear you.”  

“Duly noted.”  

Luke sheathed his sword. “All right. Let’s call it a warm-up. Next time, you teach me your warm-up.”  

Percy blinked. “You want me to teach you?”  

Luke grinned. “You earned it. That spin move—your mom teach you that?”  

“Yeah. She called it ‘kiss-and-scatter.’ Said if you’re close enough to kiss, you’re close enough to make them regret it.”  

Luke wheezed. “Remind me never to date anyone in your family.”  

Percy nodded gravely. “That would be wise.”  

Behind the watching crowd, Chiron stood with his clipboard and his emergency med kit, sighing heavily into his mane.  

“By the gods,” he muttered, “I’m going to need stronger anxiety wards.”  

Later, Percy and Luke walked back toward the pavilion. The sand crunched under their feet. Luke tossed him a water bottle.  

“You did good, Kid.”  

Percy unscrewed the cap. “I liked training.”  

Luke glanced sideways at him.  

“Me too,” he said quietly.  

Far above them, the sun burned gold across the pine-swept sky, and the Camp settled back into its usual, quietly mythic hum.  

Somewhere, a satyr set something on fire.  

It was a good day.  

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

By the time Luke limped back to Cabin Eleven, the camp sun had dipped just low enough to cast long gold shadows across the clearing, and his muscles were officially registering a complaint with management.  

His shirt was sweat-damp. His ribs ached in the quiet, sore way that said: Congratulations, you got trounced by a twelve-year-old. He swung open the door and stepped inside, fully expecting chaos.  

Instead, he found something stranger.  

Stillness.  

A whole cabin of kids—not sleeping, not prank-planning, not arguing over toothpaste—just… quietly gathered.  

All of them were sitting in loose circles or sprawled on beds, talking in low voices. Chris had a clipboard. Maya was braiding someone’s hair while sketching a rune diagram in the air with her other hand. There were snacks. Organized snacks. The good granola bars were out.  

Luke blinked. “Did someone hex the air? Why is it so calm in here?”  

Chris looked up, serious. “We’re talking about Percy.”  

Luke blinked. “What, like... talking talking?”  

Jin—perpetual motion machine, chaos incarnate, nine-going-on-eternal—gestured with a juice box. “Group consensus. He’s staying.”  

Luke limped further inside, half-laughing. “Okay, hang on. We don’t even know who his godly parent is yet. He could be Apollo’s, Athena’s, Hecate’s—gods forbid, even Zeus’.”  

He meant it gently. He’d seen this before—kids getting attached. Forming a fast loyalty to someone who, within a week, would get claimed by Demeter or Athena or whoever had just now decided to admit to their celestial mistakes.  

But the Hermes kids didn’t flinch.  

Chris crossed his arms. “Doesn’t matter. Hermes is hospitality. Found family. Mischief with a conscience.”  

“Community,” added Maya.  

“Unsupervised teamwork,” said Jin, already drawing diagrams for potential bunk expansions on a napkin.  

“He redesigned the entire cabin with a snap,” muttered Becka from near the sensory corner. “I don’t care whose blood he’s got. He saw us. Not just the mess. He saw what we needed.”  

There was a soft murmur of agreement.  

“We’ve had a lot of people pass through this cabin,” said Chris, quietly now. “Most come and go. Some barely look at you. But Percy? He made room.”  

“He made beds,” someone added.  

Luke ran a hand through his hair and stared at the ceiling, where little glowing stars still danced faintly from Percy’s earlier adjustment. He couldn’t deny it—the air in the cabin felt easier now. The kind of ease you only got when someone brought gravity to the room in just the right way.  

“Stars,” Luke muttered. “He gave us stars.”  

Chris smirked. “And memory foam mattresses. And extra closet space. And noise filters.”  

Maya leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You saw what happened on the training field, right?”  

Luke groaned. “I was there. He knocked me flat and apologized like I’d stubbed his toe.”  

“Which is adorable,” Becka said. “And terrifying.”  

He sighed, but he was smiling now.  

Luke laughed—tired, aching, and weirdly hopeful.  

“Gods help the next person who tries to move that kid.”  

“Too late,” muttered Becka. “I saw Clarisse watching him after lunch.”  

Half the room groaned.  

Luke flopped back onto his bunk, hands over his face. “We’re going to have to warn her not to spar him unless she wants to get gently dismantled.”  

Becka smirked. “Should we tell her before or after?”  

Maya lifted her stylus and made a note on the blackboard: 
"Clarisse Sparring Pool – 2 Drachmas Buy-In" 

The board shimmered faintly. Everyone threw in.  

Luke leaned back against his pillow and exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “Okay. Let’s just say—for the sake of argument—that you’re right. That Percy is some sort of goodwill demigod who also decorates. What happens when he gets claimed and moves cabins?”  

Chris raised an eyebrow. “We riot.”  

“Politely,” added Maya.  

Jin flipped upside-down over the edge of the bunk and whispered, “Or we build a tunnel.”  

Becka, very dryly: “That’s not suspicious at all.”  

Chris ignored them. “Point is—claimed or not—he belongs here. Because we say so.”  

Luke watched them.  

These were the same kids who’d fought over bunk order last week. Who had enchanted Clarisse’s towel to scream in rhyming iambs. Who once turned a satyr’s flute into a walkie-talkie to eavesdrop on Aphrodite’s cabin gossip hour.  

They were rough-edged and ridiculous.  

And now?  

They’d built a small, wild devotion around one quiet boy who looked at chaos and offered it tea and a beanbag.  

He thought of Percy standing on the training field, sheepishly fidgeting with his seahorse charm.  

Luke sighed. “All right. Fine. But if Zeus finds out and throws a lightning fit—”  

Jin perked up. “We make a lightning rod out of spoons!”  

“Absolutely not,” said Becka.  

Chris turned to the chalkboard and added one more line: 
PERCY STATUS: HERMES-ALIGNED UNTIL OTHERWISE CLAIMED 
CAMP RULES INVOKED: HOSPITALITY, LOYALTY, SNACKS 

At the door, something shimmered.  

Percy stepped in, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists, hair windblown from training, seahorse charm clutched between his fingers. He blinked at the room, clearly sensing the charge in the air.  

“Did I interrupt something?” he asked, half-worried.  

Luke sat up and grinned. “Yeah. A vote.”  

Percy tilted his head. “What kind of vote?”  

Becka handed him a cookie. “The kind that ends with you officially being ours.”  

Percy paused. Blinked.  

Then smiled. Small. Careful. Warm.  

“...Okay,” he said.  

And the room exhaled.  

A dozen mismatched kids. A room full of thieving hearts and scratched-up dreams.  

Later that night, a note was left under Chiron’s office door. 
In glitter pen. 

To whom it may concern,  

Percy Jackson is technically unclaimed, but emotionally adopted by Hermes cabin.  

We have provided snacks, sanctuary, emotional regulation tools, and a list of bedtime story rotations.  

Any divine objections may be filed in triplicate and fed to the campfire.  

Sincerely,  

The Entire Cabin Eleven  

Chapter Text

Hermes was not panicking.  

He was merely having a very controlled, extremely dignified divine moment.  

The moment in question had begun precisely six hours, forty-two minutes, and seventeen seconds ago, when his essence—spread delicately across hundreds of temples, prayer shrines, enchanted post boxes, and one inexplicably sentient vending machine—had hiccupped.  

Not a big hiccup.  

Just… a quake. A ripple. A seismic metaphysical event that tripped every alert in his subconscious like an earthquake inside his spine.  

A pen—a sleek, dragonbone number inscribed with a thousand enchantments—fell from the divine space between time and paperwork, clattered off his desk in the outer suboffice of the Olympian Bureau of Messaging, and split itself in two.  

He didn’t blink. Couldn’t.  

The feeling had hit him mid-signature.   

It radiated out from Camp Half-Blood, surged through the thread of his worship like wildfire through a fiber optic cable.  

His cabin had changed.  

Not been redecorated. Not tagged with graffiti by some minor minor godling with a superiority complex.  

Transformed.  

He staggered back from his desk, wings flaring, sandals skidding on celestial tile.  

“...Oh no.”  

His voice was a whisper. A prayer to himself. A herald’s last breath before the warning trumpet blew.  

His hands trembled.  

Because cabins at Camp Half-Blood were not simply buildings. They were anchors. Small sacred nodes bound by the will of the gods and the identity of their patron. To alter one—to reshape it, down to the spiritual blueprints—was to put fingers directly into a god’s heart.  

And someone just curled up in the center of Hermes’s divine pulse, spun it on its axis, dusted, and added a sensory corner.  

“Oh no no no no no—”  

He vanished from his office with the pop of displaced reality and a faint whiff of paper ash.  

By the time he reassembled his form in the treeline above Cabin Eleven, he was still vibrating. Not metaphorically. Literally.  

His sandals were untied. His coat was inside-out. One of his eyes hadn’t color-adjusted yet, and his heart—his godly, immortal, ineffable heart—was hammering like a woodpecker hopped up on ambrosia.  

The cabin glowed.  

Not shone, not sparkled, not even radiated. It glowed. Warm, content. Like a hearth that had just baked a secret into a loaf of bread and was waiting to see who’d eat it.  

Hermes staggered forward. “Oh no. Oh no no no no—”  

He touched the wall.  

The cabin purred once beneath his fingertips. Like it was saying hi, dad—look, we cleaned!  

Hermes made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a short prayer.  

He stepped inside.  

And the purr turned into welcome home.  

“Oh gods.” Hermes pressed both hands to his face. “I am going to have to report this to myself.”  

Inside, it was worse.  

Or better.  

Or—worse, definitely worse, because someone had restructured a sacred dwelling of his followers into a—into a—  

Into a home. 
The chaotic neutrality of his cabin had been replaced by... emotional regulation. Organization. A muffin-scented force of calm. 

“…what the actual Styx,” Hermes muttered.  

Cabin Eleven had become… pleasant.  

There were plants. Coordinated curtains. A reading corner. Sensory-friendly beanbags. The walls were painted in calming gradients.  

He turned in place.  

Someone sanctified my floorboards with cinnamon and care , Hermes thought hysterically.  

Something buzzed inside his essence. Divine panic. The kind only immortals experienced when faced with the unknowable.  

He clutched a bedpost for balance  

And then his eyes caught on the boy.  

Twelve, maybe. Curled under a sea-green quilt that was definitely handmade, limbs tucked in with unconscious grace. His breathing was even. His curls were mussed. There was a slight shimmer around his aura, like static waiting for instruction.  

Hermes’s breath caught in his throat.  

Because the boy wasn’t just warm. 
He was loud. 

Not with noise—but with meaning. With legacy. With prophecy avoided, rewritten, and turned into soup.  

A child of oceans and questions. Of wings folded under his ribs and something deeper still—something Hermes couldn’t even name.  

And worse—worse than the smell of lavender safety spells, worse than the perfectly tuned emotional harmonics that made the cabin feel like it had forgiveness baked into the walls—was the flavor of the magic itself.  

It tasted like tricks-without-malice.  

Like the rules bent just enough to make someone laugh instead of scream.  

It tasted like—  

“No,” Hermes whispered. “No.”  

Hermes pulled out a golden flip phone, hands shaking, and speed-dialed Apollo.  

“Yo,” came the reply, sleepy and slightly drunk on inspiration. “If this is about the Helios shrine, I swear—”  

“Apollo,” Hermes hissed, “the kid is at camp.”  

Pause.  

“…What kid?”  

“Loki’s.”  

Another pause.  

“...Excuse me?”  

“HE’S IN MY CABIN.” Hermes was whisper-shouting now, pacing in small divine circles. “He remade my temple. There’s a moss wall. The floor tried to give me a back massage.”  

Apollo inhaled sharply. “You’re inside? With him?”  

“He’s asleep. But he’s humming.” Hermes clutched the side of his head. “He’s humming in a frequency that’s rewriting the vibe of the entire eastern ward. I think one of the dryads is writing gratitude poetry.”  

“Okay, okay, calm down,” Apollo said, alarmed. “What’s he done? Has he glitched time? Possessed anyone?”  

“No! He’s reorganized the curtains.”  

Apollo blinked from Olympus. “Wait. Is it… is it nice in there?”  

Hermes collapsed into a sensory-safe beanbag and covered his face. “Apollo, it’s cozy. It’s organized.  

“…and this disturbs you?”  

“I taught my kids to build bombs out of bananas,” Hermes muttered, “and he installed therapeutic moss walls.” Hermes flailed. “HE FIXED MY CABIN.”  

There was a long, long pause.  

Then Apollo asked carefully, “Hermes… do you maybe just… like him?”  

“I do not,” Hermes said firmly. “I want to kick him out. But I can’t. Because the moment I do, I think Cabin Eleven will grow legs and walk after him like a lost puppy.”  

He peeked up. Percy shifted in his sleep. A faint shimmer of silver-blue wing tips flickered into view before curling back under the blanket.  

Hermes clutched the phone.  

Then he asked, very quietly:  

“…Do we have protocol for this?”  

“No,” said Apollo. “But I suggest we get one.”  

Chapter Text

The morning fog hadn’t burned off yet.  

Camp Half-Blood was still in that soft liminal state between breakfast and training—when the sky was pale, the paths smelled of dew and ash from last night’s campfires, and even the most dramatic campers hadn’t started yelling about prophecies or sword stances.  

Percy walked quietly, hands in his hoodie pocket, seahorse charm swinging gently at his chest. His wings were folded deep, his aura dimmed, and he was chewing the last bite of a toasted seaweed bagel.  

He didn’t hear her coming.  

But he felt her.  

Not in a magical sense—though there was something sharply radiant about her aura, like a blade honed by willpower and grief—but in the air-pressure way. Like a room adjusting around someone who didn’t take up space on purpose, but space still moved when she walked through it.  

“Hey.”  

Percy turned.  

Annabeth stood in the middle of the path, arms crossed. The sunlight caught in her curls, and her Camp Half-Blood shirt was neatly tucked like she dared the world to wrinkle her.  

Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you feel familiar?”  

Percy blinked. “I mean, we’re at the same camp—”  

“No.” She stepped forward. “Not that. You feel familiar. The way you talk. The way you move. The way the Hermes cabin is treating you like you’re a crown jewel with performance anxiety.”  

Percy tilted his head. “Oh. That.”  

He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a plastic-wrapped cookie.  

It was blue.  

He held it out.  

Annabeth looked at it like it might explode. “What’s that?”  

“A cookie,” Percy said patiently. “My mom’s. Just like the ones from that night.”  

Annabeth blinked. “…What night?”  

“When you were seven,” Percy said, voice quiet but steady. “You, Luke, and Thalia stayed with us. For one night.”  

Annabeth froze.  

Percy waited.  

He didn’t push.  

He just stood there, cookie in hand, gaze gentle.  

Annabeth’s arms dropped to her sides. “That wasn’t real.”  

“It was,” he said softly. “You slept in the guest room. Luke took the biggest cookie and gave it to you. Thalia kept shorting out the toaster.”  

Annabeth’s eyes narrowed again—but this time, not in suspicion.  

In memory.  

Percy continued, his voice a little quieter now, like someone whispering through mist:  

“My mom made soup and blue cookies. The house smelled like lemongrass and cinnamon. You walked the garden before bed—checked every step, every shadow, like you were bracing for spiders that never came.”  

Annabeth looked like he’d knocked the wind out of her. “There were wind chimes,” she whispered.  

Percy nodded. “And salt lines at the corners. And my mom gave you a pressed flower.”  

He smiled—small, not showy. “She kneeled to your level and told you: ‘You’re allowed to be soft and strong.’ You didn’t answer. But you didn’t give the flower back.”  

Annabeth’s breath hitched.  

She stepped back once, but then stopped. Pressed a fist to her mouth. Her shoulders tensed like they were trying to hold in something they didn’t have language for.  

“I remembered the soup,” she murmured. “And the stars through the window. I thought it was a dream. Just a dream.”  

Percy shook his head. “It was sanctuary. Temporary. But real.”  

Annabeth stared at him.  

Really stared.  

Then she looked at the cookie in his hand, took it, and unwrapped it slowly. She bit into it with a surgeon’s precision.  

Her breath hitched again. “This… this tastes like memory.”  

Percy nodded.  

They stood there in silence for a moment. The path was still. The fog shifting in slow curls like dreamsmoke.  

Then Annabeth asked, voice still wary but a little warmer: “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”  

Percy looked away. “I don’t like surprising people. Or… interrupting. It felt like a fragile thing. I wanted you to remember because you remembered—not because I said so.”  

Annabeth tilted her head. “You’re weird.”  

“I know.”  

“I don’t mean that as an insult.”  

“I know that, too.”  

Her voice was quieter now. “You really remember?”  

“I remember everything,” Percy said. “Especially how my mom knelt in front of you before bed. She gave you a flower. Pressed. Yellow. I think it was a calendula.”  

Annabeth’s fingers twitched.  

Percy’s voice softened. “She told you, ‘You’re allowed to be soft and strong.’”  

She flinched slightly. That one landed.  

Then she crossed her arms again—but this time, it was more of a self-hug. A bracing.  

“I don’t usually like people who try to get close too fast.”  

“I don’t usually try to get close at all,” Percy said. “But I remember you. So that felt different.”  

She squinted at him. “Are you trying to manipulate me?”  

Percy blinked. “No? I’m just offering cookies and emotional validation. Which I was told was socially acceptable.”  

Annabeth laughed once—short, surprised. Then muffled it with her hand.  

“You’re going to wreck someone’s equilibrium,” she muttered.  

Percy kicked a stone. “It’s not on purpose.”  

Annabeth stared at him again, then finally said, “Okay. We’re not friends.”  

Percy nodded. “Fair.”  

“But we’re not strangers.”  

“No,” he agreed. “Not really.”  

She turned to walk away, then stopped and looked back.  

“Thanks,” she said. “For the memory. And the cookie.”  

He smiled again, quietly. “You’re welcome.”  

Annabeth took three steps away.  

Paused.  

Percy watched her go, already turning back toward the Hermes cabin—his stride calm, hands tucked into his hoodie sleeves, like he hadn’t just disarmed one of the sharpest campers in the whole god-infested place with little more than memory, kindness, and a cookie.  

But then he hesitated, just slightly. The kind of pause that didn’t draw attention unless you were looking.  

“…Hey,” Percy called after her. Not loud. Just enough to float through the morning.  

Annabeth turned, curious. Guarded again. Just a little.  

Percy cleared his throat, scuffing one shoe against the path. “I heard you run the afternoon arts and crafts sessions sometimes. The weaving stuff?”  

Annabeth raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. What about it?”  

“I was wondering if… I mean, no pressure, but…” He fidgeted, rubbing the edge of his seahorse charm between two fingers. “Would it be okay if I joined today? I used to do a lot of loom work back at school. It… helps.”  

Annabeth blinked.  

Percy rushed to clarify. “I know it’s mostly for Athena kids, and it’s fine if it’s like a thing, I’m just—sometimes when my brain gets crowded, weaving helps it feel less... jagged. And I’m really good at knots.” He shrugged, then added a bit more quietly, “I don’t always want to talk out loud. But I can follow patterns.”  

Annabeth watched him. Really watched him.  

Not like he was a mystery to solve. Not like a puzzle with an answer.  

Just a person.  

A person who chooses his words slowly. Who softened instead of pushed. Who asked instead of assumed.  

“…Yeah,” she said finally. “Yeah, you can come.”  

Percy smiled. Small. Grateful. “Cool.”  

“We start at two,” she added. “Don’t be late. And if you mess with the yarn inventory, I will revoke your thread privileges.”  

“Understood.” Percy gave a tiny salute. “I’ll bring my own scissors.”  

Annabeth rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of something warmer beneath it. She turned back toward her cabin.  

Percy stood for a moment longer.  

Then he looked down at his charm, turned it over once in his palm, and whispered something only it could hear.  

By the time he reached the Hermes cabin, he was already thinking about color palettes.  

Chapter Text

There were many things Percy Jackson could tolerate.  

Dirt? Fine. 
Rain? Preferred it. 
Sword drills? Therapeutic. 
Breakfast foods after midnight? Absolutely. 

But there was one thing Percy could not stand.  

Shouting.  

Which is why the moment Chiron announced Capture the Flag, Percy’s feathers metaphorically—and literally—ruffled.  

He didn't even wait for the Ares cabin to start their bloodthirsty whooping or for the Hermes kids to start smuggling water balloons filled with glitter potion. He simply walked up to Luke, tugged his sleeve, and said:  

“I’d rather not.”  

Luke blinked. “What, the game?”  

“Too loud,” Percy replied, adjusting the strap of his hoodie. “Too messy. Too many people yelling without purpose.”  

Luke tilted his head. “You sure? You’d be good at it.”  

“I’m not in the mood to cause property damage today.”  

Luke considered that. “Fair. Still—” He unsheathed a practice sword from his belt and handed it over. “Take this anyway. You know. In case someone forgets what the word boundaries mean.”  

Percy took the sword, sighed, and wandered off with his book tucked under one arm and his seahorse charm swinging quietly at his chest.  

Ten minutes later, he was leaning against an ash tree on the edge of the forest, comfortably outside the designated war zone. The noise of the game still carried—battle cries, laughter, and someone from Apollo cabin yelling something about “artistic flag placement”—but it was distant enough.  

He cracked open The Subtle Knife, flipping back a few pages to where he'd left off.  

Will had just met Lyra. The sky over Cittàgazze was split in impossible ways. Percy leaned back into the bark, one leg propped up, and let the story pull him in.  

That lasted approximately six pages.  

The forest got too quiet.  

He looked up.  

Six Ares campers stood in a loose circle around him. Clarisse La Rue led the pack, lip curled, spear casually leaned over her shoulder like a warning.  

“Is this him?” one muttered.  

One of her lieutenants—big, pockmarked, breathing too hard—grunted. “He’s the one the Hermes cabin keeps guarding like a treasure chest.”  

“Looks pretty normal to me,” another muttered.  

Clarisse didn’t look away from Percy. “So what’s the big deal, new kid? Hermes cabin treating you like you’re the chosen one or something?”  

Percy closed his book slowly, finger marking the page. “I’m not playing.”  

Clarisse took a step closer. “You’re not?”  

“Nope.” Percy looked back down. “Sensory stuff. Too loud. I’m not on either team.”  

Another camper snorted. “Ohhh, he’s one of those kids.”  

Clarisse tilted her head. “That’s the thing, new kid. You don’t get to decide if you are playing. We do.”  

Percy looked up at her, calm and flat-eyed. “I don’t want trouble.”  

“Good,” she said. “Then you won’t mind answering—”  

Her spear flicked forward—fast. Not hard. But enough to knock his book from his hand.  

It hit the dirt. Open. Pages bent.  

Something inside Percy’s chest clicked.  

The forest stilled.  

There were few things in the world he considered sacred: clean notebooks, proper boundaries, and paperbacks without broken spines.  

He took a breath.  

Reached, almost unconsciously, for his sword —his real weapon—but then heard Gabriel’s voice in his head:  

“Percy, your blades are for real enemies only. Not for sweaty teenagers playing LARPing.”  

Right. Camp sword.  

He stood. Not rushed. Not flashy. Just enough to roll the tension into his shoulders and stretch his spine. His wings twitched under his skin, but didn’t unfurl.  

He spoke calmly. “You get one chance to walk away.”  

Clarisse’s grin widened. “Or what?”  

She lunged.  

The fight was short.  

Six campers. 
Two minutes. 

They came at him together, confident in numbers.  

It didn’t help.  

Percy moved like stormwater finding cracks in stone—fluid, precise, quiet. He didn’t show off. He didn’t taunt. He handled.  

Clarisse got knocked off her feet by her own momentum when Percy pivoted under her swing and tapped the back of her knee.  

One camper tripped on a sudden burst of mud underfoot. (No one saw Percy do anything. But the mud hadn’t been there before.)  

Two others collided when he stepped sideways at the exact wrong moment for them.  

He disarmed the fifth without even raising his voice.  

And the sixth? She just looked around at her crumpled siblings, looked at Percy, and backed away with her hands up.  

Fifteen minutes later, when Luke arrived, flag in hand, he slowed to a stop.   

Took in the scene.  

Five Ares kids groaning on the ground.  

None of them were bleeding—Percy was very careful about that. But one had a boot tangled in their own helmet strap, one had landed in a bush of deeply offended dryads, and Clarisse was sitting against a tree, blinking up at the sky like it had betrayed her.  

Percy, meanwhile, was back against his tree.  

Book open.  

Sword resting lazily in the grass beside him.  

He was rereading the paragraph he’d lost to interruption when Luke arrived, flag in hand, panting slightly.  

“Percy?”  

He stopped short at the sight.  

“Are they… are they unconscious?”  

Percy shrugged. “No. Dramatically inconvenienced.”  

Luke blinked.  

“…So,” he said. “I take it you warmed up after all?”  

Percy didn’t look up. “They knocked my book down.”  

Luke had just opened his mouth to comment on the mess of Ares' kids sprawled like bowling pins around Percy, when the war horn blew.  

“Victory!” someone shouted. “Hermes has the flag!”  

Campers began spilling into the clearing from all directions, whooping, chanting, trailing bruises and grass stains and the self-satisfaction of organized chaos. Clarisse was groaning on the ground, one of her lieutenants already trying to rewrite the story as strategic retreat.  

Someone dumped a bucket of Gatorade on a tree. Someone else was playing a kazoo in triumph.  

Percy sat quietly, brushing dirt from his book. He’d been about to stand when—  

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.  

It was low. 
Ugly. 
Familiar to anyone who’d ever heard a sound that said: You are now prey. 

The celebration stopped cold.  

A wave of silence rolled out like a pressure shift.  

Then: Chiron’s voice, sharp and commanding in Ancient Greek. “Stand ready! My bow!”  

Annabeth was already moving. She’d drawn her blade in a flash, scanning the treeline.  

And then—  

There.  

Perched on the boulders above the field, like something summoned from the worst kind of bedtime story, stood a black hound the size of a rhino. Its fur was shadows, rippling wrong against the wind. Its eyes glowed lava-red, like they’d been stoked in a forge.  

Its gaze was fixed. 
Unmoving. 
Straight at Percy. 

Nobody moved.  

Except Annabeth.  

She stepped forward. “Percy, run!”  

She tried to place herself between him and the hound.  

Too late.  

The creature leapt.  

An impossible blur of black muscle, red flame, and a mouth full of daggers.  

Percy stood.  

He didn’t run. 
Didn’t panic. 

He just rolled his eyes.  

Then pulled the sword.  

Not the practice blade.  

The real one.  

The blade of folded silver and light—something that didn’t belong in this world, but had decided to visit anyway. It hummed as it left the air where it’d been resting, summoned not from a scabbard but from somewhere else entirely.  

The hellhound flew. 
Percy lifted the sword. 

One clean slash.  

The beast exploded into golden dust mid-leap. A sound like thunder snapped through the air.  

Shimmering fur evaporated. Teeth dissolved. And the hound was gone.  

Silence.  

Everyone froze.  

All eyes turned to Percy.  

He stood in the quiet center of the field, sword still glowing faintly in his hand, book tucked under one arm, curls wind-tossed.  

He stared at the vanishing dust.  

Then turned to Chiron.  

Deadpan: “I thought this camp was supposed to be safe.”  

Chiron didn’t answer.  

Instead, he bowed.  

And behind him, one by one, every camper followed. Like a wave.  

Swords sheathed. Heads lowered. Knees to the dirt.  

Even Clarisse, half-dazed, muttered a curse and dropped to one knee.  

Percy blinked. “Uh.”  

Annabeth’s voice, tight and reverent, whispered: 
“Look up.” 

Percy did.  

Above his head, spinning and shining in spiraling green light, was a symbol.  

A trident.  

Three-pointed. Unmistakable.  

Glowing with ocean light.  

Claimed.  

Chiron spoke again, this time low, his voice trembling with something ancient.  

“Hail, Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon. God of the Sea, Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses.”  

The wind shifted. The smell of salt swept over the trees.  

The ocean answered.  

Somewhere, a tide turned out of season.  

Percy squinted at the trident, then down at the kneeling campers.  

Then let out a long sigh.  

“…Oh,” he muttered. “Now he calls.”  

He flicked his fingers. The silver blade vanished, retreating back into that quiet pocket of impossible space where he kept his wings.  

Then he sat down cross-legged on the grass and picked up The Subtle Knife again.  

“Are we done?” he asked. “Because Will and Lyra were just about to run into a bunch of soul-eating ghosts, and frankly, that seems more productive than whatever this is.”  

Nobody answered.  

Not right away.  

Because it was a long time before anyone remembered how to breathe.  

Chapter Text

After the hellhound, after the sword, after the trident —after everything —Percy had just wanted to go back to reading.  

That had clearly been too much to ask.  

Because the moment the light faded and the golden dust settled, Camp Half-Blood turned into a rumor vortex .  

They were whispering.  

Not even trying to hide it.  

Conversations paused mid-word. Elbows nudged. Someone muttered, “Did you see the trident?” Another said, “He vaporized it like it was nothing.” Another—louder—“Think he’s already got his quest?”  

Quest. Prophecy. The sea god’s son.  

He tried to reread the same paragraph of The Subtle Knife four times, but the words slipped past him like fog. Every time he turned a page, he felt more eyes on him. More buzzing. More stares like fishing hooks snagged in his skin.  

Even Luke’s voice—trying to calm people down, trying to deflect—was just more noise.  

He hated noise.  

He hated the center of attention.  

He hated the way his wings were itching just under his shoulder blades, as if to form a cocoon of silence.  

It clung to the air like smoke. 
Too much. 
Too fast. 
Too loud. 

Percy hunched his shoulders. Closed his book. Tucked it under one arm like a shield. His grip on the seahorse charm tight.  

No one stopped him. 
Not Luke. 
Not Chiron. 
Not even Annabeth, though she watched him go with a look that said I understand, but I’m not sure how to follow. 

He didn’t storm off. He didn’t shout. That would’ve felt… expected. Theatric.  

He just walked.  

Out of the field. Past the edge of the crowd. Through the line of trees that ringed the cabins.  

Until he reached the hearth.  

The great fire in the heart of Camp Half-Blood didn’t roar like the forges or crackle like mortal fireplaces. It pulsed. Steady. Warm. Deep. Like it had been burning before any of them had names, and would still burn after names were forgotten.  

There was someone there.  

A girl.  

Older than she looked. Younger than she felt. 
Hair like woven dusk. Robes soot-streaked and patched. Eyes ember-bright. 
She knelt in front of the flames, tending them with quiet reverence. 

Percy didn’t hesitate.  

He walked over, sat down cross-legged beside her, and didn’t say anything.  

She glanced at him, smiled very slightly, then returned to the fire.  

The silence between them wasn’t heavy. 
It was honest. 

Percy fiddled with the seahorse around his neck, thumb brushing over the smooth glass. It didn’t glow. It didn’t pulse. It didn’t need to.  

The weight in his chest didn’t go away. 
But it softened. 

They sat like that for a while.  

The stars turned overhead.  

The fire breathed.  

Finally, Percy asked, voice low and rough around the edges: 
“Aunt Hestia, why does everything here have to be so dramatic?” 

Hestia didn’t answer right away.  

She stirred the fire once—carefully. Purposefully. The embers flared gold.  

Then, still facing the flame, she said, “Because most of the gods are trying to be seen.”  

Percy blinked. “What?”  

“They scream,” she said, as if reciting something old. “They rage. They demand temples and worship. They wage wars so that their names echo. Drama is their language. Noise is how they prove they still matter.”  

He was quiet.  

She turned to him. Met his eyes. “You aren’t made of that.”  

Percy flinched slightly. “I don’t want to be the center of everything.”  

“I know.” She tilted her head. “You’re not. Not yet. But you are a... fulcrum. Some things will move through you.”  

“Because of Poseidon.”  

“Not just because of him.” Her voice was kind. Soft. “Because of what you carry. And because of who raised you. Grace doesn’t echo like ichor. It settles deeper.”  

Percy stared into the flame. “I didn’t ask for this.”  

“I know.”  

“I just wanted to read my book.”  

Hestia smiled faintly. “And you still can.”  

The fire shifted. Warmed.  

A new log settled into place all on its own. A spark floated up—just one—and winked out like a blink.  

“I think,” Percy said slowly, “I want to go back to being a background character.”  

“You never were,” she said gently. “But you can still be quiet in your own way.”  

Percy tucked his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and leaned into the warmth beside her. The fire gave off that low, steady hum again—not song, not speech, but something in between. A rhythm for thinking. For breathing.  

Then, softly, just above the crackle of the flame, Hestia said, “You shouldn’t have changed the cabin.”  

Percy blinked.  

His deep thoughts scattered like startled birds. “Huh?”  

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. Her voice was that same careful blend of warmth and quiet steel.  

“The Hermes cabin,” she said. “That is one of your cousin’s temples. You refashioned it. Rewove it. Without his leave.”  

Percy blinked. His whole posture shifted—not defensive, but startled. His head lifted slowly from his knees, his lips already forming a protest.  

“But Aunt Hestia—” he began, then stopped, cheeks puffing slightly as he looked away. “The cabin smelled like a locker room after a game had a panic attack.”  

His voice cracked a little at the end. His nose scrunched. He looked, for the first time that day, unmistakably twelve.  

Hestia’s mouth twitched. Fond, but firm. “Still. It is one of your cousin’s temples. And you refurbished it without his blessing.”  

Percy grumbled something under his breath, unintelligible except for the vague outline of “Hermes should be thanking me.”  

Hestia turned her head. Gave him the Look™. The one that felt older than Olympus and just as inevitable.  

“Perseus.”  

Percy groaned and covered his face with both hands. “Please don’t use my full name,” he mumbled through his fingers. “It rings too loud. I’ll apologize to him. Next time we meet. Promise.”  

“Good boy,” Hestia said, the fondness in her voice smooth as honey and soft as home.  

He looked at Hestia.  

“Do you have a temple?” he asked.  

“I have hearths,” she said simply. “And as long as they are tended, I don’t need more than that.”  

Percy nodded. That made sense to him. Small spaces. Safe ones.  

He leaned back into the warmth and let the fire fold around them again like a blanket that didn’t need words.  

Chapter Text

Dinner should have felt like a reward.  

The sunset painted the sky in a thousand colors—rose gold and salt-orange and that deep indigo that tasted like dusk. The smell of roasted lamb and fresh bread filled the air. Campers laughed. Torches flickered. Plates clinked and glowed faintly under the celestial braziers. It should have been magic.  

Instead, Percy sat alone.  

Table three—Poseidon's. A big slab of polished sea-green marble with coral patterns carved down the sides and a centerpiece bowl filled with water that glowed faintly when he breathed too close to it.  

No one else sat there. 
Of course not. 
There was no one else to sit there. 

He hunched his shoulders. Stared down at his plate like it might bite him. The chicken skewers had gone cold. The rice smelled good but stuck in his throat when he tried. Even the strawberries—glazed in ambrosia honey—tasted like ash.  

Around him, the pavilion buzzed with whispering. 
Not loud. Not cruel. 
But constant. 

"He’s a Big Three kid." 
"I heard he didn’t even flinch when the monster charged." 
"Did you see the sword?" 
"So is he like… dangerous now?" 

Percy kept his head down. His fingers curled tight around his seahorse charm, grounding like breath, like memory.  

His wings were tight inside his skin, not visible but thrumming beneath the surface like static. He felt watched. Not just by the campers—but by something else. Bigger. Older.  

He didn’t want this.  

He didn’t want the trident glowing above his head. 
He didn’t want to sit on a throne made of salt and silence. 

He wanted his coloring book. 
His garden. 
Zach’s half-functional trebuchet. 
Lila’s glitter spells. 
Sadie’s bad jokes. 
His mom's hugs.

He twisted the seahorse charm between his fingers. 
Grounded. Breathe. Don’t unravel. Don’t glow. Don’t float. 
You’re safe. Mostly. Probably.  Maybe. 

He pushed the food around his plate like it might rearrange itself into something easier.  

And then—  

A chair scraped.  

A voice cracked across the pavilion like a spark in dry wood.  

“What’s wrong with you people?”  

Percy flinched. The pavilion fell silent.  

Every head turned.  

Maya Johnes. 
From Hermes Cabin. 

Tall, freckled, hair in a lopsided braid, voice carrying like it was forged for rallying armies or hexing gods.  

She was standing—on the Hermes bench now—hands on her hips, glaring around the tables like she was about to deliver divine retribution. Around her, the other Hermes campers froze, midway through dinner and scandal.  

“We held a vote,” she snapped. “And we made an oath. That Percy would be ours, no matter who tried to claim him. He saw us when no one else would, and now, just because he killed a hellhound and got claimed by one of the big three—we act like this?!”  

A beat of silence.  

Somewhere in the Apollo cabin, someone dropped a fork.  

Maya didn’t blink.  

She didn’t wait for an answer.  

She turned and walked straight to the Poseidon table, where Percy sat frozen, barely able to breathe.  

Maya reached for his hand.  

He flinched—but she didn’t grab, didn’t pull. She offered. Waited.  

Percy looked up—eyes wide, stunned, something wounded and terribly small flickering in his posture.  

“I’m sorry,” Maya said gently. “But I’m not letting you eat alone.”  

She took his hand.  

He let her.  

Together, they walked back to Hermes' table.  

Someone from the Ares table snorted. “He’s not even yours anymore.”  

Ten Hermes kids turned in unison and stared with such unified force it could’ve dropped a harpy in flight.  

Silence dropped like a net across the pavilion.  

Maya pulled Percy down beside her. Chris scooted over to make space. The others passed him a plate, a napkin, a muffin. The good kind. Still warm.  

Someone reached over and set a honey packet beside his cup. 
Another tucked a fresh bookmark into his back pocket. 

No one said sorry—but they didn’t have to. This was how Hermes said you still matter. Through acts, not apologies.  

Percy’s breath shook once. 
Then he smiled. Just a little. 

At the back of the pavilion, Chiron stood rigid, hand gripping his goblet too tightly. He could feel it shifting. The storyline, the shape of things. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Percy was supposed to be claimed, separated, and sent off to his quest under structured terms. Not absorbed into the chaos of Cabin Eleven again.  

Not loved by them.  

Not humanized.  

His anxiety climbed like ivy.  

Beside him, Mr. D took a slow sip of Diet Coke. For once, he wasn’t playing cards. He wasn’t ignoring the campers or muttering about nonsense.  

He was watching.  

The boy with the sea in his veins. 
The table of misfits that had refused to abandon him. 

Mr. D made a small, amused noise and murmured: 
“Well, this should be interesting.” 

He reached for a second can.  

And watched the tide change. 

Chapter Text

The lights in Cabin Eleven were dimmed low. Warm gold glowed from the lanterns strung along the moss wall. The air smelled like lavender sachets and someone’s lavender socks. Most of the younger campers had already drifted to sleep, curled beneath quilts and weighted blankets, the afterglow of chaotic dinner rebellion still clinging to their limbs.  

But Percy sat awake, knees pulled to his chest in the far corner of the sensory nook, a pillow behind his back and his seahorse charm pressed firm between his fingers.  

A few campers stayed with him. They sat cross-legged or lounged on floor cushions, casting each other glances, but keeping respectful distance.  

But he knew—knew—the questions were coming.  

They didn’t ask right away. There were rules in Cabin Eleven: you never asked a kid why they cried in their sleep, and you never pushed someone who was trying to breathe.  

But eventually, after the lights dimmed and the chattier campers fell into half-sleep, Maya climbed into the bed beside his and tapped twice against the headboard.  

Percy looked at her.  

“Can we… ask some stuff?”  

He sighed. Not annoyed. Just… bracing. “Some stuff,” he said. “Not everything.”  

“But,” Percy continued, “you have to understand… there are things I can’t talk about. Not because I don’t want to. Just… because I really, really shouldn’t.”  

Junie tilted her head. “Shouldn’t like ‘divine wrath’ shouldn’t? Or shouldn’t like you’d get in trouble?”  

“Both,” Percy said dryly.  

Chirs cleared his throat. “That sword you used. The one that just... appeared. What was that?”  

Percy hesitated. Then answered, simple and flat: 
“It’s mine. Not from camp. Not from any forge here.” 
“Can we see it?” someone piped up. 

“No,” Percy said instantly. “Sorry. I don’t let anyone touch it. It’s dangerous. Like—real dangerous. It can cause damage you can't take back. I’m not bringing it out just to prove something.”  

No one pushed him on it.  

Someone muttered, “Fair enough.”  

Junie raised her hand. “Are you a god?”  

Percy snorted. “No.”  

“You sure ?” asked Chris, from his bed. “Because you glowed. Like, divinely glowed.”  

Percy shrugged. “A lamp glows too. Doesn’t mean it’s Zeus.”  

“Demigod?” Maya asked.  

He hesitated.  

“My father is a god,” he said. “But I’m not like most demigods. And my mother… isn’t divine. Not in the Greek sense.”  

Becka squinted. “So… is your mom mortal?”  

“She’s not a goddess,” Percy said firmly, but gently. “She’s just… my mom. She writes books. She cooks really well. She’s smart, brave, and she taught me to be kind even when it’s hard.”  

No one pushed on that. Wise of them.  

A beat of silence. Then a quieter question:  

“…Are you human?”  

Percy looked up. 
His eyes caught the light—storm-washed, ancient, a little too deep for twelve. 

The question hung. Gentle. Curious.  

Percy didn’t answer right away.  

He looked down at his hands. His wings weren’t showing, but he could feel them, folded tight inside his shape.  

He wasn’t glowing. Not right now.  

But he didn’t feel mortal either.  

Finally, softly, he said:  

“I’m a person.” 
Another breath. 
“But no, I’m not... human.” 

That brought silence again.  

Not in fear. Not in awe.  

Just… a recognition. A rearranging.  

Lenny, who once accidentally turned a football into a hive of bees through an unlicensed incantation, spoke from his bed:  

“That sounds lonely.”  

Percy looked up. Eyes soft. Tired. “Sometimes, but it’s worse when people act like it makes me wrong.”  

No one said anything after that.  

A few of them looked away like they'd just remembered what it felt like to be Othered.  

Clarence—the tall kid who could charm-lock any lock on camp's property—raised a hand like they were in class. “So... wait. If you’re not a god, not human, and not technically a demigod, then what are you?”  

Percy tilted his head, then smiled faintly. “Still figuring that out.”  

“Okay,” Chirs said slowly. “Not a demigod. Not a god. Not a mortal. But still... Percy.”  

“That’s the part I’m sure about,” Percy said with a tiny smile. “I’m me.”  

There was a ripple of quiet like everyone was digesting that. No one laughed. No one rolled their eyes.  

Finally, Maya asked, “So, are you dangerous?”  

Percy blinked. Then gave the smallest shrug. “I don’t want to be. But I can be. If I need to.”  

A silence fell, heavier this time.  

Then—  

“You’ve never made me feel unsafe,” Emiko said.  

“Same,” Chirs agreed. “You helped me untangle a spell last week. You’re weird, sure—but in a good way.”  

“Are you an alien?” Owen asked.  

Percy laughed, a soft, startled breath. “I mean… define alien.”  

Maya grinned. “Outsider energy. Transdimensional vibes. You’re not not giving ‘space prince with emotional depth.’”  

A few kids laughed.  

The tension broke.  

They didn’t ask more—at least not the hard ones. Percy let them tease him about his reading habits, about how his socks always matched his mood (today: dark grey with blue swirls)  

And he let himself relax. Just a little.  

Chapter Text

It started with a clipboard. 

Chiron held it like a peace offering as he approached Hermes Cabin just after breakfast, hooves clicking quietly on the flagstones. He looked rested, polite, and deeply nervous—as though he were approaching a sleeping lion with a rulebook. 

Percy was sitting on the front step, still chewing the last bite of toast from breakfast. His hoodie sleeves were too long and his eyes a little too sharp for someone pretending to be harmless. 

“Good morning,” Chiron said gently. “Percy, could we speak?” 

Percy didn’t answer at first. He just tugged his seahorse charm once and gave a small, weary nod. 

Chiron crouched beside him—not quite equine, not quite human, somewhere in-between in the way only old immortals could be. 

“It’s tradition,” Chiron began, “that children claimed by the gods move to their divine parent’s cabin. In your case, Cabin Three.” 

Percy didn’t look at him. “That cabin’s empty.” 

“Yes,” Chiron admitted. “Poseidon hasn’t claimed a child in—well, in decades. But it is yours by right. A private space. Somewhere peaceful.” 

Percy blinked slowly. “Is that a suggestion or an order?” Behind them, the Hermes cabin door creaked open. 

Maya stepped out, braid slightly messy, half a muffin in her hand. She took one look at Chiron, the clipboard, and Percy’s expression—and sighed. 

“Oh no,” she said. “He’s trying to reassign him.” 

From inside the cabin, Carlos yelled, “Tell him no! We already made the schedule for arts and crafts!” 

Another voice—Clarence, probably—added, “I finally got him on our D&D team! I’m not rolling a new character sheet!” 

Maya crouched beside Percy, calm as storm-tossed driftwood. “We made it official. He’s ours. Even if the ocean tries to steal him.” 

Chiron’s jaw tensed. “Camp rules exist for a reason.” 

“Sure,” she said brightly. “And so do found families.” 

Behind them, a low hum began. Soft at first. Then unmistakable. 

Someone was singing. 

From the Apollo cabin, the melody floated across the camp like the first breeze of insurrection. 

🎶 “The boy of the sea and trident's gleam / cast adrift by claim divine / Found solace not in temple walls / but mismatched socks and muffin time.” 🎶 

Percy blinked. “What is happening?” 

“Art,” said Maya. 

Chiron rubbed his temples as the rest of Apollo cabin joined in, accompanied by kazoo and enchanted tambourine. 

🎶 Oh sing of the sea child, cast out by the tide, 
 Embraced the soft chaos where love chose to hide. 
The rules said he’s solo, but we say he’s kin, 
So the Misfits revolted and welcomed him in” 🎶 

By the time the song hit its third verse (now accompanied by a holographic sea otter flipping a tiny protest sign), Chiron looked one tail twitch away from spontaneously combusting. 

Chiron turned around slowly. “Is that… a ballad?” 

One of the Apollo kids grins from a cabin window. “Ballad of the Misfits! Just finished it. There’s a pan flute solo too.” 

Percy bits back a laugh and looks back at Chiron. “I can sleep in the Poseidon cabin if I have to, but I want to stay with Hermes' during the day. I want my schedule to follow theirs.” 

Chiron massaged his temples. “I am begging you all for a shred of order—” 
 
From behind him came an obnoxious noise of someone drinking soda from a can with a straw. Chiron turns to see Mr. D standing there, sipping a Diet Coke with raised eyebrows. “You’re encouraging this.” 

“I’m observing,” Mr. D replies mildly. “It’s the first time camp politics haven’t made me want to drink until I forget my name.” 

In the end, a compromise was reached. 

Percy would sleep in Cabin Three—technically, for the sake of tradition, and because Chiron was one migraine away from galloping into the sea. 

But he would attend activities, mealtimes, and cabin meetings with Hermes. 

His name was entered on their schedule. His beanbag in the reading corner never even had time to miss him. 

The Apollo kids performed The Ballad of the Misfits that night by the campfire, complete with backup vocals and choreographed finger-pointing. 

And Percy? 

Percy curled up in his newly snapped bed at Cabin Three that night, the ocean breeze whispering through the shutters. 

Alone. 

But not lonely. 

Because taped to the inside of his bag, folded between his new camp schedule and a crumpled wrapper that definitely wasn’t enchanted, was a note in Maya’s handwriting: 

You’re not just one thing. 
That’s why you belong with us. 
Don’t let a cabin define what kind of heart you carry. 
– Hermes Cabin

Chapter Text

The smell of glue and tempera paint clung to the rafters like a low-hanging cloud. Someone had enchanted the glitter bin again—it was floating in a lazy orbit near the ceiling, shedding sparkles like cosmic dandruff. 

Percy sat at the edge of the long, uneven table in the Arts and Crafts cabin, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes narrowed in quiet focus. His fingers wove careful threads through the loom, the tapestry slowly blooming in hues of blues, greens, and silver. 

It wasn’t perfect—he hadn’t gotten the warp tension quite right—but it felt right . The rhythm. The texture. The soft creak of wood beneath his hands. It kept the rest of the world—too loud, too curious—just far enough away. 

The Athena cabin was working at the other end of the room. Their project looked like a complicated scale model of the Acropolis reimagined as a board game. There were at least two pulleys, a drawbridge, and what appeared to be an enchanted die that whispered probabilities in Ancient Greek. 

Annabeth was not with them. 

She approached from the side instead, quiet and controlled, sitting on the loom bench beside Percy with the kind of precision that said she was trying very hard not to interrupt the pattern of his weaving. 

Percy glanced at her once. She gave a small nod. And then silence settled between them like an old, worn shawl—familiar, unobtrusive, soft around the edges. 

They wove side by side for a long time. 

She was working in copper and grey—sharp colors, but her thread was smooth, steady. Her hands moved like memory. 

Percy’s loom clicked as he passed the shuttle again. Then, softly—without turning: 

“Annabeth… where’s Thalia?” 

The question came from a quiet place. A gentle wondering. Not a challenge. Just… a name he remembered. A hole he’d noticed. 

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. Just taut. Like a thread pulled a little too tight. 

He saw her go still, the shuttle pausing mid-motion. 

Percy blinked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” 

“She never made it to camp.” Annabeth’s voice was flat. A little rough. But not cold. “Just beyond the border. We were ambushed. Cyclops pack.” 

Percy’s fingers stilled on the loom. 

“Luke carried me the last half-mile. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t even breathe.” She twisted her thread too tight, nearly snapping it. “Thalia told us to run. She stayed behind. Gave us time.” 

Percy didn’t speak. He didn’t fidget. He just sat there, very still, the way he always did when something deep in him went quiet. The loom whispered under his hands, but the pattern stalled, color suspended like an unfinished thought. 

“She didn’t even scream,” Annabeth added. Her voice dropped to the edge of brittle. “She just fought.” 

There was a long moment where neither said anything. The clack of looms in the rest of the workshop, the rustling of thread, and quiet chatter seemed far away. 

“I’m sorry,” Percy said at last. No magic in it. No dramatics. Just a quiet truth. 

Annabeth inhaled sharply and let it out in a slow, careful breath. Then—almost too fast—she pivoted. 

“You’re really good at this.” 

Percy blinked, startled. “What?” 

“Weaving,” she said, nodding toward his tapestry. “That wave pattern. It’s—balanced. Tactile. You’re controlling the tension well.” 

“Oh,” he said, cheeks coloring a little. “Thanks. I’ve been doing it a while.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?” 

He nodded. “I learned at school. Waldorf pedagogy. Emphasis on multi-sensory learning, creativity, and development of the whole child. We do fiberwork, woodworking, music, movement, and mythology. Among other things. They say it helps integrate sensory systems or whatever.” 

She stared at him like he’d just listed seventeen things she wasn’t allowed to want. “You made that sound like an actual curriculum.” 

Percy shrugged. “It is. I’ve been there since I was little.” 

Annabeth went quiet again, but not because she didn’t have anything to say. It was the kind of quiet Percy recognized now—the same one he felt when he saw a gap in someone’s armor and didn’t know if it was okay to look inside. 

Eventually, she asked, “So you just… like it? Weaving?” 

“Yeah,” Percy said, pushing the shuttle gently through the warp. “It’s predictable. One over, one under. One mistake, you can undo it and try again.” 

He didn’t say: It’s soft. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t ask me to fight. It lets me be. 

Annabeth nodded. “Athena invented weaving, you know.” 

“I know.” Percy glanced over at her. “I bet she’d like your patterns.” 

She didn’t answer at first. Just kept her eyes on her loom, even as her fingers slowed. “She’d probably say they’re uneven.” 

Percy leaned sideways slightly, just enough to see her profile. “Maybe. But they’re strong.” 

Annabeth blinked. Not at him. Just once, like she needed to reset her eyes before she could speak. 

After a moment, she added, “You said your school teaches mythology?” 

He nodded. “Different cultures. Different eras. We did a whole semester on Mesopotamian deities last fall. I got to carve a clay cylinder seal with Lila. Hers had a crow and a hammer on it. Mine was just… waves.” 

Annabeth looked at him sideways. “So you’ve always known?” 

Percy tilted his head. “Known what?” 

“That gods are real.” 

Percy paused. “I’ve always known the world was strange. It just… didn’t get specific until later.” 

She didn’t answer, but her hands moved again—slowly this time. More steady. 

They worked in silence for a bit. Her shuttle clicked softly. His loom hummed beneath his palms. 

Eventually, Percy spoke again. “Your thread’s caught,” he murmured. “At the third row.” 

Annabeth looked down, muttered something under her breath, and fixed it. 

“…Thanks.” 

Percy nodded. “Anytime.” 

A beat passed. 

“You ever work on big looms?” she asked, and he could hear the challenge laced in it. 

He considered. “We did a group tapestry once. Forty kids. Twelve colors. Six feet wide. It told a story about a lost traveler and a crow that taught him how to walk the sky.” 

Annabeth stared at him. “Seriously?” 

He shrugged. “We get weird at Greyfield.” 

Annabeth didn’t laugh. But she smiled. Just a little. 

And Percy? He went back to his weaving, quiet, content, a soft grin at the corners of his mouth. The sea was always in him. But here, for a moment, he was a boy with a loom. A classmate. A conversation. A thread that didn’t need to be pulled just held. 

And that was enough. 

Chapter Text

The days passed in that strange, stretching way only summer at camp could—too fast to track, too slow to escape. The tension in the air was constant now, like something had been pulled taut across the camp’s borders and everyone was waiting for the snap. 

The Ares cabin kept their distance. 

Clarisse glared at Percy whenever he passed, jaw clenched around whatever biting comment she wasn’t yet brave—or stupid—enough to say out loud. The other campers weren’t cruel, exactly. Just... distant. Curious. Watching. 

And Percy hated being watched. 

The Hermes campers did their best—Maya, Chris, and Jin always flanking him in the mess hall, always cracking jokes, always throwing a shoulder in the way of whispers. But Percy heard the whispers anyway. He heard everything. The way demigods muttered about monsters. About prophecies. About big three kids and what they were “destined” for. 

It grated against his bones. He didn’t want a destiny. He wanted peace and a sensory corner. 

Sword training wasn’t any better. Luke seemed determined to test his limits. Their sparring matches turned into full-blown stress tests. Luke wasn’t afraid to go hard—not cruel, never that—but precise. Strategic. Testing Percy like he was a question that needed solving. 

Percy held his own. Of course he did. His bones were too strong, his reflexes too fast. A bronze practice sword was nothing next to his real one. Still, every night after drills, his shoulders ached—not from pain, but from restraint. 

And then came the dream. 

It started soft, like waves tugging at memory. He was on a beach, warm sand beneath him, salt wind in his hair, and the distant sound of shouting that didn’t belong to any voice he knew. 

Two men fought far down the shore—massive, robed, grappling like ancient wrestlers on a mythic stage. Blue and green clashed in their tunics, lightning cracked every time they touched. Power poured from them like children playing with the weather. 

"Give it back!" one shouted. "You had no right!" 

It was like watching titanic siblings fighting over a toy—and in some ways, maybe it was. Every time they collided, the wind howled harder. 

The waves grew. 

The water kissed his toes. 

Percy sat down in the surf, his wings spreading instinctively to shield his eyes from the salt spray. 

The earth cracked beneath him. A voice rose from the deep, so low it made his bones shiver. 

<Come down, little hero.> 

The beach opened in a jagged wound of stone and heat. A chasm yawned at his feet—black and deep and swallowing. 

He stumbled— 

—and then flew. 

With one great beat of his wings, he rose into the air, salt swirling beneath him, hair caught in the storm. He hovered above the pit and looked down, calm despite himself. 

"Who are you?" he asked. 

The pit didn’t answer. 

It laughed. 

And Percy woke. 

Cabin Three was still and dark. Thunder rolled across the hills like a slow drumbeat, and Percy felt the storm thrumming against the wards outside. 

A knock came. Hoofbeats. Not loud, but unmistakable. 

He sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Come in?” 

It was one of the satyrs, Grover, looking like a half-soaked houseplant and deeply uncomfortable. 

“Mr. D wants to see you.” 

Percy slid from his bed, reaching for the necklace on his nightstand. “Why?” 

Grover gave a helpless little shrug, sniffing the air like something smelled off. The satyrs always did that around Percy. Like Percy had been labeled organic produce, but secretly came from the radioactive aisle. 

“He just said he wanted to talk to you.” 

Percy nodded, pulling on a hoodie and slinging the seahorse charm over his neck like armor. 

They walked in silence. Over the sea, the sky looked like spilled ink and thunderhead. Clouds boiling over the Sound, heavy and sharp. 

“Do we need an umbrella?” Percy asked. 

Grover blinked. “It never rains at camp unless we want it to.” 

Percy pointed toward the storm. “Someone must really want it, then.” 

Grover looked skyward with unease. “It’ll pass around us. Bad weather always does.” 

Percy didn’t answer. He just clutched his charm tighter. He didn’t like thunder. 

They climbed the porch of the Big House. Mr. D sat as always, pinochle in one hand, Diet Coke in the other. Chiron sat across, pretending to play his hand while keeping a sharp eye on both the sky and the half-blood in the doorway. 

“Ah, our little celebrity,” Dionysus said without looking up. 

Percy didn’t move. 

“Come closer,” the god drawled, “and don’t expect me to grovel just because old Barnacle-Beard finally remembered he had a son.” 

Lightning snarled outside. The windows rattled. 

“Blah blah blah,” Dionysus muttered, and gestured lazily at the storm. 

Grover hovered by the porch railing, visibly uncomfortable. 

Dionysus gave Percy a long once-over, eyes narrowing. “You look familiar…” 

Percy blinked innocently. “Must be the theater club, sir.” 

Mr. D paused mid-sip. “What?” 

Percy tugged his hoodie sleeve, carefully avoiding the intense gaze of the god. “I build sets. For school. We did Alice in Wonderland and Into the Woods. Our teacher, Ms. Amira, has a statue of you in her office. Says you’re the god of theater.” 

For the first time since Percy had met him, Mr. D actually reacted. 

“Amira…” Dionysus leaned forward, interest flaring in his eyes like someone had struck a match in a wine barrel. “Velvet skirts? Eyeliner sharp enough to rewrite fate? Talks like a Shakespearean villain but looks like a Tumblr poem?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

A strange fondness bloomed across Dionysus’s face. 

“She’s one of mine. Always said wine was overrated, but give her a stage and a script and she could reduce a Muse to tears. I like her.” 

He looked at Percy anew. Not suspicious. Not impressed. But… curious. 

“And what does she think of you, hmm?” 

Percy shrugged. “She says I’m good at creating an atmosphere.” 

Dionysus actually laughed—short and brittle, like it escaped by accident. “Maybe you’re not entirely a waste,” he muttered. “Maybe turning you into a dolphin wouldn’t be the best option after all.” 

Percy blinked. “That’s… an option?” 

“Don’t tempt me.” Dionysus took a long sip from his Diet Coke, eyes narrowing in thought. “If I had my way, I’d cause your molecules to erupt in flames. Sweep up the ashes. Toss them into a nice amphora, maybe. Something tasteful. Done with the trouble before it starts.” 

“That’s… definitely harm,” Chiron put in mildly. 

“Nonsense,” said Mr. D. “He wouldn’t feel a thing.” 

Percy didn’t flinch. He just kept fiddling with the seahorse charm under his shirt. “Please don’t, sir, I really like my body,” he said. 

Dionysus stared at him. 

Chiron coughed into his hand. 

“Nevertheless,” Dionysus drawled, “I’ve agreed to restrain myself. Though it’s costing me in divine reputation. I have a quota of teenage trauma to fulfill, you know.” 

He rose from the pinochle table with the air of a man who considered chairs a personal affront. The cards from the invisible players clattered to the tabletop as their hands vanished. 

“There is one more option,” Dionysus muttered. “But it’s deadly foolishness.” 

He turned toward Percy, the room bending faintly around his divine weight. “I’m off to Olympus for the emergency meeting. And Perseus Jackson—” Percy winces lightly at his full name ringing across his brain like a school bell lined with divine tinsel “—if you’re at all smart, you’ll see that a quiet, mortal aquatic life is far preferable to what Chiron has in mind.” 

With a flourish, Mr. D picked up one of the playing cards, twisted it once in his fingers, and it shimmered into a security pass—plastic and gleaming with divine credentials. He snapped his fingers. 

The air folded. Bent. Flickered. 

And then he was gone. Only a whiff of crushed grapes lingered, like a wine-soaked secret that had left the room in a hurry. 

Chiron looked exhausted. 

He gestured to a chair. “Sit, Percy. Grover, too.” 

They sat down, Percy already anticipating a headache 

Chiron laid down his pinochle hand—four aces and a smug smirk that no one acknowledged. 

“What did you make of the hellhound?” he asked. 

“It was an unwelcome surprise, sir,” Percy answered evenly. 

Chiron raised a brow, clearly expecting something else. "An unwelcome surprise ?” 

Percy nodded. 

The answer wasn’t sarcastic or flippant—just honest. There’d been no panic, no trauma. Just salt on an already sore morning. 

“You’ll meet worse,” Chiron said. “Far worse, before you’re done.” 

“Done with what?” Percy asked flatly, already knowing. 

“Your quest,” said Chiron. “Will you accept it?” 

“No.” 

Chiron blinked. “No?” 

“No,” Percy said again, firmer now. “I don’t want it. I never asked for it. I didn’t even ask to be here.” 

The room paused. 

Chiron looked like someone had just smacked the script from his hands. 

“I’m afraid that might not be an option.” 

“Then why ask in the first place?” Percy looked at him, unblinking. 

The storm outside rolled closer. Wind pressed against the windows like breath. The sea beyond camp was boiling. 

“Poseidon and Zeus,” Percy said, “They’re fighting. Over something that got stolen.” 

Chiron and Grover exchanged a look. Chiron leaned forward. 

“How did you know that?” 

“I heard whispers. And I had a dream last night—two men fighting on a beach. Like toddlers fighting over a toy. Wind and lightning every time they touched.” 

He didn’t add the part where a chasm had opened and tried to swallow him. 

“I knew it,” Grover whispered. 

“Hush, satyr,” Chiron muttered. 

“But it is his quest!” 

“Only the Oracle can determine that,” Chiron snapped. Then, softer: “You’re correct, Percy. Your father and Zeus are having the worst quarrel in centuries. The gods are at war over a theft.” 

He paused, and added, very gently: “The lightning bolt.” 

Percy blinked. “His divine weapon?” 

Chiron nodded solemnly. “Zeus’s master bolt. The first weapon forged by the Cyclopes. Symbol of divine rule. Enough power to blow up Manhattan and leave the pigeons spinning in orbit.” 

"And it was stolen."

"Yes, by you," Chiron says heavily

“Excuse me?” Percy asked, staring at them like they’d lost their collective minds. 

“Zeus believes Poseidon convinced a mortal hero to steal it,” Chiron said carefully. “Now Poseidon has claimed you. You were in New York over the winter. It… fits the story.” 

Percy huffed. “I wasn’t in the city. Just the state. And I’ve never even seen Olympus. Besides, I wouldn’t steal a lightning bolt. That’s a sensory overload waiting to happen. Is Zeus stupid?” 

Grover coughed. 

“We don’t use the s-word,” he whispered. 

“Perhaps… paranoid,” Chiron amended, though he looked mildly pained. “But Zeus has reason to be wary. The gods… do not forgive easily.” 

Percy tapped the table. “But why me? Why not some guy with invisibility or, I don’t know, a child from the god of thieves ?” 

“Most believe Poseidon isn’t the thief,” Chiron said. “But he’s proud. And Zeus is angry. Neither will back down. Unless the bolt is returned by the solstice, there will be war.” 

“Let me guess,” Percy said, voice flat. “War of the gods doesn’t stay on Olympus.” 

“No,” Chiron agreed. “It tears through every world.” 

Percy looked up, eyes serious. “So I’m supposed to fix it. Return the bolt. Smooth their egos.” 

Chiron didn’t smile. “What better peace offering than to have Poseidon’s son do it?” 

“Do you know where it is?” 

“I believe I do,” Chiron said. “A piece of prophecy long stored… has begun to stir. But first, you must speak to the Oracle.” 

Percy crossed his arms. “Why not just tell me now?” 

“Because,” Chiron said quietly, “if I did… you might not be brave enough to go.” 

Percy stared. “You assume much.” 

A beat of silence. 

Then—reluctantly—he nodded. “I’ll go.” 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Percy had heard a lot of warnings in his life. 

Don’t touch the duck, Percy.  

Don’t throw blessed salt in the kitchen again, Percy.  

Don’t make portals during sleepovers, Percy.  

But nothing had ever quite prepared him for being told, “Go upstairs, meet the Oracle, and hope you come back sane.” 

The attic was as awful as Percy expected. It smelled like death, mildew, and embalmed regret. 

He climbed the ladder and stepped into the dark. 

A thousand old relics stared at him. Old shields. Yellowed maps. Glass jars filled with things that blinked. 

Then the mummy. 

It sat on a tripod like a macabre centerpiece. Skin taut and gray. Glassy eyes. Shriveled. Motionless. Swathed in beads and tie-dye, like a forgotten prophecy went to Woodstock and never came back. Her mouth opened. The green mist poured out. 

Percy flinched. 

<I am the spirit of Delphi. Speaker of Apollo. Approach.> 

The green mist gathered, coiling in thick, oily ribbons across the attic floor. It didn’t slither so much as pulse, heavy with ancient weight—like the air had become aware of its own age and decided to whisper it directly into Percy’s skull. 

He stood still, wings held tight to his back, fingers curled around his seahorse charm like it was the only solid thing in the world. 

“I want to know where I can find Zeus’ master bolt,” he said. 

The words dropped into the air like stones in deep water. 

The mist surged. 

Chains clattered from nowhere. Snake-hiss whispers erupted from every corner of the attic. The Oracle lifted her head, her mouth falling open wider than it should, teeth black and forgotten inside a cavern of rot. 

And then— 

Zariel’s protection ignited. 

Not in flame. Not in light. 

In presence. 

It bloomed from within Percy’s grace, invisible but vast, like the beat of an unseen wing, like a single note of Heaven played in reverse. 

The mist recoiled. 

Then screamed. 

It wasn’t a human sound. The Oracle choked. The mummy’s back arched violently, skeletal hands clutching the arms of her stool as if trying to hold herself together. Her empty eyes glowed green-white, flickered—then went dark. 

The mist tried again, hissing more urgently this time. 

But the protection laid on Percy at birth—Zariel’s mark, old and radiant and inviolable—flared to life like a solar flare behind his ribs. 

A ring of gold-light fire burst silently across the floorboards, radiating outward from his feet like a ripple through the fabric of myth. 

The green mist cracked like glass against it. The snakes reeled back with a sound like static and holy fire. The chains clattered away from him, severed mid-rattle. 

The Oracle screamed again, but now it was entirely her own voice—thin, dry, mortal. 

“You—” she rasped. “You—” 

She was trying to say a prophecy. 

But she couldn’t. 

The words simply wouldn’t form. 

He stumbled backward. “Okay. That’s probably bad. That’s—yeah, we’re done.” 

He spun for the trapdoor, yanked the rope, and dropped back down to the landing with the grace of a startled cat. 

“CHIRON?” he shouted down. “Your mummy is choking! Maybe you should—I don’t know—help her?!” 

There was a beat of silence. 

Then a crash. 

Chiron—who had clearly been halfway through some dramatic pacing monologue—froze. “She—what?” 

Then they heard it. 

A dragging sound. 

Something heavy, dry, and terribly alive was descending the attic stairs. 

Grover made a small, distressed bleat and flung himself behind Chiron’s wheelchair. 

The Oracle appeared at the bottom of the stairs like a zombie in a tie-dyed dress. Her skeletal fingers grasped the railings. Her eyes were wild, glowing faintly green, and she was still choking, as if the prophecy was trying to claw its way out of her lungs. 

Her head jerked and locked onto something behind Chiron 

Then the mummy made a beeline—not for Percy, but across the room. 

No dignity. No power. Just raw urgency. 

She moved toward the back corner of the room with single-minded desperation. The green mist leaked from her mouth in broken, jerking spurts. 

Towards a very specific corner. 

With very specific invisible girl. 

A girl who suddenly yelped, shimmered, and dropped her Yankees cap in surprise as the Oracle loomed in front of her. 

“Annabeth?” Chiron breathed. 

Annabeth froze. “I—” 

The green mist began to stir again. Not wildly, not in a surge—but with quiet intent. Controlled. It uncoiled from the floorboards like it knew what it was doing, slithering past Percy’s sneakers and Annabeth’s knees until it began to gather. Not in tendrils. But in form. 

The smoke pooled just in front of Annabeth, swirling with unnatural density, spinning tighter and tighter until— 

A man stepped from the mist. 

Not real. Not solid. He shimmered with the translucence of dreams and old memories. Mid-forties, maybe, with streaks of silver at his temples and the quiet, sharp look of a university professor. Corduroy blazer. A gaze like glass polished too smooth. 

He looked directly at Annabeth. Not through her. At her. 

And in a voice that was neither loud nor soft—but that filled the room nonetheless—he spoke: 

“You shall go west and face the god who has turned.” 

The air dropped ten degrees. 

“You shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned.” 

Annabeth’s fingers clenched on the edge of the hearth. 

“You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a sister.” 

The flames in the fireplace flickered green. 

“And you shall fail to save what matters most, in the end.” 

And with that final line, the figure collapsed inward. 

Smoke snapped back into itself. The professor dissolved, leaving nothing but the faint smell of ozone and dust. 

Annabeth stood completely still. 

Percy reached her gently. “You okay?” 

She nodded once. But her face was pale. 

The Oracle slumped fully to the floor. The green smoke vanished for good. 

Chiron, for once in his long life, looked completely at a loss. 

Grover whispered, “So… I guess she’s going on the quest?” 

Annabeth didn’t respond. 

She just stared at the place the smoke had been—then slowly turned to Chiron and said, steady despite the tremble in her shoulders: 

“I guess I have a quest.” 

Chapter Text

“I guess I have a quest.”   

Chiron looked between her and Percy, utterly stunned.  

“That… wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered as if the very laws of fate had rewritten themselves in front of him.  

Percy crossed his arms. “Sorry, I broke your Oracle. Not my fault she tried to push through divine shielding.”  

Chiron rubbed his temples. “No, no. That was… that was your mother, wasn’t it?”  

Percy didn’t answer right away. Just looked at Chiron with the same eerie, too-still calm that always made even gods uneasy. Then—flatly: “Yes.”  

There was weight in that word.  

Chiron didn’t ask further.  

 Instead, he looked at Annabeth. “You’ve been chosen. The prophecy is yours now.”  

Grover crept out from behind the pillar.  

“Does that mean she leads the quest?”  

Chiron nodded slowly.  

Percy gave Annabeth a sidelong glance. “Do you want to?”  

She met his eyes.  

“I’ve been waiting for one since I was seven.”  

“I think,” Chiron said slowly, “that the gods are going to have opinions.”  

Annabeth straightened, jaw set.  

“I’ll go west,” she said. “I’ll find what was stolen.”  

Grover hesitated. “Who’s the one who will betray you?”  

Annabeth looked at him. Then at Percy.  

Her face didn’t change. But her hand clenched the hilt of her knife just a little tighter.  

“I’ll worry about that when I get there,” she said.  

 Annabeth turned to Percy, still pale but already setting her jaw like a girl bracing for impact. “You’re coming with me.”  

Percy blinked. “What?”  

“You’re part of this,” she said. “Even if the prophecy didn’t speak your name. Even if it couldn’t. I don’t care what gods are tangled in your blood. You’re not sitting this out.”  

Percy frowned. “Technically I was trying not to be part of it.”  

She grabbed his sleeve. “You’re in it anyway.”  

Chiron exhaled. “You should both rest. There’s much to prepare. Grover—fetch the maps. I will contact the Council of Cloven Elders and the Hesperides. We’ll need supplies.”  

“Are you sure she can’t go alone?” Grover asked. “I mean, she got the prophecy...”  

“Grover,” Chiron said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You will be joining them.”  

Grover went very still. “Oh. Hooray.”  

Annabeth takes a deep breath “So we leave when?”  

“Tomorrow at dawn,” Chiron said. “You’ll travel west. Begin your journey with the mortal world, blend in. We’ll get you passes for the Amtrak train—there’s a dryad on the Boston line who owes me a favor.”  

“Dawn,” Percy repeated, already exhausted. “And they say the gods are dramatic.”  

Chiron smiled faintly. “Rest, Perseus. Both of you. You’ll need it.”  

Percy winced. “Can we not with the full name?”  

Chiron raised an eyebrow.  

Percy muttered, “It’s loud.”  

Percy was halfway to the door before he stopped, turned, and narrowed his eyes.  

“Wait.”  

Chiron looked up from the scroll he was unrolling.  

“You said earlier that you had some idea of where the master bolt might be.”  

Chiron hesitated. “Yes.”  

“Well?”  

Chiron laced his fingers, resting his hands atop the scroll. “I believe the thief is Hades.”  

Percy’s eyes narrowed. “The god of the Underworld.”  

“Indeed,” Chiron said, nodding. “Think, Percy. If Zeus and Poseidon weaken each other in a war, who stands to gain? Someone with a grudge. Someone who’s been forced into isolation. Someone who—”  

“Chiron,” Percy said slowly, “I don’t mean to be rude.”  

A beat.  

“But I’m probably about to sound really rude.”  

Grover froze. Annabeth straightened, watching him carefully.  

Chiron’s brows lifted. “Excuse me?”  

“Do you base your knowledge of the gods on pop culture?”  

The silence was deafening.  

“Young man,” Chiron said, affronted, “I have witnessed the rise and fall of empires. I have trained over a thousand heroes—”  

“Great,” Percy said flatly. “Then name one ancient source—not a Disney adaptation—where Hades is the bad guy.”  

Chiron reared back slightly, confusion flickering across his face.  

Percy went on, the words pouring out faster now, a cadence like ritual, or reckoning.  

“With Persephone—he asked for her hand. From her father. That’s more than some gods have done. And she became queen. Not a captive.”  

The fire in the hearth shuddered.  

“He let Heracles borrow Cerberus. Under one condition: don’t hurt him.”  

The books on the nearby shelves trembled.  

“He let Orpheus walk out of the Underworld with Eurydice, no trick, no deception. He just said: don’t look back.”  

The shadows deepened around Percy’s shoulders. Behind him on the wall, the faint outline of wings—lightless and vast—flickered once.  

“The punishments he gave out?” Percy’s voice trembled now—not with fear, but with the effort of folding power into something small enough to speak aloud. “Sisyphus. Theseus. Pirithous. They earned it.”  

Chiron opened his mouth—but no words came.  

“And he doesn’t need to start wars. He doesn’t need thrones. Because everyone ends up in his kingdom. Every god. Every mortal. Every soul. Eventually. All a war gives him is more corpses to count . More spirits to house. More work.”  

Chiron looked pale. Grover swallowed audibly.  

Percy folded his arms, eyes glittering silver-green. “If anything, there’s one god who benefits from war. From chaos. From brothers turning on each other.”  

Annabeth tilted her head. “You’re not saying—”  

“Ares,” Percy said plainly. “It’s Ares.”  

Chiron’s mouth opened. Closed.  

“Ares?” Grover repeated. “But—but he’s an Olympian. He wouldn’t—”  

“He would,” Percy said. “He would, and he has. He thrives on conflict. He always has. The older myths? They hated him. The Greeks didn’t even pretend to like him. They saw him for what he was—rage and fire and the sound of a thousand bones breaking. He doesn’t build. He doesn’t plan. He doesn’t govern. He burns things down.”  

No one spoke.  

“The gods always say they want peace,” Percy continued softly, “but none of them trust each other. So what happens if someone lights a match? Just one spark between Zeus and Poseidon—”  

“And suddenly the whole world is a battlefield,” Annabeth whispered. “And who wins in that?”  

“The God of War. Always sidelined. Always the tool, never the throne. Starting a war between the gods? That gives him power. Purpose. Center stage.”  

Grover whispered, “That’s… actually smart.”  

Percy’s grace folded itself again, wings vanishing. He looked smaller. Not weaker—just… quieter.  

“I’m not saying it isn’t Hades,” Percy said softly. “But we’re pointing fingers at the wrong shadows. And some of us should know better.”  

Chiron exhaled through his nose. “That… complicates things.”  

“No,” Percy said. “It clarifies things.”  

Annabeth looked thoughtful now. “If it is Ares… we’ll need to be careful.”  

“We always did,” Percy said. “But if we’re going to walk into a god’s trap, I’d prefer to know which god we’re upsetting.”  

“Multiple,” Grover mumbled.  

“Definitely multiple,” Percy agreed.  

Chiron looked very tired now.  

“You’re going to make this very difficult for the Council, Perseus.”  

Percy gave a humorless smile. “I seem to have a talent for that.”  

He stood, brushing off his pants, wings flickering faintly behind him like a shadow only he could see.  

“Well then,” he said. “If we’re leaving at dawn, I’d like to go pack. And maybe find a muffin.”  

“Percy—” Chiron started.  

“I’ll apologize to Ares if I’m wrong,” Percy said, already walking toward the door. “But something tells me I’m not.”  

And with that, he stepped out into the hallway, already pulling his hoodie up over his curls, shadow at his heels and quiet rage at his back.  

Annabeth watched the doorway.  

“…We are bringing him,” she said.  

Grover, still stunned, only nodded.  

Chapter Text

Apollo, god of many things—of sun and song, of medicine and prophecy, of poetry and plagues —had cultivated, over the eons, a delicate internal balance.  

Each aspect of himself sang in harmony.  

His prophetic self never shouted over his musical self. His healing instinct knew when to yield to the part of him that wielded truth like a scalpel. Even his temper (which occasionally flared like solar winds) knew to take a breath before setting things on fire.  

In short, Apollo had it together . Mostly.  

So when the tremor started—one that crackled across the fabric of fate like a harp string snapping—he paused in the middle of tuning his lyre.  

A strange pressure curled in his lungs.  

Then a sound.  

Not words. Not yet.  

Just hisssss— the unmistakable sound of the Oracle channeling.  

Apollo tilted his head. “That’s odd. I wasn’t expecting a prophecy this early in the season.”  

Then something hit him.  

Not a thought. Not a vision. A wave.  

Thick and cold and wrapped in divine scent. Not his scent.  

Something older.  

Stronger.  

Protective.  

And then—pain.  

Apollo choked.  

Literally.  

He dropped his lyre. Staggered back. Coughing violently as green smoke curled out of his mouth  

He didn’t smell it. He felt it—like a ripple in the bloodstream of reality, thick and serpentine, crawling up the back of his throat with the sour twist of interruption. The world buckled—once, twice—and Apollo’s knees gave out.  

He collapsed to the marble floor of his solar sanctum, clutching his throat, choking on air that wasn’t his anymore.  

A half-formed vision tried to shove its way out of his mind. He saw snakes. Chains snapping. A boy with wings folded too tightly and eyes that refused to be read. The Oracle. Delphi’s breath. Snakes recoiling. A voice. A force—older than even him, divine and maternal and wild as a thunderstorm in silk gloves—slamming down between prophecy and child like a wall of divine fur and fang.  

He felt the Oracle choke. 
He felt prophecy abort itself. 
He felt something rewrite the moment before the breath could speak it. 

“Too many threads,” Apollo gasped. “They tangled the loom—who tangles the loom?”  

He fell.  

Face-first.  

In his own temple.  

Clutching his ribs like the prophecy itself had reached inside and twisted.  

“I—am—not—supposed to—see—” he gasped between fits, green mist spilling from his lips.  

Far above, the sun dimmed slightly. The lyres on the wall began to whine.  

And that’s when Hermes kicked the temple doors open.  

“Okay, I felt that flare all the way from Crete and I—” He stopped, dead. Apollo was flat on the marble floor of his temple on Olympus, gasping for air and coughing up green smoke; it was… concerning.  

More concerning: Apollo’s eyes were glowing. Not in the usual dazzling, flirtatious, my-presence-is-an-eternal-dawn way.  

No. This was Oracle glow. Prophecy glow.  

“Apollo?” Hermes asked cautiously, stepping over a broken lyre and what looked like a half-written limerick singed at the edges. “Are you—are you supposed to be convulsing?”  

Apollo choked, arched his back with a sound like a cursed record skipping, and finally rasped out:  

“The boy won’t bend, he won’t be read / 
She guards his path with wings and thread / 
He broke the chain, he cracked the seal / 
And mother bear has claws of steel—” 

He gagged mid-line, rolled to the side, and coughed up a small puff of green mist that immediately tried to shape itself into a snake and slither away across the floor.  

Hermes stomped on it.  

The mist hissed and evaporated  

Apollo groaned. “It doesn’t rhyme…”  

Hermes blinked. “What?”  

“The prophecy. It doesn’t rhyme. It—choked.” Apollo opened his eyes, unfocused. “Something interrupted it. There was a boy. A boy who wasn’t supposed to be. He stood inside fate and said no.”  

Hermes looked visibly paler. “Boy?”  

Apollo sat up with effort, his golden hair sticking to his cheek. “He made the Oracle cough, Hermes. The Oracle. She gagged on her own mist.”  

Hermes slowly sat down beside him, dropping his delivery bag. “Oh gods. It’s the kid, isn’t it?”  

Apollo didn't answer immediately, “Who else? ‘Loki’s’ kid. Sea-silver eyes. Not mortal. Not godling. Too many shadows. Too much silence. He has something protecting him, oh, gods—”  

“What?”  

“I think it is his mother, ‘Loki’s’ sister. She was there, felt just like that time at the bookshop. In the green. In the mist. Like a bear with knives. She tore through Delphi like a mother shielding her cub. A protection tethered to him so tightly it slapped the Oracle across dimensions. I almost imploded, Hermes.”  

Apollo tried to take a breath. The air came in with a rattle. “She tried to speak. She did. But the boy’s shielding flared. Her words shattered. The prophecy rerouted. Not to him—to her.”  

“Who?”  

“The daughter of Athena,” Apollo hissed. “The smart one. The blonde.”  

Hermes blinked. “Annabeth Chase?”  

“Yes! The Oracle jumped tracks like a panicked train. I’ve never seen it. Never.”  

Hermes sat back slowly. “Okay. So the Oracle tried to give the kid a prophecy... and couldn’t.”  

“Not just couldn’t. Wasn’t allowed.”  

Apollo’s hands shook. “His mother’s protection came down like a wall of judgment. I tasted divine law.”  

Hermes whistled low. “That would explain the choking.”  

“I—rhyme-blocked, Hermes. I was rhyme-blocked. ME.”  

Hermes grimaced. “All right, all right. Come on. Let’s get you sitting upright before you start reciting broken couplets in your sleep.”  

He helped Apollo to a bench beside the incense pit, where the god flopped like a felled star.  

“A mother bear,” Apollo muttered again. “Teeth made of wrath. Eyes like absolution. I couldn’t even see her face.”  

Hermes crossed his arms. “So, the kid didn’t reject the prophecy.”  

Apollo looked up at him, dazed.  

“He didn’t reject it, Hermes. It never had a chance to touch him.”  

A long silence.  

Hermes hesitated. “Do we tell Dad?”  

“Absolutely not,” Apollo said at once. “If dad finds out there's a wild variable in play, he’ll turn it into a lightning contest and we’ll all suffer.”  

“Do you think Uncle P knows?”  

“I don’t know. If he knows he is hiding it well. You saw him . That’s a trickster build if I’ve ever seen one. There’s Norse coding in that boy. Eldritch spark. I don’t even know what pantheon half his syntax belongs to.”  

 “Chiron’s trying to fit him into a quest,” Hermes muttered.  

Apollo barked a sharp laugh. “Good luck containing that. He’s not just a player on the board—he’s the blank tile. He redefines rules by existing.”  

A beat.  

Then Hermes asked, softly: “Do you think he’ll break Olympus?”  

Apollo paused.  

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe he’ll remake it.”  

They sat together in silence.  

Chapter Text

The sky was still the color of thunder when Percy left the Big House.  

He walked back to the Hermes cabin with his hands in his hoodie pockets and his mind spiraling through about eight thoughts at once. Thunder gods, missing weapons, centaur politics, and the Oracle of Delphi choking on the divine equivalent of "No, thank you"—it had not been a relaxing morning.  

By the time he pushed open the Hermes cabin door, it was almost lunch. The usual chaos had mellowed into a hum—kids arguing over granola rations, Maya trying to untangle two enchanted shoelaces that had tied themselves into a very aggressive knot, and Chris reading something upside-down while pretending not to eavesdrop  

Chris was the first to speak. “Where’ve you been?”  

Percy scratched the back of his neck. “The Big House.”  

Maya narrowed her eyes. “You got a quest?”  

Percy hesitated. Then shook his head. “Not me.”  

A beat.  

“Annabeth,” he added. “She got the prophecy.”  

There was a pause—an almost comical record-scratch moment in the middle of the cabin. Everyone blinked at him like they’d expected a different answer.  

He didn’t mention the Oracle choking on divine protection. He didn’t say anything about his mom or the prophecy that had slithered toward him and then swerved like it hit barbed wire. No mention of the way the mummy still twitched when he got too close. He just stood there, holding the string of his hoodie like it was a lifeline.  

Jin, halfway through enchanting a paper frog to hop like a real one, let out a low whistle. “No offense, but… seriously?”  

There was a shuffle near the back of the room. Luke had gone still. A shirt hung forgotten in his hands, face unreadable.  

“You’re going with her?” Luke asked.  

Percy nodded. “She asked me to. She leads the quest.”  

Someone in the back muttered, “This place just got less boring.”  

Luke, leaning against the windowframe, didn’t speak right away. Percy glanced over, catching something flicker across his face—pale, quiet, sharp.  

No one else noticed. But Percy did.  

Percy tilted his head slightly, something uneasy in his chest. He didn’t ask. Didn’t press. Just watched the way Luke’s hand hovered over the knife like he’d forgotten it was there  

Then Luke smiled. Too quickly. “She got the prophecy, huh?”  

“She’ll be great,” Percy offered, trying not to sound like he’d noticed the pale tension lining Luke’s face. “She knows what she’s doing.”  

“She shouldn’t have to,” Luke muttered, mostly to himself.  

He crossed the room and clapped a hand on Percy’s shoulder. “Wait here,” he said, and disappeared into the hallway.  

When Luke came back, his expression was calm again, voice steady. “Hey. Take these.” He held out a worn pair of high-top sneakers, their soles gleaming faintly.  

Percy blinked. “Shoes?”  

 “They’ve got wings. Hermes special. They’ll help you keep up when things get... weird. Look, Maia! ”  

White bird’s wings sprouted out of its heels. The shoes flapped for a while until the wings folded up and disappeared.  

Percy looked at the shoes, then back at Luke.  

He wanted to say, Thanks, but I have my own wings—feathered and interdimensional and occasionally glitchy. 
But Sally Jackson had raised him to be polite, even when the gifts didn’t make sense. So he just smiled and took the shoes gently. 

Luke smiled. “Those served me well when I was on my quest. Gift from Dad. Of course, I don’t use them much these days... ” His expression turned sad.  

“Thanks,” Percy said. “That’s… really kind.”  

“You’ll need them.” Luke’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes  

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

That night, Percy returned to Cabin Three. Alone.  

Poseidon’s cabin was large and echoing, cool like the inside of a shell. The walls hummed with faint sea energy.  

He sat on the edge of his bed and started folding clothes. Precisely. Methodically. Soft hoodie, a few spare shirts, two sets of jeans, socks tucked into the corners like anchors. His toothbrush case clicked shut like a soft punctuation mark.  

The ritual steadied his breathing, gave his hands something to do.  

He folded his clothes in neat, even squares. Tucked sachets of rosemary and myrrh between the layers—not for luck, just for grounding. If he focused hard enough, maybe he wouldn’t have to think about the dream. Or the prophecy. Or the way the Oracle had looked at him before choking on whatever she wasn’t allowed to say.  

The winged shoes sat quietly in the corner of the room, still untouched.  

The door creaked. He didn’t look up.  

“I knocked,” said Annabeth’s voice. “But you didn’t answer.”  

“Sorry,” Percy murmured. “Guess I was focused.”  

She stepped into the doorway, golden hair braided back, her camp necklace gleaming faintly under the pale light of the storm.  

She looked... taut. Not nervous, exactly. More like someone with a compass needle spinning in her chest.  

“Hey,” she said. “Mind if I come in?”  

Percy shrugged. “I don’t think my dad would care.”  

Annabeth stepped inside, careful not to knock over the stack of books Percy had arranged by color gradient on his side table. She glanced at the space—clean, symmetrical, full of quiet presence—and seemed surprised.  

“You packed already?”  

Percy nodded. “I like to be ready early. Chaos tends to arrive ahead of schedule.”  

She sat down on the bed beside his, her body tense but her voice even. “Are you really okay with this?” she asked. “Coming with me?”  

Percy looked up.  

Her expression was guarded, but her hands were clasped a little too tightly.  

Percy blinked at her. “Do you want the real answer or the polite one?”  

She walked in and sat on the bed across from him. “Real.”  

Percy ran a hand through his curls. “No. I’m not okay, I’m overwhelmed. I’m anxious. I hate public transportation, enclosed spaces, and attention. And if Grover keeps looking at me like he smells citrus sin on my soul, I might cry. Also, someone’s probably going to try to kill us by day three.”  

Annabeth just looked at him.  

Then nodded once. “Fair.”  

Percy glanced up. “You’re okay with leading?”  

“I’ve wanted this since I was seven,” she said softly. “And now I have it. So, yeah. Even if it wasn’t how I imagined.”  

She met his eyes again. “But I want you on this quest. Not because of the prophecy. Not because of whatever you did to the Oracle. Just because... I think you see things other people don’t.”  

Percy smiled, a slow thing with no teeth. “My school says I’m a very perceptive nonconformist.”  

“That sounds like a diagnosis.”  

“Probably.”  

They sat in silence for a while.  

He looked over at her. “You sure about this?”  

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she said.  

Percy didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. They sat in silence for a while, the storm clouds outside flashing now and then, thunder rolling like a slow heartbeat.  

Far across the camp, Chiron prepared maps and messages. Grover tried not to cry in a supply closet. The Oracle slumbered uneasily. The gods watched. The sky churned.  

But for a little while, in Cabin Three, it was just two kids sitting on a bed.  

Preparing to walk into the end of the world.  

Chapter Text

The camp store issued them one hundred mortal dollars each—crisp bills that smelled like starch and anxiety—and twenty golden drachmas, big as Girl Scout cookies, stamped with the gods on one side and the Empire State Building on the other. Ancient drachmas had been silver, Chiron had told them, but Olympians didn’t do anything halfway. Gold or nothing. Chiron added that they might come in handy for “non-mortal transactions.” Whatever that meant. 

He handed Annabeth and Percy each a small silver canteen of nectar and a ziplock bag full of ambrosia squares. Emergency use only, Chiron reminded them. “It’ll heal most wounds, but too much and it’ll burn you from the inside out.” 

Percy took his reluctantly. He wasn’t exactly sure if the usual rules applied to him—but he wasn’t going to test that theory on a road trip. 

Annabeth packed her Yankees cap—magic, she said, a gift from her mom—and tucked a long bronze knife up her sleeve. She also brought a battered book on classical architecture written in Ancient Greek. Percy briefly wondered if she could read it upside down with one eye closed. Probably. 

Grover, meanwhile, packed a full sack of apples, a satchel of scrap metal for... reasons, and a set of reed pipes. He could only play two songs: one by Mozart, one by Hilary Duff. Neither sounded good on pipes. The less said, the better. 

“I snack when I’m nervous,” Grover said. “And also when I’m bored. And sometimes when I’m happy.” 

“So, always.” 

“Exactly.” 

They said goodbye to the strawberry fields, the shimmer of the ocean, and the Big House wrapped in stormlight. The air buzzed with something unspoken—worry, magic, and salt. Thunderheads loomed above Half-Blood Hill. 

At the top, Chiron waited in wheelchair form beside a man who looked like someone had turned a beach volleyball coach into a Greek myth. 

“That’s Argus,” Grover muttered. “Security chief. Has eyes... everywhere.” 

Argus wore a chauffeur’s uniform. Eyes blinked on his face, his neck, even his hands. Percy tried not to imagine how many blinked under his sleeves. 

“He’ll drive you into the city,” Chiron said, “and... keep an eye on things.” 

No one laughed at the pun. 

As Percy hoisted his bag into the back of the van, he paused, tugging at the winged sneakers tied to the outside. 

“You won’t be able to use them,” Chiron said gently. 

“It’s fine. My mom said not to antagonize Zeus unnecessarily.” 

“Wise woman.” 

“Grover,” Percy said, turning. “You want a magic item?” 

Grover’s eyes got so big he looked like someone had offered him an eternal salad bar. “Me?” 

Ten minutes later, the world’s first flying satyr launched sideways down the hill like a lawnmower possessed by the ghost of a minor wind god. The winged sneakers bucked and skidded through the grass, dragging him in wide arcs. 

“Practice!” Chiron called. “You just need practice!” 

Percy turned to follow, only for Chiron to catch his arm. 

“I should’ve trained you better,” Chiron said, his voice tight. “Hercules, Jason—they had years. You had days.” 

“That’s okay.” Percy didn’t mention that he’d been learning swordsmanship since he was nine. That his mother and uncle had taught him to move like wind and strike like rain. 

“What am I thinking?” Chiron muttered. “I can’t let you leave without this.” 

He pulled something from his coat pocket. A pen. 

Percy frowned. “Thanks?” 

“Take the cap off.” 

The pen shimmered and unfolded into a bronze sword—well-balanced, double-edged, warm to the touch. Not quite like his own blade, the one he kept tucked beyond the folds of the world, but close enough. 

“It’s called Anaklusmos,” Chiron said. “Riptide. Use it against monsters, never mortals. It’s celestial bronze—Cyclopean-forged, Lethe-cooled, tempered in Etna’s heart. It won’t harm mortals... not because it can’t, but because it won’t recognize them.” 

“Sounds considerate,” Percy muttered. 

“You, however, are vulnerable to both mortal and divine weapons.” 

Percy wasn't really in the mood to explain to Chiron that it takes a little more than normal weapons to hurt him, so he just stayed quiet 

“Recap it.” 

He touched the tip of the blade with the pen cap, and it snapped back into place, small and unassuming. 

Percy tucked it into his pocket with a murmur. “I mean, it's no metaphysical soul-bound blade, but I guess this works too.” 

Chiron closed his eyes briefly. “Please be careful.” 

Percy just nodded and jogged down the hill. 

The city swallowed them fast. Grey buildings. A million sounds. Car horns. Footsteps. The shriek of a pigeon who had seen too much. 

Argus dropped them at the Greyhound station on the Upper East Side, and after making sure they got their tickets, he pulled away, one eye still watching them from the back of his hand. 

Percy slipped his noise-canceling headphones over his curls and headed for a bench. 

“You okay?” Annabeth asked, falling into step beside him. 

He nodded, then pulled The Subtle Knife from his bag and flipped it open to where he’d left off. 

Annabeth managed ten minutes before she got twitchy. “That’s not English,” she said. 

Percy lowered one earcup. “It’s the German edition.” 

“You speak German?” 

“French and Greek too.” 

She gaped. “You learned that at school?” 

“French and German, yes. We start at six.” 

“Your school sounds insane. I had dryads,” she muttered. “They taught me geometry by building mazes.” 

Percy just smiled and went back to his book. 

The bus arrived. They boarded. The three of them settled into the back half, Grover already nibbling an apple core. 

As the last passengers got on, Annabeth clamped her hand onto Percy’s knee. 

“Percy.” 

Her voice was tight. He followed her gaze. 

Three old women boarded the bus. One in orange velvet, another in green, the third in purple. All wore shapeless hats, carried paisley handbags, and had eyes like obsidian beads. Too dark. Too deep. 

The bus rumbled to life. 

Percy blinked. “They’re not human.” 

“They’re the Furies,” Annabeth whispered. “Worst monsters from the Underworld. No big deal. We’re fine. We’ll just—just slip out the window.” 

They sat in the front row. Their legs crossed over the aisle—an X. No escape. 

“Calm down.” 

Percy stood. 

Annabeth grabbed his sleeve. “Percy, don’t—!” 

He gently pulled away. 

Percy walked to the front of the bus and stopped in front of the first Fury. “Excuse me, ma’am. Would you allow us to disembark at the next stop to speak under the laws of xenia?” 

The Fury blinked. 

She blinked at him. Then tilted her head, intrigued. “You’re a strange one.” 

“I get that a lot.” 

She turned to the others. There was a murmur of something ancient. Dust and judgment. 

“Very well,” she said. “But do not try to run, dear.” 

“No, ma’am.” 

Percy turned and walked calmly back to his seat. 

Annabeth and Grover looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Possibly a third. 

“What. Was. That?” Annabeth hissed, holding his arm with both hands, making Percy flinch at the sudden contact. “You—you just invited the Kindly Ones to talk?” Annabeth hissed. 

“They’re servants of the Underworld,” Percy said, adjusting his headphones. “It makes no sense for them to be hunting for the bolt; they have no reason to harm us. The laws of hospitality bind them if we’re peaceful.” 

“You didn’t consult me.” 

“You wanted to jump out of a moving vehicle.” 

“I’m the quest leader!” 

“I’m still alive, so let’s call it a win.” 

She stared at Percy, speechless. 

He slid his headphones back into place. 

Grover whispered, “I think he’s gone full divine diplomat.” 

Annabeth glared at the back of Percy’s head for a solid minute before she sat back in her seat, arms crossed. 

Outside, the sky had darkened again. 

Rain tapped faintly at the windows. 

In the front row, three ancient creatures waited with the patience of the dead. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

It took nearly an hour for the bus to grind its way through the fog-choked pine roads and screech to a stop at a forgotten gas station that looked like it hadn’t sold actual gas since the Carter administration. The sign out front flickered OPEN in desperate neon. The only other living thing nearby was a buzzard sitting on a rusted payphone. 

The tension in the air had grown so thick it was practically molasses. Grover had eaten his third tin can in complete silence, chewing like it was his last defense against spontaneous fainting. Annabeth sat with her arms crossed so tightly across her chest that she might’ve sprained something, glaring at Percy with the righteous fury of a girl whose co-leader had committed diplomacy without permission. 

Percy, naturally, was halfway through The Subtle Knife and making notes in the margins with a mechanical pencil. 

The Furies, seated just a few rows ahead, would turn to glance at him every so often. Like predators trying to decide if the deer was worth the calories. 

The bus hissed to a halt. 

Only six passengers disembarked. 

Annabeth’s grip on her knife was white-knuckled. Grover clutched his reed pipes like he was preparing to play them as a eulogy. The three Furies stepped off last—velvet dresses brushing the dusty curb, handbags like relics from a fashion era that never existed. 

The bus door closed. The vehicle pulled away. 

They were alone. 

The wind picked up—just a little. Enough to ruffle feathers no one could see and to make Percy’s curls shift like sea foam under moonlight. 

And then he snapped his fingers. 

A shimmer of grace folded out into the parking lot like spilled ink blooming on parchment. 

Where there had been cracked pavement and a discarded oil drum, there now stood a full table: dark mahogany, carved with storm spirals, six high-backed chairs, and an elaborate tea service in bone-white porcelain. Finger sandwiches, black grapes, soft cheeses, and preserved fruits appeared on delicate silver trays. The tea kettle hissed gently, aromatic steam curling like a cat around the setting. 

I’d offer wine,” Percy said as he pulled back a chair, “but I’m twelve, so the grapes will have to do.” 

He placed Riptide—still in pen form—on the side table. A second snap, and his angel blade coalesced beside it in a soft shimmer of light, utterly out of place in the mundane morning gloom. The blade gave off no heat, but the shadows retreated from it anyway. 

He sat. 

Hands folded politely in his lap. 

And waited. 

Annabeth’s jaw actually dropped. Grover made a noise somewhere between a bleat and a gasp. He didn’t sit. He just stood slightly behind Percy’s chair like he wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t a dream—or a very polite execution. 

The Furies stared. 

Then the one in green velvet stepped forward—Alecto, Percy thought. The eldest. Her eyes narrowed. 

“You know who we are.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Percy said politely. “The Erinyes. The Kindly Ones. Born of Uranus’ blood and Gaia’s rage. Instruments of vengeance. And enforcers of old law.” 

Megaera tilted her head. “You’re no demigod.” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“Not godspawn either,” murmured Tisiphone, voice dry as old parchment. “You’re something... else.” 

Percy didn’t answer. Just gestured to the table. 

Alecto sniffed the air. “We felt you when we boarded the bus. A child who carried both ocean and judgment. Your presence distorted the mortal veil. That is... rare.” 

The Furies exchanged glances. 

Then they stepped forward and took their seats, velvet skirts folding neatly around iron ankles. Their handbags settled with audible thuds. Grover looked like he might pass out. Annabeth remained standing, hand hovering near her knife. 

Percy poured the tea, steady and deliberate. 

“You have hospitality,” Alecto said. Her voice was ancient and rough, like a blade dragged through wet marble. 

“I do,” Percy said quietly. “You are guests. While we sit, we speak as equals. No harm shall come.” 

The three Furies inclined their heads in unison. 

Annabeth and Grover exchanged another look—somewhere between we are going to die here and what the actual Tartarus is happening. 

“We were sent,” Tisiphone said, “to retrieve a stolen item.” 

Percy tilted his head. 

“What item?” he asked carefully. 

None of the Furies answered. 

Something flickered in Percy’s eyes. He sat back in his chair, hands still folded neatly, but his wings—faint outlines in the dark—tensed like thread under strain. 

“If you were sent by your Lord,” Percy said softly, “and he believes this item is his—then you are not here on The Lord of the Sky’s behalf.” 

A pause. 

A long one. 

Wind passed over the table, cool and dry, like breath from an old tomb. 

“Correct,” Alecto said. 

Grover looked like he might actually pass out. Annabeth sat like stone, but her eyes were racing. Calculating. 

Percy looked at the three of them in turn. 

He reached up and pressed two fingers over his own heart, where a faint warmth pulsed, where his grace hummed under the skin. 

“As agents of vengeance,” Percy said, his voice clear and measured, “you have the ability to weigh the soul. To sense transgression. I stand here by the laws of Xenia. I claim innocence under the old laws. I have broken no oaths. I have stolen nothing.” 

The three Furies stepped closer. No shadows. No tricks. 

Just pressure. 

Something like static air and boiling silence. The kind of presence that made skin crawl and breath go shallow. They didn’t touch him. But their gaze raked across his soul like fingers checking for loose seams. 

Annabeth and Grover held their breath. Annabeth’s hand was on her knife. Grover looked ready to bolt, sneakers and all. 

The Furies inhaled—one long, slow breath. 

Then the first spoke. 

“You are clean.” 

Tisiphone nodded once. Megaera didn’t speak—but her arms loosened, just slightly. 

“Then I am not your quarry,” Percy said. “Which means I am not your enemy.” 

He picked up a grape and rolled it slowly between his fingers. “Someone stole something. And someone wants to frame me for it. But not everyone agrees with the lie.” 

Alecto studied him like one might study a riddle carved into the side of a sarcophagus. 

“You are not what you appear,” she said. “You wear skin that was never only human.” 

“I’m used to that,” Percy said softly. “But the question remains. If your Lord did not steal the lightning bolt—why would he send you to chase it?” 

Annabeth sat forward. “Unless—he’s not chasing it. He’s watching who is.” 

The Furies said nothing. 

Percy exhaled. “You’re not the punishment. You’re the warning.” 

Alecto’s teacup clinked softly as she set it down. 

“Watch the road ahead, Perseus Jackson,” she said. “Not all monsters wear fangs. Not all thieves steal for themselves.” 

Percy nodded. “Then may I ask a favor?” 

Megaera’s eyebrows rose. “You would ask the Kindly Ones for a favor?” 

Percy held her gaze. “A small one.” 

“Speak.” 

“If, on your path, you encounter the one who actually did steal the bolt—before we do—would you leave them alive long enough for us to ask them some questions?” 

The three of them exchanged another look. 

Then Tisiphone smiled—sharp and slow. “If you survive long enough to reach them, child… they’re yours.” 

Percy bowed his head in thanks. 

Annabeth looked like she’d aged five years. 

Megaera turned and began walking toward the edge of the station. The shadows opened around her like a mouth. 

Tisiphone followed. Then Alecto. 

The three of them turned to mist, then dust, then silence. 

Annabeth didn’t speak for a long moment. 

Then she turned to Percy and hissed, “What is wrong with you?!” 

Percy blinked at her. He sat motionless in his chair, eyes glazed, breath shallow—like a string had been plucked too hard inside him and left him humming with aftershock. 

Annabeth waved a hand toward the now-empty parking lot. “You invited The Furies to tea, Percy! You snapped your fingers and conjured—what was that? A dining set?! You just sat there like—like they weren’t terrifying! And then they left like you were the scary one! What. Was. That?!” 

Grover peeked from behind the gas station sign. “Are they gone? Did we all survive? Are we cursed now? Did I eat the cursed grapes?” 

Percy still didn’t speak. 

Annabeth turned on him again. “Percy!” 

<Please don’t shout.> 

The voice wasn’t spoken. It slipped into her head like a ripple across a still lake. 

Annabeth froze. 

Grover went dead quiet. 

<Sorry,> Percy said, this time to both of them. <Just… too much noise. Too many eyes. Too many teeth. I don’t want to talk right now. Not out loud. > 

Annabeth stared. “Are you—are you in my head?!” 

<It’s quieter,> Percy offered gently. <And I didn’t feel like shouting.> 

Grover looked at him with wide eyes. “Can you—can you always do that?” 

He nodded. 

<I do it mainly when I’m tired. Or when everything else is too loud.> 

Annabeth stared. Her expression was unreadable—half calculating, half trying not to be impressed. “You didn’t mention you could do that.” 

<You didn’t ask.> 

Grover looked at him like he’d just realized Percy had more layers than the Earth’s crust. “That was in my head. Like—inside.” 

Percy didn’t meet their eyes. He just kept rubbing the charm. 

<I’m sorry. I know it’s weird.> 

Annabeth stared for another beat. 

Then exhaled through her nose and muttered, “Fine. But next time you plan a meeting with death spirits—tell me first.” 

Grover raised his hand. “And maybe less tea. Just… maybe juice boxes.” 

Percy didn’t reply. Just reached for the pen on the side table and let it vanish into his pocket again before doing the same to his other blade. 

The table dissolved back into nothing. 

He stood, wings half-flickering behind his shoulders, almost visible in the fading dusk. 

<Can we go now?> 

Annabeth didn’t answer right away. 

But when she finally stood beside him and nodded, it wasn’t with fear. 

It was with wonder. 

“Yeah,” she said, voice quiet. “Let’s go.” 

Grover slung on his backpack. “Remind me to ask if that tea counted against our lunch budget.” 

And with that, the three of them began walking west. 

Just three kids. And a hundred thousand secrets between them. 

Chapter Text

The road stretched ahead, dusty and cracked, the storm clouds offering some protection from the sun. There weren’t many cars. Just the occasional semi rumbling by like a growling god half-asleep at the wheel. 

They’d been walking for a while, the sounds of the bus station long behind them. The tension from the Fury encounter still clung to the edges of their clothes like smoke. 

Percy walked in the middle, head bowed, shoulders tight. His fingers toyed relentlessly with his seahorse charm, thumb flicking over the ridges of the tiny carved fins. His other hand kept raking through his curls until they stood in soft, stormy waves 

Then he made a frustrated sound—low, rough, like a pressure valve failing to hold. 

Annabeth paused mid-step. “Percy?” 

He didn’t answer right away, still twisting the cord around his fingers, eyes flickering in a strange rhythm—stormlight thoughts on a mortal clock. 

“Percy, talk to me.” 

“This doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. 

“What doesn’t?” Grover asked, panting slightly under his backpack. 

Percy’s wings, still hidden, flickered faintly in the air behind him. “The timing. The symmetry. It’s too… clean.” 

He looked up, eyes luminous and sharp, sea-glass and silver all at once. 

“First, the master bolt is stolen. Then something from the  Lord of the Underworld vanishes. And then, at the same time, The Sea openly claims a child for the first time in decades?” 

“I thought we already established someone was trying to frame you?” Grover offered. 

“Yes,” Percy said, “but at first, I thought it might be the God of War. That made sense. He thrives on war. He’d love to light the match.” 

Annabeth crossed her arms. “But now?” 

Percy’s voice dropped. “Now I think… this isn’t his style.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Percy exhaled slowly. His wings shimmered faintly—just enough to ripple the air behind his shoulders. 

“He isn’t a strategist. He’s a symbol of the battlefield’s raw edge. Rage. Blood. The crush of the front line. He doesn’t plan. He charges. He taunts. He leaves ruin. But this—” He gestured around them, invisible strings tangled in the evening air. “—this is a gameboard. With carefully placed pieces. With misdirection and timing, and control.” 

Annabeth went still, before a frown appeared on her face. “Are you trying to accuse my mom of something!?” 

“No,” Percy said. “Your mom’s a planner, yes, but too proud to do this in the shadows. She wouldn’t need to frame anyone. Whoever’s behind this—whoever’s setting the stage—it’s someone who understands divine politics and mythic psychology. Someone who benefits if Sky and Sea destroy each other—and if the Lord of Underworld looks guilty, too.” 

Grover swallowed. “So… not a god?” 

“Or someone hiding like they’re not one,” Percy said. “Or worse—someone who is, but forgotten. Out of favor. Pushed to the margins of Olympus like spilled wine.” 

They fell silent as the road curved ahead. 

They kept walking until they saw a deserted two-lane road through the trees, sunburned and silent. A single vulture circled overhead. On the other side of the road was a closed-down gas station, a tattered billboard for a 1990s action movie peeling into paper flakes, and one open business, which was the source of the flickering neon light and the faint, inexplicably good smell of grilled meat. 

It wasn’t a fast-food restaurant. 

It was one of those weird roadside curio shops that sold cement dragons and bear statues and lawn gnomes and resin angels holding mailboxes. The main building was a long, squat warehouse surrounded by acres of statuary. Tucked between the gravel parking lot and the worn asphalt was a wrought-iron gate topped with a flickering neon sign. 

Annabeth squinted. “What does that say?” 

Percy, without thinking, read aloud, “Aunty Em’s Garden Gnome Emporium.” 

There was a pause. 

“You can read that?” Her brows lifted. “Wait… you’re not dyslexic?” 

Percy hummed in response, noncommittal. She was just now noticing? 

Flanking the entrance, two cement garden gnomes stood frozen mid-wave, teeth bared in ugly little grins. 

Annabeth sniffed the air. “Burgers.” 

She crossed the street before either of them could object. 

Grover stopped at the curb. “Something’s off. I smell—” He paused, nostrils twitching. “Not food.” 

Percy glanced at him. “She’s the quest leader. We’re following her, right?” 

They followed. 

The lot was a nightmare of cement. Stone deer mid-prance. Children frozen in the middle of hopscotch. A satyr playing pipes, too lifelike to be funny. 

“Bla-ha-ha,” Grover bleated nervously. “That looks like my Uncle Ferdinand.” 

They stopped at the warehouse door. 

“Don’t knock,” Grover whispered. “I smell monsters.” 

“Your nose is still messed up from the Furies,” Annabeth replied. “All I smell is burgers. Aren’t you hungry?” 

“Meat,” Grover muttered with disgust. “I’m a vegetarian.” 

Percy didn’t say anything. He barely eats anyway. His appetite had never followed normal rules, and right now, something about the place was chewing at the edges of his thoughts. 

“Let’s leave,” Grover said. 

But the warehouse door creaked open. 

A tall woman stood in shadow, draped head to toe in black, her face veiled. Her voice was smooth, rich, the accent vaguely Mediterranean. Her hands were dark, beautiful, and well-manicured. 

“Children,” she said, “it is late. Where are your parents?” 

Annabeth opened her mouth. Percy gave her a look—he was a terrible liar, and didn't trust Annabeth’s improvisation much more. 

“School trip,” she said smoothly. “We got separated from the bus.” 

The woman tilted her head. “Poor things. Come in. Let me make you something to eat.” 

They exchanged glances. Annabeth eventually followed 

Leader rules, Percy thought with a sigh. He followed. 

The warehouse interior was somehow worse than the outside. Dim. Still. Lined with statues—life-sized humans in various outfits. Tourists. Hikers. A businessman in a panic. A woman in jogging gear reaching for a phone. All with the same expression: horror, disbelief, a cry frozen in stone. 

The door clicked shut behind them. 

“Please,” the woman said. “Sit.” 

Grover looked like he wanted to bolt. Percy didn’t blame him. 

But Annabeth was already lowering herself into a chair. 

Percy sighed. “Leader rules.” 

He followed. 

Their hostess disappeared behind the snack counter and started cooking. Before they knew it, she’d brought them plastic trays heaped with double cheeseburgers, vanilla shakes, and XXL servings of French fries.  

Percy wasn't a fan of fast food, as his mom always made sure that his food was homemade and natural, so he choose not to touch the food, Grover picked at the fries, and eyed the tray’s waxed paper liner as if he might go for that, but he still looked too nervous to eat. 

Aunty Em ate nothing. She hadn’t taken off her headdress, even to cook, and now she sat forward and interlaced her fingers and watched them eat. 

She turns to Percy, "Is everything all right, dear? You haven't touched your food." 

 "I'm not hungry, ma'am, thank you," Percy says absentmindedly 

Her head tilted. “You would reject my hospitality, Perseus ?” 

That did it. 

His attention snapped back into his body. 

The way she said his name—Perseus—was too precise. Like she’d been practicing it for centuries. Like it meant something to her. 

“Ma’am?” Percy said, listening—really listening, his ears sharpening beyond mortal range. The hissing was louder now. Like dry leaves scraping glass. Like breath that didn’t come from lungs. 

You would reject my hospitality,” she said again. “I went to all this trouble. For you.” 

Percy didn’t blink. “I didn’t say no. I said I wasn’t hungry.” 

Her voice darkened. “Still. It wounds me.” 

Her sadness wasn’t fake. That made it worse. It wrapped around the truth like thorns. 

“You have a lovely garden,” Percy said softly, gaze sweeping over the life-sized figures near the kitchen. One—a teenager in modern jeans and a hoodie—had his arms lifted in front of his face, as if trying to block something unseen. 

The shape of terror. 

Another statue, a woman in hiking gear, had tears carved into the stone of her cheeks. 

That wasn’t art. 

That was witness. 

And then—click—Percy’s mind caught up. 

Statues. Hissing. The veiled woman. 

The warehouse wasn’t just a curio shop. 

It was a crypt. 

Annabeth’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Percy.” 

He turned. Her face had gone pale. Her fingers were reaching—slowly, carefully—for the hilt of the knife up her sleeve. Grover was already trembling. 

Aunty Em sighed. 

“Children,” she said. “Always so rude these days. My sisters would be appalled.” 

“Your sisters?” Percy repeated. 

“You may know them,” Aunty Em said. “Or you may not. Few mortals remember the old ways. They forget our names. Our sacrifices.” 

She stood slowly, her height stretching impossibly long as she moved toward them. The hissing grew louder—just behind the veil. 

Annabeth’s eyes widened. 

Grover whimpered. “Oh gods—” 

Percy stood up in one motion, the chair scraping back loudly. “Annabeth, Grover, don’t look at her.” 

A pause. 

Annabeth didn’t argue. She shifted immediately, dropping her eyes and pulling Grover by the wrist. 

“You see, don’t you?” Aunty Em said, her voice now echoing with something wrong. “You aren’t blind like the rest. You know me.” 

“Medusa,” Percy whispered. 

The veil dropped. 

The snakes writhed and hissed, emerald-scaled and coiling, gleaming like wet blades. Her eyes—solid gold—flashed. 

Immediately, Percy's wings manifest fully, shielding him and the others from her petrifying gaze; he didn’t draw the angel blade, not for her. She wasn’t his enemy —just a cursed soul long abandoned by the gods. 

He yanked the bronze pen from his pocket.  

Riptide shimmered into his hand.  

Medusa hissed in frustration.  

“I’m not here to hurt you.” 

“Liar. You come from his line. His betrayal. I was cursed because of him. Turned into this.” 

Percy moved slowly, circling. “I know your story. You were a priestess of Athena. Until...” He trails off uncomfortably 

“I was used. By a god. And punished for it.” 

The snakes writhed. 

“My sisters stayed with me. They paid for my curse. They died for it.” 

“I’m sorry,” Percy said, and meant it. “But hurting more people won’t bring them back. I won't let you hurt my friends,” Percy said, circling wide, keeping the blade low. 

“Your friends,” Medusa spat. “Do they know what you are, little half-born?” 

 Percy flinched—but didn’t rise to it. “They know enough.” 

"Do they?" Medusa said again, quieter this time. Not gentler—more certain. Like a truth she’d seen reflected in a thousand statues. 

“You don’t belong to the gods, Perseus. You’re not of them. You’re not even one of us. You’re something else. And they will never accept you. Not really.” 

The snakes hissed and tangled around her face like a living crown, their eyes glittering like flecks of malachite. One struck the air, venom stringing off its fangs in a thread of gold. 

“When you are no longer useful,” she said, stepping closer, “they will cast you down. Into darkness. Into silence. That’s what they do with their mistakes.” 

“Enough,” Percy said, his voice low. His grip on Riptide tightened. The blade hummed in his hand. 

But Medusa wasn’t done. Her golden eyes narrowed behind the writhing veil of serpents. 

“You think your father is different?” she said, lip curling. “You think Poseidon cares?” 

She stepped around a statue of a stone nymph, brushing its cheek almost tenderly. 

“He called himself the Earthshaker. The Father of Horses. The Tamer of Storms. But did you know he has another name, little one? A forgotten name.” 

She leaned forward, voice full of old venom. “Father of Monsters.” 

Percy froze. 

“He gave birth to more monsters than children. More terror than heroes. Polyphemus. Charybdis. Scylla. Not accidents. Not aberrations. Offspring.” 

She circled him slowly now, barefoot steps echoing like fate in the stone chamber. 

“He sired monsters the way the Sky King sired kings. And when Olympus got squeamish—when the light wanted to pretend it had no shadow—he cast them off. They were useful, once. And then they weren’t. So they called them wrong.” 

Her golden gaze gleamed behind a curtain of living snakes. “You feel it, don’t you? The way the gods watch you. And judge. Because you’re too much of something. Too other.” 

Percy’s wings flared again—light and shadow and memory—curling protectively behind his shoulders. 

“I’m not like you,” he said softly. “I haven’t given up yet.” 

Medusa’s smile cracked wide, too wide. “You will.” 

Medusa lunged. 

Percy moved like wind slipping between branches. 

No roar. No charge. Just speed, clean, and exact. 

Riptide met her claws in a clash of bronze and fury. Grover yelped and hit the floor, covering his head. Annabeth ducked behind a statue and shouted, “Left, Percy, she’s flanking!” 

“I see her,” he muttered, pivoting with a grace most wouldn’t have associated with someone raised on awkward sleepovers and sticker capes. 

Medusa was fast. Old fast. Faster than he expected. Her veil tangled in his blade once, and she hissed furiously, fangs bared. The snakes on her head screamed their own war song, lunging forward like a hydra made of rage. 

“Don’t make me kill you,” Percy said between blocks. 

“You already did,” she spat, voice thick with venom and memory. “Once. Centuries ago. I remember the other Perseus. He didn’t even look at me. Just held up a polished shield. A coward.” 

“I’m not him,” Percy snapped. 

“ You are all of them!”  

She leapt. 

Percy spun and— 

shhnk. 

Silence. 

Her head hit the floor with a whisper, not a crash. 

The snakes writhed. Then stilled. 

The body collapsed beside the stone satyr, limbs folding like fabric, like paper, like old regrets. 

And Percy stood there, trembling, breath ragged, blade dripping with something black that shimmered like oil in starlight. 

Grover was still on the floor. 

Annabeth stood slowly, eyes wide but fixed on Percy, not Medusa. 

He didn’t move at first. 

Then, slowly, he knelt. 

He laid Riptide on the ground. Bowed his head. 

His voice, when it came, was barely louder than a breath. 

“May you rest. Not as a warning. Not as a weapon. Just… as yourself.” 

His grace moved, wings folding forward, wrapping the air in silver and sorrow. 

There was no fanfare. No trumpet of triumph. 

Just a soft glow. A sound like stone exhaling. 

And when the light faded, the snakes were gone. The monstrous head was human. Still. Eyes closed. No longer cursed. Just a woman with long golden hair —finally allowed to stop fighting. 

Annabeth approached cautiously. “What did you do?” 

They all stood in silence. 

Behind them, the statues began to crumble. One by one. Stone becoming dust. Dust lifting like mist. The satyr vanished with a shimmer of silver and the softest laugh of relief. 

The shop was still. 

Annabeth stepped forward. “You unmade the curse.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Percy whispered. 

Grover hugged his arms. “Thank you.” 

Percy nodded. 

They didn’t speak again for a long while. 

When they left, the gnome emporium was dark. The neon sign flickered once and went out. 

And Medusa was free. 

Chapter Text

The woods were thick and black around them. 

They’d gone off-road after the fight with Medusa, just far enough to put cement, neon, and the scent of stone behind them. Grover found a clearing beneath a pine canopy; they didn’t want to risk drawing attention by lighting a fire, so they had taken some blankets from the warehouse and were now sitting in a circle 
 
Percy sat across from Annabeth. He wasn’t touching the food, again. His arms were wrapped around his knees, the seahorse charm tucked under his chin. 

Annabeth hadn’t spoken for a while. 

Not since the fight. 

Not since she saw his wings bloom like wildfire and curl around him with that unnatural grace. Not since he’d turned Medusa’s legacy into ash with a whisper and a heartbeat. 

But now, her gaze stayed fixed on him. Not harsh. Just… relentless. 

Finally, she said, “Those… aren’t just magic items, are they?” 

Percy didn’t look at her. 

“You don’t summon them like a weapon,” she continued. “They react to you. Like they’re alive.” 

He didn’t move. 

“They’re yours,” she said. “Part of you.” 

A beat. 

Then—quietly, like the word weighted his mouth—he said, “Yes.” 

Annabeth let out a breath like she’d been holding it for hours. 

“You’re not just a demigod.” 

Still no response. 

“You don’t flinch when gods speak,” she murmured. “You speak in rites. You summoned a tea table from thin air. You prayed for Medusa, not to a god, and her curse broke.” 

Her voice wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t even alarmed. 

It was curious . Desperate. Hungry in the way only a child of Athena could be—like she could disassemble the mystery if she just had the right words in the right order. 

“For a second,” she said, “I thought maybe you were a legacy from a forgotten house of Hestia or had been blessed by Hekate. But that’s not it, is it?” 

"Percy," she whispered, “are you an ang—" 

Before she could finish, Percy was in front of her. 

He moved so fast, she didn’t see him cross the clearing 

His hand was at her mouth before the final syllable fell. 

Not harsh. 

Not rough. 

But immediate. 

Instinctual. 

His eyes met hers—sharp and ocean-deep. Something in them shimmered like frost and starlight, the color of moonlit judgment. Not angry. Not afraid. Just… ancient. 

He shook his head once. 

And when he spoke, his voice was a hush inside her mind, not out loud. Not even a whisper. 

<Don’t name what you don’t understand.> 

Annabeth blinked. 

Her heart thudded. 

Percy slowly withdrew his hand. 

For a moment, she thought he might apologize. He didn’t. 

Instead, he added aloud, “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.” 

Annabeth pulled back slowly, she searched his face. “So I’m right.” 

“You’re not wrong,” he said, after a long moment. “But you’re not right either.” 

She considered that. 

“You’re not one of them,” she said, meaning the Olympians. “But you’re not not of them, either.” 

Percy nodded once. 

“You’re something else.” 

A pause. 

Then, finally: “I’m someone’s.” 

He looked at her now—fully, directly—and for a heartbeat, his eyes weren’t sea-green. They were silver. And vast. And very, very tired. 

They sat in the quiet again. 

Even the trees seemed to hold their breath. 

Annabeth finally asked, “Is it… safe? For you to be here?” 

Percy gave a crooked smile. “Define safe.” 

“Are we safe?” she clarified. 

“Yes,” he said. “From me? Always.” 

Annabeth leaned forward, studying his face in the moonlight like it was a riddle she hadn’t solved yet. “Are you ever going to tell us the truth?” 

“When you’re ready to hear it.” 

“That’s not fair.” 

“No,” he said. “But it’s kind.” 

Annabeth chewed on that. 

Behind them, Grover snorted in his sleep and muttered something about blue cheese and lawnmowers. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Annabeth said quietly. 

“I know.” 

“I think… that’s what scares me.” 

“Sleep, Annabeth,” he said gently. “We’ve still got a long way west, I’ll take the first watch.” 

She didn’t argue. 

She pulled her hoodie and blanket tighter, lay down beside Grover, and watched the sky until she fell asleep 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Grover was perched on a nearby log, gently tooting at his reed pipes—strange little melodies that trailed off half-finished. Annabeth lay beside her pack, arms crossed behind her head, eyes open but distant. Her knife lay sheathed at her side, close but idle. 

Percy sat apart from them both, leaning back on his hands, eyes scanning the sky. There were too many stars out west, not like Long Island. These were sharp-edged stars—clear and cold. The kind that made you feel like something vast and nameless was watching back. 

He didn’t want to sleep. 

Not yet. 

Grover stopped piping. The silence that followed was almost heavier than the music had been. 

“This place makes me sad,” Grover said softly. 

Percy glanced over. “Because of the burger place?” 

Grover shook his head. “Because of this.” He gestured to the treeline—the faint glint of highway in the distance, the thick curtain of smog blurring the sky. “The earth’s tired. You can feel it if you listen hard enough. It’s not supposed to sound like this.” 

Percy tilted his head. Beneath the frogsong and the buzz of cicadas, he could feel it too. A pressure in the roots. A silence that wasn’t peaceful. 

Grover’s voice dropped lower. “I’ll never find him. Not at this rate.” 

“Who?” Percy asked. 

“Pan,” Grover said. “The god of the wild. Of unclaimed places. Of everything we’ve already lost.” 

“Pan?” Percy blinked.  

“Yes!” Grover bleated, “Pan! The Great God Pan! My kind’s last hope. The one who vanished two thousand years ago. Off the coast of Ephesos, a sailor heard a voice cry out from the shore—‘Tell them the great god Pan is dead.’” 

“But…” Percy narrowed his eyes with a pensive look. “Wasn’t that just a cultic error? I thought that was about Tammuz, the Mesopotamian god. That ' Thamus Panmegas tethneke' actually meant ‘ Tammuz the All-Great is dead.’ ” 

Grover’s jaw dropped. “How do you even know that?!” 

“I read a lot,” Percy said with a shrug 

Grover rubbed his face, clearly rattled. “It doesn’t matter which name the voice meant. What matters is that mortals believed it. They believed Pan was gone, and so they stopped listening. Stopped protecting. They’ve been pillaging his kingdom ever since.” 

Percy looked around at the skeletal trees, the ragged moss clinging to the stones, the way the stars above flickered like they were breathing their last. 

“Grover,” Percy said gently. “You really think you’ll find him?” 

“I have to,” Grover said. “My father was a searcher. My Uncle Ferdinand—the statue you saw back there—he was one, too. None of them came back. None of them ever do. But if someone doesn’t keep looking…” 

Percy didn’t answer right away. He looked down at his hands. They didn’t feel like a hero’s hands. Too small. Too clean. 

“I hope you find him,” he said. 

Grover looked up, startled. “You mean that?” 

“Yeah.” Percy picked at the dirt with one nail. “You believe in something. That matters.” 

They sat like that for a while. 

Then Grover said, hesitantly, “ What are we going to do when we get to the West Coast? Are we going to go to the Underworld?” 

“I don’t know,” Percy murmured. “I really, really don’t want to. It’s clearly a trap.” 

Grover looked uncomfortable. “Back at Medusa’s, while you were digging through her desk, Annabeth was telling me—” 

“Oh, Annabeth,” Percy muttered. “She always has a plan. Usually one that involves jumping off things or confronting ancient monsters.” 

Grover smiled faintly. “Don’t be so hard on her. She’s had a rough life.” 

“Yeah,” Percy said. “I get that.” 

“She forgave me,” Grover said quietly. “For my first failure.” 

Percy turned to him. “You were her keeper, weren’t you?” 

Grover looked away. 

“That night five years ago,” Percy continued. “Thalia. Annabeth. Luke. That was your first assignment.” 

Grover just nodded. “I can’t talk about it.” 

Percy didn’t push. He just said, “She’s still here. That means something.” 

Grover nodded again, more slowly this time. 

They lapsed into silence again, 

Then Grover said, “You don’t care about the bolt, do you?” 

“No,” Percy answered. “I said yes so there wouldn’t be a war. That’s all.” 

Grover looked at him. “But is that really all?” 

Percy didn’t answer. 

“I think you do care,” Grover said. “About your dad.” 

“I already have a dad,” Percy said quietly. 

Grover blinked. 

Percy didn’t look up. “I call him uncle, but he’s the one who’s always been there since I was born. Helped raise me. Played board games and taught me my first sigils, and set the school warding stones every fall. I don’t need another one.” 

“You mean…” Grover hesitated.  

“Yeah,” Percy said. “Loki. That’s my dad. He might be unpredictable and annoying, and one time he enchanted my math homework, but he’s mine. Poseidon? He showed up twelve years late and claimed me in front of a crowd. That’s not parenting. That’s theater.” 

Annabeth stirred but didn’t speak. 

Grover was quiet for a long time. 

“Okay,” he said at last. “But I still think… part of you wants him to be proud.” 

Percy sighed, long and low. 

He didn’t say yes. 

But he didn’t say no, either. 

Instead, he looked up at the stars and whispered something only the wind could hear. 

Chapter Text

The train station was loud and clattering, all grease, flickering lights, and the distant smell of scorched hot dogs. Grover was arguing with a ticket agent about the price of a sleeper cabin. Annabeth stood behind him with her arms crossed, eyeing the faded travel posters like she might redesign the entire place from structural supports up.  

Percy stared at the board.  

“Chicago,” he said. “That’s as far as we can go.”  

Annabeth looked over. “Camp money doesn’t stretch like it used to.”  

“Guess the Olympians haven’t discovered inflation yet,” Percy muttered, rubbing at his temple.  

They boarded the train fifteen minutes later with half a loaf of sourdough, two plastic bags of trail mix, and a bottle of Sprite that Percy knew Grover would pretend not to drink but would end up finishing anyway.  

The first night, Percy didn’t sleep. The gentle rocking of the train made his wings ache under the skin of his back, and the quiet murmur of voices from other compartments made it impossible to settle.  

They were somewhere in Ohio when Percy finally asked the question.  

“You said the dryads taught you,” he murmured, eyes still on the window. “At camp.”  

Annabeth looked up from her book—something with Greek columns on the cover and several hundred sticky notes jammed between the pages. “Yeah. I’m a year-rounder.”  

Percy blinked. “You live at camp. Full-time?”  

“Since I was seven.” Her voice was calm, but the corners of her mouth were pulled tight.  

He hesitated. “Why?”  

She flipped the page. Didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was dry as sun-baked stone. “I appeared on my father’s doorstep in a golden cradle, carried down from Olympus by Zephyr the West Wind.”  

Percy turned to face her, the gravity in her tone pulling his attention.  

“You’d think that’d be a miracle,” she said. “That maybe he’d take some photos. Write a letter to the Times. But he always talked about my arrival like it was the most inconvenient thing that ever happened to him.”  

She closed her book gently. Her fingers didn’t shake, but her eyes gleamed too bright.  

“When I was five, he got remarried. Mortal wife. Mortal kids. A ‘normal’ family. And me? I was a reminder that once upon a time, he’d loved a goddess. An error in his otherwise respectable résumé.”  

“He doesn’t care,” Annabeth said, sharp now. “She—my stepmom—treated me like a disease. Wouldn’t let me touch her kids. Blamed me for every flickering lightbulb or slamming door. And every time a monster showed up, every time I screamed in the middle of the night, they looked at me like I’d brought it on purpose.”  

Percy didn’t try to comfort her. He didn’t say he was sorry. He just listened, like the silence might be a balm.  

She turned toward him finally, face hard, but her eyes shining. “So I left. Seven years old. Ran. Found Luke and Thalia. Got to camp. Stayed.”  

Percy didn’t say he understood. He didn’t. When he was seven, he was at school learning how to count in German and to sing French lullabies, not fighting for his life. He’d been wanted. Smothered in warmth and ritual and words older than the sky. But he knew what it was to feel separate. Touched by something other.  

“I’m sorry,” he said instead.  

Annabeth nodded once.  

Later, as the train curved across Missouri, she pointed out the window. “The Gateway Arch,” she said.  

“Cool architecture?” Percy guessed.  

“I’m going to be an architect,” she replied, without hesitation. “One day. I want to design a new Athens. Something… lasting.”  

Percy hummed. “Makes sense.”  

She glanced sideways at him. “What about you?”  

He thought for a while. “Maybe an author. Like my mom or a translator and interpreter, maybe diplomacy.”  

Annabeth tilted her head. “Diplomacy?”  

“Languages are how people start wars,” Percy said, watching the landscape blur past. “Or end them.”  

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

They had a layover in St. Louis. Three hours. Just enough time for Annabeth to insist on sightseeing.  

Grover whined the entire mile-long walk to the Gateway Arch. “The air smells like diesel and disappointment.”  

Inside, Percy let her ramble about rivets and the tension-compression of the legs. Grover passed jelly beans. Percy pretended to listen, but every sound was muffled under the hum of too many moving parts.  

He hated confined spaces.  

He hated the crowded places more.  

When the ranger announced closing time, Percy was first to the elevator—only to get waved off.  

  “Next car, sir.”  

“I’ll wait,” Annabeth said quickly, already stepping back.  

But Percy shook his head. “Go ahead. I’ll meet you downstairs.”  

The doors closed. He turned to the observation deck.  

Percy turned. Only a few others were left on the deck: a father holding his son close, the boy fascinated by the windows; the mother thumbing through a brochure about the Arch; the park ranger, pale and bored. And a woman standing by the farthest curve of the glass, her back to them.  

Denim jacket. Wild brown curls. She looked like a tired tourist. But when she turned and smiled—  

Something ancient twisted behind her eyes.  

Her tongue flicked out—forked. Her smile widened, showing too-sharp teeth.  

A pulse of instinct rattled through Percy’s ribs.  

Monster.  

She unrolled her sleeves slowly, like a ritual. Her arms shimmered as if the human skin was an illusion sliding away—beneath, green-black scales caught the light in irregular patches. Her veins were dark. Too dark.  

Her eyes narrowed. Sideways pupils. Gold ringed in green.  

Percy went still.  

“Be honored,” she said. “Lord Zeus rarely allows me to test a hero.”  

She stepped forward. Her boots didn’t make a sound.  

“For I am the mother of monsters,” she said, voice laced with hissing syllables older than Olympus. “The terrible Echidna.”  

Percy frowned. “Isn’t that an Australian anteater?”  

The sound she made was not laughter—it was a rasp, like stone dragging against stone. Rage made her taller. The illusion of humanity melted from her form like smoke from the jaws of a kiln.  

“You dare—mock me—after what your mother stole from me?”  

His blood ran cold. “What?”  

“Chimera. My son.” She hissed the name like venom. “She didn't just destroy his body. He has not reformed. That means your mother used something... blessed. Something meant to end.”  

She took a step forward. The floor creaked under her bare, scaled feet.  

“I will kill you and throw your body at her feet. And when you don’t come back, she will know what it means to lose.”  

And then she struck.  

She moved like hunger incarnate—one moment across the platform, the next right in front of him. Percy barely dodged. Her nails slashed through the air where his throat had been.  

Riptide was in his hand before he realized he’d summoned it, the celestial bronze burning cold against his palm. He struck low, aiming to disable.  

The blade hit her arm—and skidded.  

“What—?”  

Her scales were too thick. Too old. This wasn’t some mindless monster. This was a primeval creature. One of the first monsters.  

“You think a godling’s toy can pierce my skin?” she cooed. “You think that will save you?”  

She lunged again.  

He parried—barely. Her claws scraped the blade and sent vibrations up his arm, too strong, too deep. Her other hand struck his side.  

Fire exploded under his ribs.  

Percy gasped, staggering. Her claws hadn’t just cut him—they burned. The pain radiated up through his shoulder like acid in his blood.  

He looked down.  

Blood leaked from the wound, old silver . Thick, glinting, and metallic like mercury, like moonlight, stained his shirt.  

Echidna laughed, slow and sibilant. “There it is. The divine ichor. But wrong, isn’t it? Not golden like your father's. No… yours runs old.”  

He winced and raised Riptide again. But she was already moving.  

A blur of scale and fury.  

Her claws raked his left arm—and this time, he screamed.  

Poison. Not mortal venom. Something older. Deeper. He could feel it burning through his veins, grinding against the core of him like rust on silver.  

Percy fell to one knee. His breathing turned shallow. The steel of the Arch rang faintly beneath him, echoing with distant footsteps.  

The family. The park ranger.  

Too many witnesses. Too much at risk.  

He forced himself upright. One hand braced against the railing. The other clutching Riptide so tight his knuckles burned.  

Echidna stood over him, fangs bared. “You should not exist. You are everything the gods fear. A weapon they cannot control. A mistake.”  

“Everyone keeps saying that,” Percy grunted, “but somehow, I’m still here.” He let his wings unfurl.  

Not slowly. Not gently.  

The air split. The pressure in the room changed. A divine snap rang through the Arch like the crack of thunder. The humans fell unconscious instantly, slumping gently to the floor as if a great sleep had been dropped upon them.  

Feathers rimmed in silver and blue arced wide from his back.  

And something older than blood flooded Percy’s voice.  

“Enough”  

She lunged again—but this time Percy met her fully.  

No hesitation.  

He moved like wind through wheat.  

She slashed—he ducked. Her tail coiled—he leapt. Her claws scraped his ribs again, and agony spiked—but he was faster now. Sharper.  

Riptide in one hand.  

But not enough.  

Not for this.  

She was too old. Too buried in prophecy and hate.  

And so, he let go of the sword.  

His other hand reached into the space between heartbeats.  

The angel blade answered.  

Lightless. Weightless. As soon as he grasped it, the world muted.  

Percy moved—stepped—forward through her last lunge.  

The blade pierced her heart.  

No resistance. No impact.  

Like it was meant to.  

Echidna gasped. Her entire body arched—then shuddered.  

“You—” she choked. “You don’t belong—”  

“I know,” Percy whispered. “But I’m here anyway.”  

A soundless flash of pale light. The scent of ash and brine.  

And Echidna was gone.  

Just monster dust.  

No soul left to return to Tartarus.  

Only silence. And the tang of old blood in the air.  

Percy collapsed to the floor.  

The blade fell from his hand and vanished.  

The Arch shuddered slightly as the next elevator began its journey up.  

He didn’t move.  

Just lay there, hand pressed to his ribs, silver blood seeping through his shirt, his vision already black at the edges.  

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

Annabeth was pacing. Her fingers were white-knuckled around the strap of her bag, her eyes flicking toward the elevator doors every few seconds.  

Grover sat slumped on the bench, twisting the hem of his shirt. His ears kept twitching like he could hear something none of them could fix.  

“This is taking too long,” Annabeth said.  

“It’s been ten minutes.”  

“That’s too long.”  

“I know.”  

The elevator dinged.  

But when the doors slid open, there was only a startled park ranger and a confused family stepping out, mumbling about a sudden wave of dizziness and dreams of feathers.  

No Percy.  

Annabeth turned toward the Arch’s base, her whole frame wound tight.  

“I should’ve waited with him. I should’ve—”  

Wind slammed into them like a silent explosion.  

The air warped—bent—and folded inward like water pulled down a drain.  

And then—  

He hit the grass beside them with a dull thud, one arm sprawled, his body contorted at an angle that made Annabeth’s stomach twist. His wings, half-visible, quivered and collapsed into mist and light, like burnt paper folding into itself.  

“Percy!” She was on her knees before she registered the movement.  

Grover dropped his bag. “What happened—oh gods—”  

Blood seeped from beneath Percy’s shirt, staining the cotton dark, the color wrong. Not red. Not even brown. Silver. Like tarnished metal. Old moonlight.  

His lips parted. Dry.  

“Wash it,” Percy rasped. His voice was raw, like it had been clawed from his throat. “The wound—please—wash it—”  

“Grover, help me!”  

Between the two of them, they hauled him awkwardly—limbs trailing, weight deadened—across the grass. The riverbank wasn’t far, but it felt like miles.  

They half-dragged, half-carried him into the mud, cradling his head between them as the sunset cast orange fire across the river.  

The three of them had shared campfires. They had faced monsters.  

But they’d never seen Percy like this.  

His body was too still. His wings twitched like dying birds. The poison had traced black veins under his skin, curling out from the gashes like something alive.  

Annabeth unscrewed her canteen with shaking hands. “This is all I have—nectar—”  

She tipped it gently against his lips.  

A single mouthful. Maybe two.  

He gagged once, but swallowed.  

A second later, his breath evened out. The frantic edge softened. His fingers twitched, tightening around his shirt.  

He blinked again, slower this time. “Water,” he whispered. “Need water.”  

“I’ve got it!” Grover fumbled for his bottle, sprinted down to the river, and filled it to the brim with the Mississippi’s silt-laced current. He was back in under a minute, panting.  

Annabeth helped prop Percy up, cradling his back against her knees.  

Grover held the bottle to his lips, but Percy pushed it aside weakly.  

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”  

Then he held the bottle in both hands.  

And spoke.  

The words that left his mouth didn’t belong to the world they stood in. They weren’t Greek or Latin. They weren’t soft or harsh. They shimmered.  

“ Anakh ta’riel. Mehen kadosh. Enu’el! ”  

The moment he finished, the water in the bottle glowed. Not brightly—but with a pulsing, steady inner light. Gold edged in silver. Then the glow faded, leaving the water looking normal.  

Annabeth’s skin broke into goosebumps.  

Even Grover flinched.  

“…Percy?” Annabeth asked. “What—?”  

But Percy didn’t answer.  

Instead, he upended the bottle over the bleeding wounds.  

The holy water hit silvered flesh with a hiss like molten iron dropped in snow.  

Percy arched, teeth clenched, a ragged sound escaping his throat as his breath caught.  

The water glowed.  

Annabeth held him tighter, whispering It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay , even though she had no idea if that was true.  

For a moment—just a moment—the wounds lit from within. Like something burning its way out. The poison hissed, boiled, evaporated, smoke curling off his ribs in ghostly threads.  

And then—  

Silence.  

The wounds closed.  

Only a thin pink line was left behind on the skin  

He blinked again, pupils slowly focusing.  

Annabeth touched his face. “What happened up there?”  

<I killed her.> Even his thought voice was hoarse. <Echidna. She said… she said my mom killed Chimera. Years ago.>  

They both stared.  

<She wanted me dead for it. Said she wanted my mother’s child.> He didn’t meet their eyes. <She almost got what she wanted.>  

Annabeth swallowed hard. Her hand still rested on his arm.  

But she said nothing else.  

Percy just let the empty bottle roll from his fingers, stared up at the thickening stars, and closed his eyes again.  

Not asleep.  

Just… quiet.  

Healing.  

Annabeth sat beside him, her hand still hovering near his arm, not quite touching.  

Grover didn’t move, staring at the burn mark in the grass where the poison had spilled.  

They didn’t speak for a long time.  

The Mississippi rolled past.  

The dark crept in.  

And above them, the stars watched, unblinking.  

Chapter Text

They barely made it back to the station.  

By the time their train rolled out of St. Louis, Grover was panting, Annabeth’s hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and Percy… Percy hadn’t said a word. Not even in thought.  

He sat curled in the window seat with his knees drawn up and one hand fixed on the little seahorse charm around his neck. His fingers curled and uncurled around the seahorse charm in an endless rhythm. His eyes didn’t track the scenery. His gaze flickered but didn’t land  

Annabeth didn’t try to speak to him the first night. Not after seeing the way his wings had flickered in and out like a dying flame. Not after watching him grit his teeth in his sleep, his body curled inward like he was bracing for another blow.  

It was just past noon on the second day when she finally broke the silence.  

“We should try to contact Chiron.”  

Percy didn’t respond. But after a long pause, he reached into his bag and wordlessly passed her a sleek, strange-looking phone. Metal-glass casing, no brand.  

Annabeth blinked. “Percy… we can’t. Using a phone is basically lighting a beacon for monsters.”  

He didn’t even look at her. Just shook his head once, slow and small.  

“It’s untraceable,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. “My uncle enchanted it himself.”

Annabeth hesitated—then took it, dialing the Camp’s number.

No answer.

She tried again. And again. Nothing but static and the mechanical chirp of a failed connection.

Annabeth exhaled through her nose and handed it back. “We’ll have to try an Iris message. Later.”  

Percy slipped the phone away without a word.  

“…What’s an Iris-message?” he asked finally, and his voice had more weight now—thinner than usual, but closer to himself.  

Grover perked up from his seat across the aisle. “The rainbow goddess. Iris. She’ll carry a message if you ask nicely.”  

Percy lifted a brow. “That’s a thing?”  

Annabeth nodded, “We just need water, sunlight, and a drachma.” 
 
Once they got to the Chicago Union Station, they wandered for nearly an hour until they found a sad little DIY car wash on the edge of a used tire lot. The place stank like burned rubber and old soap. One of the stalls had a dead wasp in the control box. 

Annabeth scanned the street. “This’ll do.”  

“We look suspicious,” Grover muttered. “Hanging around a car wash without a car? A cop’s gonna think we’re about to rob the change machine.”  

Grover started digging through his pockets. “Seventy-five cents to start the water. I’ve got… two quarters and lint.”  

Annabeth grimaced. “I’m broke. Again.”  

Percy reached into his bag and handed Grover a silver coin without a word.  

He tilted his head. “Why do we need the spray gun, again?”  

“To make a rainbow.” Grover pointed the nozzle up and frowned, “Unless you’ve got a better way to make a rainbow—”  

Percy snorted softly and flicked his fingers.  

A shimmer of fine mist lifted into the air, hanging like fog, bending the light. The sun caught it, and immediately a rainbow rippled through the mist like a glass prism.  

Annabeth blinked.  

“…You two do remember who my father is, right?” Percy muttered.  

Grover blinked. “…Right. Son of the sea god. Duh.”  

Annabeth gave him a half-apologetic glance. “Drachma, please.”  

He passed it over.  

She raised it high. “O goddess, accept our offering.”  

The coin arced through the rainbow and vanished in a shimmer of golden light.  

“Half-Blood Hill,” she requested.  

The air distorted.  

A moment later, the image swam into focus—strawberry fields, the distant curve of the Long Island Sound, and the porch of the Big House. Luke was leaning on the railing, bronze sword in hand, his sandy hair damp with sweat.  

Percy stepped forward instinctively. “Luke!”  

Luke turned. His eyes widened. “Percy! Is that Annabeth, too? Thank the gods. Are you okay? Is Grover all right?”  

“I’m right here,” Grover called and stepped into Luke’s line of vision. 

Annabeth was already pulling at her shirt, trying to look less like she’d wrestled a monster in a tin can. “We’re fine. We thought… Chiron—”  

“He’s down at the cabins,” Luke said, frowning. “We’ve been having issues.”  

“Camp issues?” Grover asked, stepping into the frame.  

Luke nodded grimly. “Tensions are rising. Word leaked about the Zeus–Poseidon standoff. No one knows how—probably the same guy who summoned the hellhound. It’s getting bad. Campers are choosing sides. Aphrodite, Hermes, Ares, and Apollo cabins are more or less backing Poseidon. Athena’s pushing for Zeus.”  

Just then, a big Lincoln Continental pulled into the car wash with its stereo cranked up to eleven. As the car slid into the next stall, the bass from the subwoofers vibrated so much, it shook the pavement, making Percy flinch and almost lose control of the mist. “What’s that noise?” Luke yelled.  

“I’ll take care of it!” Annabeth yelled back, looking very relieved to have an excuse to get out of sight. “Grover, come on!” 

 “What?” Grover said. “But—” Grover muttered something about girls being harder to understand than the Oracle at Delphi, and followed Annabeth while Percy turned his attention to Luke 

Luke signs before continuing, “It’s like the Trojan War again. Families turning on each other. Everyone taking sides.”  

“I wish I could be there,” Luke said, quieter now. “But listen… You need to know. I think it had to be Hades who took the bolt. He was there, at Olympus. I saw him.”  

Percy frowned. “You were there?”  

“Solstice field trip,” Luke said with a shrug.  

“But Chiron said the gods can’t steal from each other.”  

“They can’t. Not directly. But Hades has the Helm of Darkness. How else would someone sneak into the throne room and steal the master bolt? You’d have to be invisible.”  

He stopped.  

Then flinched.  

“Oh—wait. Not Annabeth. I didn’t mean her. She’s like a little sister to me. I didn’t—”  

The word hit Percy like a slap of cold water.  

Sister.  

The prophecy echoed in the back of his mind, unbidden:  

You shall be betrayed by one who calls you sister.  

No. Not Luke. Never Luke.  

He wouldn’t hurt Annabeth.  

Right?  

Percy’s mouth was dry. His voice came out flat. “You said something about the shoes?”  

Luke nodded. “Yeah. Are they useful?”  

Percy stared. “…They’re fine.”  

“Fit okay?” Luke asked, too casually.  

Before Percy could respond, a loud thud echoed on Luke’s end of the connection. He winced.  

“Damn it—something’s going down at Cabin Five. I gotta go. We’ll talk later, alright?”  

The rainbow dissolved before Percy could answer.  

He stared at the empty air for a long moment.  

Annabeth and Grover rounded the corner, still catching the last thread of their laughter—some absurdity involving bass drops and Grover almost getting run over by an inflatable octopus hanging from the ceiling. But the moment they saw Percy, everything stopped.  

He hadn’t moved since the call ended. The rainbow had evaporated into the last rays of the afternoon, but Percy still stared at the space where Luke had stood. The water mist clung to his skin like dew.  

Annabeth’s smile faltered. “What happened? What did Luke say?”  

Percy didn’t respond. His gaze drifted to her, then past her, as if weighing something behind her eyes. As if seeing something else layered over her. His fingers were absently rubbing at his seahorse charm, the motion rhythmic and too precise.  

She took a step closer. “Percy?”  

He flinched—barely noticeable, but it was there.  

Grover rubbed his arms, ears twitching uncomfortably. “Did Luke say something weird?”  

“He keeps insisting that the Lord of the Underworld stole the bolt,” Percy said. “He also said the same thing Chiron did,” Percy murmured. “That the gods can’t steal from each other. Not directly.”  

Annabeth nodded. “That’s why they use mortals. Pawns.”  

“Right.” Percy’s hand stilled on the necklace. His voice dropped. “Then he said someone would have to be invisible to steal the bolt.”  

Annabeth looked confused for half a heartbeat.  

Then her face hardened. “He didn’t mean me.”  

“I know,” Percy said quickly. Too quickly. “He said you’re like a little sister to him.”  

Grover winced. “Oof.”  

“What?” Annabeth snapped.  

“Nothing. Just—ouch. That’s a rough line.”  

Annabeth rolled her eyes and turned back to Percy. “You don’t think I’d—”  

“No,” Percy said again, firm this time. “No, I don’t.”  

But the silence that followed was lead-heavy.  

Percy was still hearing the prophecy’s echo in the back of his skull like the church bell back home.  

Annabeth didn’t press. But she watched him like she would a blueprint with cracks in the foundation.  

Grover finally broke the silence. “So... are we walking the rest of the way to L.A., or is there a plan?”  

Annabeth shakes her head. “We should go find dinner.”  

Chapter Text

The diner was a chrome-plated mirage, squatting on a corner between a gas station and a pay-by-the-hour motel. Its windows glowed red in the sunset, and the vinyl booths gleamed like they’d just been wiped down by ghosts. Families sipped root beer floats and picked at baskets of fries, all of them strangely quiet, like the place was insulated from the noise of the outside world.  

Grover slouched in the booth across from Percy and Annabeth, staring longingly at a waitress who hadn’t even glanced their way.  

Annabeth was flipping through the laminated menu, though she hadn’t stopped to read it. She was pale under the overhead fluorescents, her posture coiled and tight.  

Percy sat very still.  

He hadn’t spoken much since the Iris message. His expression remained neutral, almost polite in its detachment, but his hand never left the seahorse charm at his neck. He rubbed the ridges with a slow, methodical pressure, like counting seconds in a storm.  

The waitress finally approached. Her lipstick was cracked, her eyes tired. “You kids have money to pay?”  

Grover let out a nervous sound, half-laugh, half-wounded goat. “We, uh—”  

Percy opened his mouth to offer something—he hadn’t decided what—when the air outside shifted.  

Not just the temperature—reality.  

A low, guttural engine rumbled through the earth, shaking the silverware on the table.  

Outside, a motorcycle pulled into the lot. Not just a bike—a war machine. It was massive, longer than a horse and heavier than a car, all flame-etched steel and black chrome. Twin shotguns were riveted to the sides. The engine coughed once and then died like it had swallowed a live grenade.  

The man who climbed off it didn’t walk—he entered. A presence more than a body. Red muscle shirt stretched tight over his chest, black jeans torn at the knee, boots caked in something darker than mud. He wore a long leather duster that looked like it had been tanned in battlefield smoke. A hunting knife, easily the length of Percy’s forearm, rode his thigh. Red wraparound shades shielded his eyes.  

His face was brutal—sculpted and scarred, handsome the way a jagged cliff is, beautiful because it promises ruin.  

The wind that followed him was hot and dry. The diner's customers all turned to look—and then, as if on cue, looked away. They resumed eating. Chewing. Smiling. The sound of forks on plates returned.  

The waitress blinked and repeated, “You kids have money to pay?”  

The man didn’t break stride as he reached their booth.  

“It’s on me,” he said. His voice was gravel and rust.  

He slid into the booth beside Annabeth, who tensed as she was pressed against the window. The booth creaked under his weight.  

He looked up at the waitress, who was still standing there, blinking.  

“Are you still here?” he asked, smiling.  

He pointed a finger at her. She twitched, turned, and walked away like a doll on a string.  

The man looked at Percy.  

Ares leaned forward. “So. You’re old Seaweed’s kid, huh?”  

Percy met his gaze. Calm. “Yes, sir.”  

Annabeth’s lips parted to speak—caution, maybe, or warning—but the man raised a hand. “S’okay. I don’t mind a little attitude. Long as you remember who’s boss.” He leaned forward. “You know who I am, little cousin?”  

It wasn’t a question. It was a prompt.  

Percy took a breath, then tilted his head. “You’re Clarisse’s father.”  

A slow grin spread across the man’s face.  

“Ares,” Percy said. “God of war.”  

He pulled off his red-tinted shades. His eye sockets weren’t eyes at all. Just fire—whirling, nuclear, ancient. No pupils. No mercy  

“That’s right,” Ares purred. “Heard you broke Clarisse’s spear.”  

Percy didn’t flinch. “She knocked my book into the dirt.”  

Ares barked a laugh. “That’s fair.” He leaned back, arms spread across the booth like he owned it. “I don’t fight my kids’ fights. Not unless it’s fun. I’m here for something else.”  

He cracked his knuckles, and the sound was like bones breaking in a church. “I heard you were in town. Got a proposition. You do this, and I’ll get you transportation west. You’re stuck, right? No money, no wheels. This gets you back on track.”  

The waitress returned with a tray full of food. Burgers, fries, onion rings, and three chocolate shakes. Ares tossed her a few gold drachmas.  

She hesitated, eyeing the strange currency. “But these aren’t—”  

Ares drew his hunting knife and began cleaning his nails with deliberate, scraping strokes. “Problem, sweetheart?”  

The waitress paled. She left without another word.  

Percy just watched with a judgmental stare  

“You got something to say, punk?” he growled.  

“No, sir.”  

“You’re awfully polite for someone your age.”  

“I was taught not to provoke dangerous things. Even when they want you to.”  

Ares raised an eyebrow. “That a dig?”  

“No, sir.”  

“Hmph.” The god smirked. “You’re not what I expected. Clarisse made you sound like a little berserker. Hot blood. Quick fists. Where’s all that?”  

“It’s there,” he said softly. “I just don’t let it drive the car.”  

Ares’s eye-fire narrowed.  

He jabbed a finger toward Percy’s chest. “You think you’re cold, boy? You think you can ice me out?”  

Percy didn’t blink. “No, sir. I just think you're used to noise. And I don't make it unless I must.”  

A beat passed.  

Then Ares laughed—a hard bark of sound that shook the saltshakers.  

“You got stones, I’ll give you that. Anyway, back to my offer,” Ares leaned in. “I need a favor. Left my shield at a water park west of here. Was on a date. Things got... interrupted. I want it back.”  

Annabeth raised an eyebrow. “Why can’t you get it yourself?”  

The heat in the booth intensified. The fire behind Ares’s glasses flared faintly.  

“Why don’t I turn you into a prairie dog and run you over with my bike?” he said sweetly. “Because I don’t feel like it. A god is offering you an opportunity. You gonna spit on it?”  

He turned back to Percy.  

“Or maybe you only fight when your daddy’s nearby to hold your hand.”  

Percy didn’t flinch. He picked up a fry and broke it in half. Quietly.  

“We appreciate the offer,” he said. “But we’re already on a quest.”  

Ares tilted his head. “I know. And I’m giving you a shortcut. Do this for me, and I’ll arrange a ride west.”  

“You’re helping us?” Percy asked, incredulous.  

“I’m offering to,” Ares said. “Your dad and I go way back, punk. I’m the one who tipped him off.”  

“Tipped him off to what?” Percy asked.  

“That Corpse Breath stole the bolt. Framing a god to spark war—the oldest trick in the book. Obvious, really.”  

Percy didn’t respond. He looked at the table, the food, and the dust on the glass of the window.  

Ares leaned in again. “Do the job. Get the shield. Meet me back here. I’ll get you moving west.”  

Percy tilted his head. “What interrupted your date?”  

A beat.  

Ares’s smile twitched. Not quite a wince.  

“You offering to finish it?” he said.  

“No,” Percy replied. “I just want to know what makes the god of war retreat.”  

A silence bloomed, heavy and tense.  

“You’re lucky you ran into me,” Ares said, standing. “Other Olympians wouldn’t be so forgiving. Two hours. Don’t disappoint me.”  

He turned and walked out.  

The door slammed behind him like a gunshot. The mortal world resumed its rhythm.  

Grover exhaled. “That’s not good.”  

Percy turned to Annabeth. “It’s your call.”  

Annabeth looked up, startled.  

“You’re the quest’s leader,” he said, meeting her eyes. “We go or we don’t. Your choice.”  

She hesitated, her hand resting against the table like she might draw a blade from the Formica surface.  

Grover shifted. “You don’t have to. I mean, we could skip town. Fast.”  

Annabeth didn’t answer right away. Then she exhaled. “We go.”  

“You sure?” Percy asked. Not challenging. Just confirming.  

“We can’t offend a god and walk away unscathed,” she muttered.  

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

It was well into the night by the time they reached the water park.  

Once, it had been called WATERLAND, but time and vandalism had reduced the name to WATRAD. Letters hung askew or lay broken on the ground. The main gate was chained shut and topped with barbed wire, a weak deterrent for anyone truly determined.  

Inside, the park sprawled like a corpse. Twisted water slides curled like petrified serpents over cracked pavement. The air smelled of rust, mildew, and dried-out chlorine. Advertisements flapped limply in the breeze. Empty pools gaped like sockets picked clean. The whole place felt wrong—a graveyard of cheap joy.  

Percy squinted at the surrounding wreckage. “Why would the god of war bring the goddess of love here, of all places?”  

Annabeth shrugged, brushing hair from her eyes. “For discretion? She is married to someone else.”  

“What? No, she’s not,” Percy said, brows furrowed. “They divorced.”  

Annabeth stopped walking. “What are you talking about?”  

“In Nonnus, Pseudo-Apollodorus, and even the Odyssey, there are references. The God of Forge caught The Goddess of Love with The God of War and demanded the return of her bride price. That's a formal divorce by ancient custom.” He didn’t blink. “Homer says it plain. ‘Return of the betrothal gifts.’ And in the Iliad, the God of Forge is married to the Goddess of intuition and creativity.”  

Annabeth stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “How do you even— Never mind.” She turned toward the fence. “So how do we get in?”  

“Maia!” Grover called.  

The shoes sprouted wings, and Grover soared up—sort of. He did a full, unintended somersault before thudding into the ground on the other side.  

He coughed and stood, brushing off his jeans like he meant to do that. “You guys coming?”  

Annabeth and Percy climbed over the old-fashioned way, helping each other avoid the barbed wire.  

The shadows had grown long. The cracked pavement whispered under their steps as they moved through the silent ruins. They passed sad attractions: Ankle Biter Island, Head Over Wedgie, and a faded sign reading DUDE, WHERE’S MY SWIMSUIT?  

No monsters. No movement. Just silence thick enough to choke on.  

They found a souvenir shop unlocked and ransacked by time rather than theft. Dusty shelves still held snow globes, postcards, and racks of fluorescent T-shirts.  

They kept walking.  

Then Annabeth stopped, her body rigid, gaze locked ahead.  

Before them yawned an enormous, dry pool—at least fifty yards across, deep and curved like a skate bowl. Around the rim, twelve bronze statues of Cupid stood in perfect formation, wings outstretched, bows notched, arrows ready.  

At the far end, a tunnel gaped like a throat. Over it hung a battered sign:  

THRILL RIDE O’ LOVE: THIS IS NOT YOUR PARENTS’ TUNNEL OF LOVE!  

Grover crept to the edge. “Guys… look.”  

Down at the center of the pool, surrounded by silence and ruin, sat a ridiculous pink-and-white two-seater boat. Heart-shaped canopy. Glitter paint. In the left seat, propped like a prize, was a polished bronze shield—the one Ares had described.  

“This is too easy,” Percy muttered. “We just walk down and pick it up?”  

Annabeth ran her fingers along the base of the nearest Cupid statue. “There’s a Greek letter carved here. Eta. I wonder…”  

“Grover,” Percy said, “smell anything?”  

The satyr sniffed. “Nothing.”  

“‘Nothing’ like Echidna-under-the-Arch nothing? Or actual nothing?”  

Grover looked wounded. “That was underground, okay?”  

Percy sighed. “I’m going.”  

“I’ll come,” Grover offered—tentative but sincere.  

Annabeth shook her head. “No. We’ll need you ready in the air. If something goes wrong, you’re our exit.”  

There was a beat of awkward silence as Percy and Annabeth exchanged a glance. Then another, more pointed glance at the garish boat waiting below them, with its canopy of hearts and promise of public humiliation.  

Percy sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”  

He climbed down first. Annabeth followed, her cheeks slightly pink.  

At the boat, the shield gleamed like bait. Next to it lay a silk scarf, pale pink and strong-smelling. The perfume burned Percy’s nose the moment he picked it up.  

“Gods,” he muttered and passed it to Annabeth.  

She wrinkled her nose and stuffed it into her bag without comment.  

He studied the shield next. The moment he touched it, something snapped. Not audibly—but viscerally. Like tension gone taut, then released.  

A hair-fine metal filament, almost invisible, clung to his hand.  

“Wait,” Annabeth said sharply.  

“Too late.”  

“There’s another Eta on the side of the boat.” Her voice dropped. “This is a trap.”  

All around them, noise erupted. A groan of gears, like the entire pool had just remembered it was part of a machine.  

“Guys!” Grover shouted from above.  

The Cupid statues came to life—arms moving in unison, bows pulled taut.  

“Really?!” Percy muttered.  

He slung the shield on his back and grabbed Annabeth’s arm. His wings snapped into place, and with a powerful beat, they launched skyward.  

In less than a blink, they were back on land.  

Annabeth landed on the edge of the pool and immediately dropped to her knees, dry-heaving.  

Percy winced. “Sorry. First time flying’s usually a little rough.”  

They looked down just in time to see the Cupid statues bend into a new position—forming a dome of crisscrossed arrows over the empty pool. A moment later, mirrored panels slid open around the rim.  

From inside, bronze insects crawled out—gear-bodied, pincer-mouthed things that clicked and whirred as they assembled in precise lines. Some scuttled along the curved bowl, while others swarmed around the love boat.  

Annabeth took one look and paled.  

“No. Nope. Not doing this.” She turned sharply, walking away with fast, deliberate steps. “We are leaving. Now.”  

She turned on her heel and walked— with impressive speed—back toward the entrance.  

“I am walking calmly away,” she muttered.  

“Definitely not running,” Grover said, jogging after her.  

Percy followed, wings folding tight behind his back. Behind them, water began to churn from somewhere unseen. The scent of steam and oil filled the air.  

Chapter Text

The war god was waiting for them in the diner parking lot.  

“Well, well,” Ares drawled, leaning on his Harley like he’d been posing for a heavy metal album cover. “Didn’t get yourselves killed. Color me shocked.”  

Percy didn’t rise to it. His face was unreadable, almost distant.  

“You knew it was a trap,” he said quietly.  

Ares’s grin widened. “Bet that crippled blacksmith was real disappointed when his little trap didn’t catch anything but dust. Boring show, too. Thought he’d have you both tied up like pigs.” He laughed. “Guess not.”  

Wordlessly, Percy extended the shield.  

Ares snatched it out of his hands and spun it in the air like a Frisbee. It twisted and morphed mid-flight, shifting from polished bronze into black Kevlar and thick composite plating. A bulletproof vest. He slung it over his shoulder.  

“Nice work,” he said. “You see that rig over there?”  

He nodded toward the massive eighteen-wheeler idling across the street, back panel painted with cheery rainbow letters:  

KINDNESS INTERNATIONAL: HUMANE ZOO TRANSPORT. 
WARNING: LIVE WILD ANIMALS. 

“Your ride. All the way to L.A. One stop in Vegas. You’re welcome.”  

“You’re kidding,” Percy said.  

Ares snapped his fingers. The back latch on the truck thumped open. “Free ride west, punk. Quit whining.”  

He tossed a blue nylon backpack from his handlebars. Percy didn’t move to catch it. Grover scrambled forward and snagged it before it hit the pavement.  

Inside were fresh clothes, twenty bucks in mortal currency, a pouch of golden drachmas, and a family-sized bag of Double Stuf Oreos.  

“Thank you, Lord Ares,” Grover said quickly, flashing a warning glance at Percy. “Thanks a lot.”  

Percy didn’t say anything. He was tired. Overstimulated. He’d been sliced open by poison claws, chased across three states, and hadn’t seen a bath since Camp Half-Blood. He figured if he was rude, someone could file a complaint later.  

Ares swung a leg over his bike. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said, starting the engine. “Don’t waste ‘em.”  

Then he revved the Harley like it was laughing and vanished in a blur of heat and noise.  

Annabeth turned to Percy. “That was not smart.”  

“I don’t care.”  

“You don’t want a god as your enemy. Especially that god.”  

Grover pointed. “Uh, guys?”  

Two men in black coveralls were paying at the diner’s register—same white logos on their backs as the ones stamped on the zoo truck.  

“If we’re taking the zoo express,” Grover said, “we need to hurry.”  

They sprinted across the street and climbed into the back of the eighteen-wheeler, pulling the doors shut behind them.  

The first thing that hit them was the smell—sour, hot, and earthy. Like the world’s largest litter box mixed with a forgotten compost bin.  

Percy flipped on his phone’s flashlight. The beam cut through the dimness, revealing a grim row of cages.  

A zebra paced in slow circles, its mane matted with chewed gum. A lion lay in the next cell, pink-eyed and panting, ribs like knives under its white fur. A third cage held a strange, narrow-horned antelope that had been decorated with a silver helium balloon reading OVER THE HILL. All three animals looked underfed and miserable.  

Grover’s eyes widened. “This is kindness? Humane zoo transport?!”  

He looked ready to go full satyr rage and bludgeon the drivers with his pipes. Percy just looked up, weariness sharpening into quiet disdain, pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered something that sounded like Grandfather above , then snapped his fingers.  

The lion’s sack of turnips became a thick, bloody steak. The trays of hamburger meat vanished, replaced by crisp kale, fresh hay, and slices of apple.  

The animals stared in stunned silence, then descended like they hadn’t eaten in days.  

Grover looked like he might burst into tears—or hug him. “Dude. That was so cool .”  

The engine growled to life beneath them.  

Grover settled beside the lion and began speaking in soft bleats. Annabeth carefully cut the balloon from the antelope’s horn. She glanced at the zebra’s tangled mane but hesitated.  

Percy sighed and snapped his fingers again. The zebra’s mane shimmered—perfectly groomed.  

They found places to sit as the truck pulled onto the highway. Grover curled up on a burlap sack. Annabeth sat cross-legged, opening the Oreos and offering one to Percy, who declined.  

For a while, they listened to the road.  

Then Annabeth broke the silence. “Hey. Back at the water park… I’m sorry for running.”  

Percy looked over.  

“It’s ok, I know you don’t like spiders,” he said softly. “Arachne, right?”  

Annabeth nodded. “She challenged my mom. Got turned into the first spider. Her kids hate us. If I’m within a mile, they find me.”  

He said nothing, just nodded.  

Percy sat with his knees drawn up, feeling the bump and jolt of the road under them.  

“We’re halfway to Los Angeles,” he said to no one in particular. “It’s only the fourteenth. We can still make the solstice.”  

They rode in silence a while longer. Then she said, “Percy?”  

“Mm?”  

“…Why don’t you use your powers more? You could probably fly us to California. Save us a lot of trouble.”  

Percy didn’t answer immediately. He’d been expecting this. Eventually, he said:  

Then, softly, “You’re right. I could . But doing more would draw attention I don’t want. Most of the things I can do—even small things—light up like flares in the right realms.”  

He gestured at the animals, who were now drowsy and full. “This much is safe. Mostly. The blessing in St. Louis was already close to too much. But I didn’t have a choice, anything more, and it flares. It draws attention. The kind we don’t want.”  

Annabeth watched him for a long moment, then nodded.  

Grover was already asleep. The road rolled on.  

The lion finished licking blood from his paws and looked at Percy hopefully.  

Percy rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. Another stake dropped into the cage.  

“There,” he grumbled. “You big baby. That’s your last one.”  

Annabeth was fiddling with her necklace. Percy noticed the pine tree bead.  

“That pine tree bead,” Percy asked. “Your first year?”  

She looked surprised, then smiled faintly. “Yeah. Every August, we paint a bead for the biggest event of the summer. I’ve got Thalia’s tree, a burning trireme, a centaur in a prom dress... that was a weird year.”  

He smiled faintly. “The ring. Your dad’s?”  

A pause. Then: “Yeah. It was his. From Harvard. My mom helped him get through his doctorate. He sent it to me two summers ago with a letter. Said he was sorry. Said he wanted me to come home.”  

“That doesn’t sound terrible.”  

She stared at her hands.  

“It wasn’t... until I believed him. I tried, didn’t last. My stepmom didn’t want me there. Said I was a danger to her kids. Monsters came. We fought. Rinse, repeat. I left before winter break.”  

“You think you’ll try again?”  

She didn’t answer right away. “No,” she said finally. “I’m not into self-inflicted pain.”  

“You shouldn’t give up,” Percy said. “Maybe write him again.”  

She gave him a look that could have frozen lava. “Thanks, Dr. Phil.” But her fingers didn’t leave the ring.  

They lapsed into silence again, until Percy said, out of nowhere, “You know… if you ever got tired of the Camp, you could spend a term with us.”  

Annabeth blinked.  

“At East Aurora,” he continued. “No monsters come near, and I think you’d like Greyfield.”  

She studied him for a long moment, searching his face for any trace of pity. Found none.  

“…Yeah,” she said at last. “That could be cool.”  

She turned away, curled up with her back to him. Within minutes, her breathing softened into sleep.  

Percy let the rattle of the truck lull him; a light sleep closed his eyes.  

The dream came without warning.  

He stood in a cavern, immense and hollow, the walls breathing like lungs. A chasm splits the earth, deeper than sight. From it rose a voice he remembered from the dream on the beach—low, dry, like earth cracking.  

“Percy Jackson,” it rumbled. “Yes, the exchange went well, I see.”  

But the voice wasn’t speaking to him.  

“And he suspects nothing?”  

Another voice answered, near his ear. Familiar, slippery.  

“Nothing, my lord. He is as ignorant as the rest.”  

Percy tried to turn—but no one was there.  

"Deception upon deception," the thing in the pit mused aloud. “Excellent.”  

"Truly, my lord," said the voice next to Percy, "you are well-named the Crooked One. But was it really necessary? I could have brought you what I stole directly —"  

“You?” the pit mocked. “You have already failed me once. Had I not intervened, everything would be lost.”  

A pause. The pit pulsed.  

“Soon, both items will be mine. Zeus’s wrath, Poseidon’s desperation… And your revenge. It will come. But wait… He is here.”  

“What?” the servant gasped. “You summoned him?”  

“No.” And the pit turned its full attention on Percy. “Dream-walking can be dangerous, little half-breed. Don’t you know?”  

Percy felt frozen. Nails of ice in his spine.  

“Impossible,” hissed the servant. “He shouldn’t be here—”  

“You want visions? Then I will oblige.”  

The world twisted.  

Percy stood in a black throne room. Walls of obsidian. A throne made of fused human bones, at its base, his mother stood, but wrong, human, no wings or grace in sight; she was frozen in golden light, her arms outstretched.  

He tried to run to her, but his legs turned brittle—bone-white and hollow; his hand withered to bone. Skeletons in Greek armor encircled him, draping silk robes over his limbs, crowning him with laurel that smoked with Echidna’s poison, burning his scalp.  

“Hail, the conquering hero,” the voice whispered. “King of ashes.”  

Percy woke with a strangled breath.  

Grover and Annabeth jerked awake beside him.  

“What happened?” she asked, hand on her knife.  

“Remember when I said I thought something bigger was behind this quest?” Percy said, eyes still fixed on the ceiling of the trailer.  

“Yeah…”  

“I was right.”  

Grover looked spooked. “Who is it, Percy?”  

He told them of his dream, the voice, the pit, the servant  

“There’s only one being in Greek myths called The Crooked One.”  

He looked at them, face pale.  

“The Titan of Time.”  

Before either of them could respond, the truck lurched to a halt.  

Annabeth vanished. Her cap blinked her out of sight with a shimmer of invisibility.  

“Hide,” her voice hissed.  

Grover and Percy dove behind burlap sacks of feed, barely managing to wedge themselves in before the trailer doors creaked open. Desert sunlight and a gust of dry, chemical heat spilled inside.  

“Man,” muttered one of the truckers, climbing up. “I wish I hauled refrigerators.”  

He stomped toward the cages, sloshing tepid water into rusted bowls. Then he turned to the lion.  

“You hot, big boy?” he asked, and tossed the rest of the bucket full in the creature’s face.  

The lion roared, furious and humiliated.  

Next to Percy, Grover went stiff. For a pacifist herbivore, he looked ready to murder.  

The trucker didn’t stop there. He shoved a crushed Happy Meal through the antelope’s bars, then leaned toward the zebra, grinning. “Stripes, huh? Good news for you, pal. They’re sawing you in half at the magic show tonight.”  

The zebra’s eyes met Percy’s.  

There was no sound. But clear as the goddamn sun, Percy heard it in his head:  

Free me, lord. Please.  

He stared, too stunned to answer.  

Knock, knock, knock.  

“Hey, Maurice!” someone yelled outside. “What’re you banging for?”  

Maurice frowned. “I’m not banging, you idiot, you are!”  

The voice outside—Eddie, presumably—shouted, “What banging?!”  

Maurice muttered a string of curses and climbed out of the truck, slamming the door behind him.  

Then Annabeth appeared beside Percy, shedding the cap. “That should buy us sixty seconds.”  

“This isn’t a zoo. It’s a smuggling op,” Grover said, voice low and grim. “The lion told me. He said—”  

That’s right, the zebra’s voice echoed again, inside Percy’s skull. Please, lord. Set us free.  

They both looked at Percy, waiting.  

The locks on the cages looked flimsy. Percy hesitated only a moment before uncapping Riptide and slicing through the metal.  

The zebra bolted, leapt past Maurice—who was halfway inside again—and vanished into the Las Vegas street. Screaming erupted. Cars honked. Police whistles blared.  

“Now would be a good time to leave,” Annabeth said.  

“The others first,” Grover insisted.  

Percy nodded, cutting the remaining locks. Grover murmured goat-blessings to each, his voice low and lilting. The lion paused just long enough to give Percy a regal stare, then loped into the chaos. The antelope bounded after him.  

They leapt down from the truck, blinking in the sun, and were quickly forgotten amid the screaming tourists and flurry of cell phones. Most people probably thought it was a casino stunt.  

“Will they be okay?” Percy asked.  

Grover nodded. “I laid a sanctuary over them. They’ll find wild places. Shade. Water. They’ll be safe.”  

“C’mon,” Annabeth said. “Let’s get out of here before someone asks questions.”  

They hurried through the Vegas streets. They passed the Monte Carlo, the MGM, a pyramid, a pirate ship, and a gaudy replica of the Statue of Liberty. Percy didn’t seem to be looking around so much as remembering—eyes scanning like he was following a map only he could see.  

“I know a place where we can rest a little,” he said suddenly. “C’mon.”  

He led them down a quiet side street, toward a dead end. The entrance was shaped like a massive neon lotus blossom, its petals blinking in a slow, rhythmic pulse. Lotus Casino and Hotel. The chrome doors stood open. Cold, floral-scented air washed over them.  

A doorman beamed. “You kids look tired. Want to come in and rest?”  

Percy smiled. “Thank you, sir.”  

He started to step inside—but Annabeth grabbed his arm.  

“Are you insane? This could be a trap!”  

“It’s not,” Percy said evenly. “Only if you forget when you are.”  

The lobby was enormous. It glowed with golden lighting and impossible space. The carpet shimmered. The whole room was a decadent playground: old-school Pac-Man machines and VR arenas, indoor waterslides that curled like serpents around a glass elevator, a bungee bridge suspended from the ceiling. Waiters in tuxedos drifted past carrying trays of root beer floats and molten chocolate cake. Every food Percy had ever craved was here. No lines. No clock. Just... perfect distraction.  

Grover's jaw dropped. “Whoa.”  

Percy didn’t slow. He walked them to the front desk like he’d done a thousand times.  

“Mr. Jackson. Welcome back.” A tall man in a gold-trimmed uniform gave a crisp nod.  "Welcome to the Lotus Casino. Here's your card. Should I book the wing spa for you, young sir?”  

Percy picked up his card and handed one to Annabeth and another to Grover. "Nice to meet you again, Jean. Unfortunately, no, we are on a tight schedule this time, but if you could send some fresh fruit to the room, it would be much appreciated."  

 "Right away, Mr. Jackson," The other said with a polite smile. "Anything else I can help you with?"  

 "Do you have any of that volcanic ash soap I used last time?" Percy asked  

 "It will be waiting in your room, just go up to the top floor, room 4001. Enjoy your stay."  

"Thank you," Percy said before dragging a stunned Annabeth and Grover to the elevator  

The moment the doors slid shut, Annabeth rounded on him.  

“What was that? What is this place?”  

Percy leaned against the mirrored wall. “The Lotus Eaters, remember? Odysseus. This is their new gig—hotel, casino, pocket dimension. I came here once with my uncle for my eleventh birthday. It’s safe—unless you lose track of time.”  

Grover looked around uneasily. “Feels weird. Like... It’s humming.”  

“Magic,” Percy said. “Temporal suspension. No clocks, no windows. But we’ll only be here for eight hours. Rest, wash, and food. I’ll keep watch.”  

“Eight hours,” Annabeth repeated warily.  

“I swear it. If you drift, I’ll pull you out myself.”  

The elevator dinged. Room 4001 opened on a palatial suite: three bedrooms, a balcony with a hot tub, feather beds, a candy-stocked minibar, and skeet shooting out over the Strip. The skyline sparkled outside like a living constellation.  

“Oh, gods,” Annabeth whispered.  

“This place is sweet,” Grover said, already peeling off his grimy jacket.  

“Told you,” Percy muttered, already picking out a clean outfit from the walk-in closet. He tossed Ares’s backpack into the trash without hesitation. “I’m showering. Don’t leave the suite.”  

By the time Percy emerged—showered, scrubbed, and wearing a new navy tee and jeans—Annabeth and Grover were curled up on the massive couch watching National Geographic. Percy picked a peach off a silver platter and flopped down beside them.  

“So?” he asked. “What do you think?”  

“I feel… good,” Grover said, blinking like he hadn’t realized it. The wings on his shoes flapped once, unbidden.  

Annabeth tilted her head. “This place… is dangerous.”  

“But comfortable,” Percy added. “That’s the trick.”  

She turned to face him. “Percy. About what you said earlier. The Titan of Time. You’re serious?”  

Percy’s smile vanished.  

“I think it’s him,” he said. “Behind the theft. Behind all of it. Using someone desperate for revenge as a pawn.”  

“But that’s impossible—Kro—” She stopped when he looked at her. The name died in her throat.  

“We don’t say his name,” Percy said softly. “Not until we know more.”  

“But he’s in Tartarus,” Grover said. “Chained. Gone.”  

“So’s my uncle, if you believe some stories. Doesn’t stop him from whispering. Whispers. Temptation. Promises. He plants a seed in someone already full of anger, someone who wants the world to burn, and lets them do the rest.”  

Grover blinked. “Wait—who’s your uncle?”  

“Never mind. Wrong canon.” Percy shook his head. “What matters is this: we don’t know all the players. Someone powerful is setting the board. And we’re the bait.”  

Then Percy stood up. “Rest. I’ll keep watch. Eight hours, and I'll wake you both.”  

Annabeth stared at him, measuring.  

“You mean it? You won’t drift?”  

“No,” he said, looking toward the Vegas skyline. “I don’t drift.”  

He touched the seahorse charm at his neck once. Twice. Then sat, the flickering light of the Strip casting shadows across his wings.  

Later, Grover snored lightly from one room. Annabeth was curled under a gray blanket in the second, one arm flung over her eyes.  

Percy sat at the desk in the common room, thumbing slowly through a worn, leather-bound copy of Orphic Hymns. He wasn’t reading, not really. Just turning pages to feel the weight of ancient words under his fingers.  

The lights were dimmed. The city outside glowed like a sleeping beast.  

Time flowed strangely in the Lotus. It always had.  

But Percy felt it under his skin—the sun rising, somewhere, somewhere outside this suspended moment of comfort. The real-world calling.  

And below it all, deeper still, he felt the pull of Tartarus like gravity. A whisper on the edge of hearing.  

The Crooked One was watching.  

And waiting.  

Chapter Text

Percy was deep into a weathered copy of the Orphic Hymns, the ink-smudged pages breathing old magic beneath his fingertips. The Lotus Casino’s temporal haze made reading easier—no clocks, no urgency. Just quiet. 

A soft knock broke the stillness. 

He looked up. Another knock. He stood, setting the book down carefully before crossing to the door. When he opened it, a bellboy stood there with an ornate silver tray, a single envelope resting in the center like a jewel on a cushion. 

“Letter for Mr. Jackson,” the boy said with a professional smile. 

Percy took the envelope. “Thanks.” 

The door shut with a soft click behind him. 

The envelope was pale green with a subtle shimmer—not paper, not parchment. It felt… almost like seaweed. The wax seal was navy blue, embossed with a conch shell— Triton.  

What could he possibly want now? 

Percy broke the seal and pulled out a sheet of the same kelp paper, inked in elegant handwriting that curled like foam over sand: 

Dear Percy,  

We heard you were sent on a quest. We tried to convince Father not to make your claiming quite so… dramatic, but as you’ve no doubt noticed, he is not currently in the most reasonable of moods.  

Still. Welcome to the family—officially, this time. Perhaps you’ll be able to visit us properly now, instead of always by astral projection.  

Rhodes guilted Father into sending some help your way. Go to Santa Monica Beach when you reach Los Angeles. Someone will be waiting with… assistance.  

Also, Benthesikyme asked me to remind you: please convince your mother not to kill Father once this is over. I'm quite happy with my status as heir and have no intention of taking the throne. Ever.  

With love, 
Triton 
Heir to the Sea Throne, Messenger God of the Sea, God of the Navy, Host of the Tritones 

Percy smirked. “Of course, he signed all his titles,” he muttered, folding the letter and sliding it into his jacket pocket. 

A door creaked behind him. Annabeth stepped into the common area, barefoot, hair still tousled from sleep. “Was someone at the door?” 

Percy glanced at her. “Just a letter. From my siblings.” 

Annabeth blinked, still waking. “Wait— siblings ?” 

“Triton. Rhodes. Benthesikyme.” 

“You know your god-siblings?” she asked, stunned. 

“Sure. Triton met me at the beach when I was three. We’ve kept in touch. Every now and then, I project to Atlantis to trounce him at chess.” 

Annabeth just stares at him for a moment as if he had just proved that the earth was flat, after all 

“The sea takes care of its own,” Percy said simply. 

Annabeth ran a hand down her face. “I’ll freak out about this later.” She glanced at the dark window. “How long did I sleep?” 

“Six hours. Almost seven.” 

She straightened immediately. “We should move. Is there a store here? We need supplies.” 

“There is.” Percy slung his bag over one shoulder, stuffing the laundry sack into the main compartment. “I’ll show you.” 

A few minutes later, Grover was awake, bleary-eyed but alert, brushing crumbs from his chin. They headed for the elevator. Percy kept his hand on Grover’s shoulder to steady him, but Grover suddenly stopped mid-step. 

“Uh… guys?” 

Percy turned to see what he was staring at—and felt his gut twist. 

The bag. 

Ares’s bag. 

The one Percy had thrown in the trash. It now sat smugly on Grover’s back, like it had never left. 

“What the...,” Percy muttered. “Is that thing enchanted?” 

Grover frowned and pulled it off. “I mean… maybe? It didn’t do this before.” 

Annabeth narrowed her eyes at the bag, already slipping into tactical thought. “It’s enchanted to return to the bearer. Even if discarded. That’s not a passive charm—it’s deliberate. Ares wanted us to keep this.” 

Percy folded his arms. “The god of war pointed my father toward the Lord of the Underworld. He gave us this bag. He made sure it would follow us all the way to the edge of the underworld.” 

He held out his hand. “May I?” 

Grover passed the bag over warily. 

Percy cradled it in one palm. Then he took a breath. 

His eyes slowly shifted. The greenish tint drained out, leaving pure argent silver. His skin shone faintly, like moonlight on wet stone. The air around him grew heavy—metallic, ozone-rich, sharp enough that Grover flinched and clapped a hand over his nose. 

Annabeth stepped back. The hair on her arms lifted. 

Then—“YOWCH!” 

Percy hissed and dropped the bag like it had bitten him. 

“Shocked me,” he muttered, shaking his hand. The air normalized as his eyes slowly returned to sea-glass green. “It has heavy wards. Defensive. And reactive. That’s not normal enchantment.” 

“This thing,” he said, nudging the fallen bag with his foot, “is tied to the master bolt.” 

Annabeth’s face went still. “If we take it into the Underworld…” 

“We trigger something,” Percy finished. 

“A weapon?” Annabeth guessed. 

“A beacon,” Grover offered, voice small. “Or a trap.” 

They all looked at the bag. In the low hotel lighting, it looked innocent. Ordinary. Just a backpack. 

"So, we won't let this anywhere near the underworld," He glanced at them both. “Agreed?” 

 Annabeth nodded. “Agreed.” 

 Grover swallowed and echoed, “Agreed.” 

 "For now, let's go to the shop and then to Santa Monica, and we'll figure out from there 

The hotel’s market wasn’t a market in any mortal sense. 

No buzzing fluorescent lights. No dusty rows of overpriced candy bars and travel-sized shampoo. 

Instead, they walked through a vaulted hall of black marble and starlight, where floating signs labeled Curiosities, Amenities, and Essentials drifted through the air like jellyfish. The room smelled faintly of honey and sea salt and was filled with the soft tinkling of wind chimes—though there was no wind. 

Annabeth immediately drifted toward a stand of curious-looking tools, glass display boxes gleaming with polished obsidian compasses, compass roses that spun in place without being touched, and something labeled: Athena’s Whisper — Automatic Map Recall, Mind-Based Navigation Only. 

Percy shadowed her closely. Grover, for once, didn’t need much prodding to stay nearby—he was visibly trying not to wander too far from Percy’s orbit. Maybe the conversation earlier had settled into him, too. 

“Do we need a purification bottle?” Grover asked, pointing to a glass flask resting in a velvet-lined alcove. Inside, dark water slowly turned clear and glittered like liquid quartz. 

Annabeth picked it up, studying the runes etched around the cap. “It cleans any liquid. Can even desalinate seawater.” 

Next to it, a tray of pastel gummies in glass jars caught Grover’s attention. A sign above read: Nutriment Concentrates – One gummy = One full meal. The flavors weren’t labeled. Percy suspected it didn’t matter. 

Annabeth held up a folding fan with a carved ivory handle. It was lacquered black and gold, and the sign below it read: Veil-Fan: When Held to the Face, Makes the Bearer Less Noticed. Duration: 15 min. 

She tested it, flicking it open and holding it half across her nose and mouth. Her presence immediately dimmed—Percy’s eyes slid past her without meaning to. 

“Still doesn’t beat my hat,” she said, returning it to the shelf 

Percy moved quickly to the next section. He refused to let any of them linger too long. 

Not here. 

There were other shoppers in the market. Most looked… fine. Tourists. Mortal and otherwise. But some weren’t. A man with luminous blue veins and a half-translucent cloak floated through one aisle. A pair of white-robed twins, indistinguishable from each other except for their eye colors—one gold, one shadow-black—were muttering to a humming crystal globe between them. 

And then they crossed his path. 

Percy felt it before he saw it. The sudden shift in the air. Like the ocean itself had pulled back, waiting to snap forward. 

The god strode past them, tall and lean in ink-black linen robes that rippled like smoke. His eyes were pure obsidian, polished to a mirror shine. Gold sigils shimmered faintly along the edges of his cloak—ancient, angular, older than Greek. He wore a golden sun disk on a broad collar around his neck, and sandals so clean they looked ceremonial. 

He did not look at Percy. 

But he stopped beside them. For just a moment. 

Percy tensed. Instinctively, he stepped between the god and Annabeth. 

Annabeth blinked between them. “Friend of yours?” 

Percy’s voice was casual, but his back had gone rigid. “Not exactly.” 

Grover froze, his hand still on a jar of gummy stars. 

The Egyptian god turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge Percy’s presence without facing him. 

His mouth curved—not into a smile. Something colder. Sharper. Like a knife acknowledging another blade across the table. 

Then he moved on, disappearing into a shimmer of heat at the end of the aisle. 

“What—” Annabeth started. 

Percy exhaled. “That,” he said under his breath, “Is an Egyptian. Not sure which one. They all look like they have somewhere more important to be.” 

“Was he a god?” Annabeth asked. 

“Yes” 

“Why is he here ?” 

Percy rubbed the back of his neck. “The pantheons have… treaties. Ancient pacts. Places like this—the Lotus—fall outside specific jurisdiction. Neutral ground.” 

“Why did it feel like you were about to go for each other’s throats?” Grover asked, wide-eyed. 

“They don’t like my family,” Percy said, tone flat. “There's history.” 

Grover frowned. “What kind of history?” 

“Old grudges,” Percy muttered. “Floods, locusts, slavery, plagues. Doesn’t matter. Mutual loathing since before Alexandria was dust.” 

Annabeth didn’t push, though her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. 

He herded them both back toward the register, grabbing two of the purifying flasks and a pack of meal-gummies on the way. 

At checkout, they pad with the casino cards, he cashier, a dryad with hair like willow branches, simply smiled and said, “Enjoy the moment,” before the floating bags gently folded themselves into Percy’s pack. 

They made it out without losing each other or getting hexed by strange gods. It was a small miracle, and Percy counted it. 

Once outside, the sky was beginning to pale with dawn. Vegas glared behind them like a city drunk on its own myths. Percy stood with his hand shielding his eyes, his skin still carrying the artificial floral scent of the Lotus’ perfect air conditioning. For a second, the sunlight didn’t feel real. 

Annabeth loaded them into the back of a battered Vegas taxi as if they actually had money. 

“Los Angeles, please,” she said crisply, like she did this sort of thing every weekend. 

The cabbie—somewhere between a gargoyle and a gremlin in appearance—chewed his cigar and gave them a long, cynical once-over through the rearview mirror. 

“That’s three hundred miles,” he said, voice gravel-thick. “For that, you gotta pay up front.” 

“You take casino debit?” Annabeth held up her green LotusCash card. 

He grunted. “Depends on the card. Gotta swipe it first.” 

Annabeth handed it over. 

The meter blinked. Lights flashed. It rattled like it was preparing to open a hellmouth. Then, abruptly, the screen displayed a single glowing symbol: ∞. 

The driver’s cigar dropped straight into his lap. 

He turned and blinked at them, suddenly a lot more respectful. “Where to in Los Angeles, uh… Your Highness?” 

“The Santa Monica Pier,” Annabeth said smoothly, settling back into the seat. “Get us there fast, and I'll triple the fare.” 

Maybe she shouldn’t have said that last part. 

The taxi shot out of the parking lot like a released arrow. The cab's speedometer never dipped below ninety-five the entire way across the Mojave. 

No one really talked. 

The cab rattled and screamed down the desert highway like it was being pursued by a god. Wind tore past the windows, moaning like lost souls. Percy watched the landscape blur past—dusty scrubland, scorched earth, the horizon burning orange where the sun began to sink. 

Every hiss of brakes from an eighteen-wheeler made his muscles tighten. Every gust of wind sounded like Echidna’s breath. 

Grover eventually dozed off, his mouth open, curled around his backpack like it might be stolen. Annabeth stared out the window, eyes unfocused but sharp—like she was building a thousand stratagems in her mind and discarding them all. 

Percy just sat still. 

The sun dipped behind the edge of the world. Shadows stretched long and thin. L.A. came into view in a haze of neon, pollution, and golden cloud. The ocean was a smear of silver on the horizon. 

The cab dropped them on the edge of the Santa Monica beach just as morning was settling on the sky. Carnival lights blinked in the distance—the Pier stretching out like a crooked finger into the sea. 

The beach looked exactly like it did in the movies. Palm trees like skeletons. Graffiti-tagged lifeguard stations. Rollercoasters rattling. The salt-smell of the ocean barely masking the rot of dead fish and city runoff. 

Percy stepped out of the cab and let the sea breeze hit him full in the face. Cold. Briny. Real. 

The driver peeled out without another word 

The three of them stood at the edge of the asphalt path where concrete gave way to sand. 

Some surfer dudes sat nearby waxing their boards. A couple argued loudly near the snack stands. A man wrapped in a blanket slept beneath the palms. In the distance, the lights of the Ferris wheel cast soft shadows on the waves. 

But Percy barely noticed any of it. 

Because the ocean was singing. 

Not in words. Not in language. 

But in pressure. Memory. Pull. 

He heard it low in his skull, deep and resonant. 

He walked past the trash cans, past the dunes, past a group of kids lighting sparklers in the sand. He didn’t ask if Annabeth and Grover were following. He knew they would. 

When he reached the shoreline, the cold water touched his feet, and the hum in his bones swelled. Something old and deep was calling. Familiar. 

Bonus Chapter – NON-CANON! 
 
Since the comments from the last chapter, this little plot bunny just wouldn’t leave me alone, I blame all of you for this 😅😅 
 
The Devil You Know 

By the time the sun had dipped beneath the Las Vegas skyline, the desert was breathing fire into the night. Neon signs flickered like constellations made of liquor ads and greed. Grover was sweating through his shirt, trying to keep up. Annabeth stalked behind Percy, looking increasingly skeptical with every step. 

“I know a place,” Percy had said. Not suggested, but declared, like he had just remembered it existed on a deeper level of reality than the strip they were walking on. 

And now, they stood before LUX. 

A sleek black tower of polished obsidian and glass rose behind velvet ropes and a steel-lined door. People in couture and blood-red lipstick moved in and out like fish in an aquarium—smiling, dangerous, beautiful. 

Annabeth froze. “Percy. This is a nightclub.” 

“Yeah,” he said calmly, eyes on the glowing LUX sign above. “I know.” 

Grover blinked up at the tower. “We’re... going clubbing?” 

Percy shrugged. “We’re resting.” 

Annabeth grabbed his arm. “We’re twelve. This is illegal. There’s bouncers and alcohol and—oh gods—is that woman holding a snake?” 

“Probably,” Percy said. “Don’t worry. The owner won’t mind.” 

“The owner won’t mind?” Annabeth hissed. 

“He’s my uncle.” 

“What?!” 

Percy didn’t answer. He strolled to the bouncer, a bald man in a black suit who looked carved from concrete, and said with absolute calm, “Good Evening, sir. Could you tell Mr. Morningstar that his nephew is in the lobby?” 

The man blinked. Then, with a slow nod, he touched an earpiece, murmuring something 

The doors swung open. 

Inside was sound—not pounding club beats, but velvet-smooth jazz, blues, and trumpet notes curling through the air like incense. The room was vast and dim, lit in golds and ambers. The bar stretched like a river of flame. Men and women danced with a kind of elegance Percy had only ever seen in dreams. No one looked at them. No one cared. They didn’t need to care. 

Annabeth stared at a woman in a sheer red gown 

“We shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. “We’re kids. This is—this is like Gatsby after dark.” 

The bouncer led them across the polished floor to a private elevator. No buttons. No floor numbers. Just a panel that glowed when touched. 

They didn’t wait long. 

The elevator doors slid open, and there he was. 

Lucifer Morningstar. 

Tall. Smiling. Dangerously beautiful. His suit was a dark blue velvet, tailored to perfection. The shirt open at the throat showed just enough to be scandalous. His eyes—those impossible eyes—landed on Percy, and his grin broke wide. 

“Percy!” Lucifer exclaimed, arms spreading like wings. “Darling boy. My perfectly polite little celestial hybrid. What in the hells are you doing in Vegas on your own?” 

Percy smiled faintly. “Hi, Uncle Lucifer.” 

Lucifer beamed, sweeping Percy into a brief but sincere hug.  

“Good gods. Plural, unfortunately.” He made a face. “Are these... a demigod and a satyr?” 

“They're my friends. This is Annabeth. That’s Grover.” 

Lucifer’s smile twitched. “Come on then.” He turned, already striding toward the elevator. “Let’s go somewhere quieter before Chloe sees you and calls Child Protective Services.” 

Lucifer’s penthouse was decadence incarnate: black marble floors, panoramic views of the Strip, a baby grand piano, and a fire pit built directly into the living room floor. An entire wall was glass shelves full of rare liquors. In the corner, a leather fainting couch looked like it hadn’t been used since Cleopatra’s time. 

The moment the doors closed, Lucifer rounded on Percy. 

“Where are Zariel and Gabriel?” Lucifer asked, frowning. “Surely they didn’t leave you to gallivant around this pit alone?” 

“They had to deal with something,” Percy said. “Something called the Winchester Situation.” 

Lucifer sighed. “Of course. That damned mess. I told Michael not to touch Earth’s temporal axis again. But nooo, nobody listens. And they left you alone? I would’ve had Maze babysit.” 

“I was supposed to stay at a summer camp,” Percy said, “but then I got accused of stealing a god’s weapon and now I’m stuck running errands.” 

There was a moment of silence. 

Lucifer blinked. 

Then his entire face changed. 

He took a slow breath and looked heavenward as if searching for patience. “You... are being accused of stealing what now?” 

“The Master Bolt,” Percy repeated. “Zeus’s thunderbolt. Big shiny murder-stick. No one knows where it is.” 

Lucifer closed his eyes. 

Grover whimpered. “Uh... is he okay?” 

Lucifer opened his eyes. They glowed faintly red. “Someone— someone—accused you, my sister’s son, of theft? You, who couldn’t lie about a stolen cookie without writing a confession in icing on the fridge? He rolled his eyes so hard they almost rattled. “I’ll never understand what your mother saw in that salt-slick barnacle. The sea god, really?” 

Percy coughed. 

Grover looked like he wanted to crawl under the floorboards. “Did he just call Lord Poseidon—” 

“ Yes,” Annabeth whispered, “and I think we’re going to be smote.” 

Before anyone could respond, the elevator dinged—and Chloe Decker stepped out, heels clicking, holding a manila folder. She stopped short at the sight of three kids sprawled in Lucifer’s penthouse. 

“What— Lucifer! ” she barked. “Why are there children in your apartment?!” 

“Detective,” Lucifer said with long-suffering fondness, “they’re not just children. They’re questing. Very mythic, terribly important. This one—” he pointed at Percy, “—is my nephew.” 

Chloe stared. “He’s what?” 

Percy gave a small wave. “Hi. I’m not technically from this reality. It’s kind of complicated.” 

Chloe blinked. Then turned to Annabeth. “And you are?” 

“Confused,” Annabeth said. “Also concerned.” 

“Same,” Chloe muttered. 

“They’re not drinking,” Lucifer said lightly. “Percy’s being hunted by the Olympians for a crime he didn’t commit. So, I offered him sanctuary. As one does.” 

Chloe blinked. “You—what?” 

“He’s been accused of stealing Zeus’s master bolt,” Lucifer said, reaching lazily for his drink. “And the Hadean Helm of Darkness. Apparently, Poseidon's son makes a convenient scapegoat.” 

Chloe’s jaw dropped. “Wait, wait—he’s actually the son of—” 

“Yes. He’s the reason Las Vegas didn’t flood last year.” 

Percy, red-faced, said, “That wasn’t just me—” 

Lucifer snapped his fingers. “Shush, darling. You were marvelous.” 

Then his eyes sharpened. “And to be accused of theft? Of such trinkets? My nephew?” 

The temperature of the room shifted. Subtly. The shadows behind Lucifer stretched just a little too far, and the lights dimmed an imperceptible degree. 

Annabeth straightened. She recognized that feeling. Power. Old, coiled, and wrathful. 

Lucifer’s voice lost all levity. “I dislike liars, Percy. But I loathe slander.” He takes a deep breath to calm himself. “Well, I’m glad you came here,” Lucifer said. “This city is crawling with low-level gods and charlatans. They think a casino, or a neon sign, makes them divine. You need a break, dear boy.” 

“I do,” Percy admitted. “And maybe a shower.” 

Lucifer clapped his hands. “Done. One spa visit, one feast, and then we’ll talk about clearing your name.” 

Percy blinked. “Wait, you’d help?” 

Lucifer gave him a sideways look. “Of course I’ll help. You’re family. I won’t let those overdressed thunder-clowns smear your name.” 

Then he smiled, slow and sharp. 

“And besides... if I did want to teach Zeus a lesson in humility, what better way than proving a twelve-year-old half-angel has more honor than he does?” 

He turned, picking up his phone, already dialing. 

“Who are you calling?” Annabeth asked. 

“The only Olympian I still have on speed dial,” Lucifer replied. “Hades. The only one of the lot with half a brain. And if I have to burn Olympus to the foundation to clear your name, Percy…” 

He smiled. 

“Then I’ll show the pagan gods what real divine retribution looks like.” 

Chapter Text

The night air hung heavy with brine and carnival light. The roar of the ocean was softer here, more like breathing than thunder. Percy stood at the edge of it, just where the waves brushed over his bare feet, and stared into the dark expanse.  

He didn’t move.  

Behind him, Grover shifted uncertainly, his hooves crunching against damp sand. Annabeth stepped closer.  

“What now?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.  

“I dive in,” Percy said.  

He bit his lower lip and didn’t make a move.  

Annabeth tilted her head. “Percy? Everything okay?”  

He didn’t answer at first. The ocean reflected nothing—just swallowed light, swallowed sound. The silence stretched thin until it nearly snapped.  

Then, quietly: “I’ve never… swam in the ocean before.”  

Grover let out a confused huff. “Wait. What? But you’re—”  

“—son of the god of the sea, I know.” Percy’s voice was tight. A little defensive. He didn’t turn around. “I grew up in East Aurora. We’re landlocked, and we only made it out to the coast maybe three times a year, tops. Summers, I’d hang out by the lake with my friends. But that’s not this.”  

He motioned at the rolling, dark expanse like it was a stranger he was being forced to greet.  

“And… I always preferred the sky.” He exhaled hard through his nose, looking up at the sky as if he missed the clouds more than he missed the tide. His shoulders twitched—if his wings were visible, they would’ve been half-open by now.  

“But what about your siblings?” Annabeth asked, more softly. “You said you keep in touch with them.”  

“I do. We’d meet at the beach sometimes, sure. And I’ve been to Atlantis plenty—but always in spirit. Astral projection only. Never... physically. Not down there.”  

There was another silence, heavier now.  

“Percy,” Annabeth asked cautiously, “are you… afraid of the ocean?”  

“No.” The word came out fast. Too fast. His shoulders rose, stiff, defensive. “It’s just that—when I was seven, I woke up one morning with scales. All over my legs.”  

Annabeth blinked. “Wait—you have scales?”  

He gave her a withering look, which quickly deflated. “Had. Just that once. My mom helped me reverse it—walked me through the steps until my body settled again—but I remember the feeling.”  

He rubbed his arms. The wind caught the edge of his jacket. His fingers went to the small seahorse charm at his throat and started to fidget with it in slow, repetitive movements.  

“It felt wrong,” he said finally. “The scales. The way my joints moved. Like my body wasn’t mine anymore. I could feel my legs wanting to swim, even when I didn’t want to. Like… like something inside me was waiting for me to drown and let it take over.”  

He rocked forward on his heels, just slightly. His eyes had gone distant. “I’m afraid if I go under, it’ll happen again. The scales, the… pull. But this time, my mom’s not here to help me shift back.”  

His voice went small at the end, and for a moment, he looked lost, unmoored, and unsure where the edges of himself began or ended.  

Annabeth reached out and took his hand.  

Percy flinched—just a fraction—but he didn’t pull away.  

“Percy,” she said, softly but firmly, “the last few days, I’ve watched you bend miracles into shape like they were tools. You’ve healed yourself with holy water. You fought monsters, and still cared about everyone’s pain.”  

Percy’s rocking slowed. His hand was still trembling.  

“If anyone can hold onto their shape—who they are—it’s you,” she said. “And if you do grow scales… I’ll sit with you until you remember how to be yourself again. I won’t let you forget.”  

He swallowed hard. His voice, when it came, was smaller than she’d ever heard it.  

“Really?”  

“Yes,” Annabeth said. No hesitation.  

There was a beat of silence.  

Then Percy let go of her hand.  

He nodded once, as if trying to convince himself. Then again. Firmer. And started walking.  

The surf came up to his knees. Then his thighs. The water was cold and heavy, but it parted for him—not like it feared him, but like it knew him.  

At chest height, he paused. Looked back.  

Annabeth and Grover stood on the edge of the sand, watching silently.  

He gave a small nod. Then he drew in one breath, deep and still—and dove.  

The ocean swallowed him whole.  

Percy held his breath out of habit—an old reflex learned from when his body was human. He didn’t need it. His lungs simply… paused.  

He stepped into the surf and kept walking.  

The water should have been cold, stinging with salt. But it wasn’t. It wrapped around him like memory—warm, heavy, alive. The deeper he went, the more the light dimmed, but the world did not grow vague. If anything, it sharpened.  

He shouldn’t have been able to see through the murk, but something in him—something old—woke up beneath the surface. He felt the rolling hills of the seabed under his feet as if they were pressure plates in his own mind. He saw sand dollar colonies half-buried in silt, tiny crustaceans skittering through weed forests, and glimmering ribbons of current, cool and warm threads dancing through the deep.  

Something brushed his leg.  

He flinched—but it didn’t bite.  

A mako shark, sleek and ghost-pale in the filtered light, circled him once, then again. It bumped its snout against his hip like a puppy, nudging closer. Curious. Familiar.  

Tentatively, Percy reached out and touched its dorsal fin.  

It gave a small, eager jolt, then surged forward.  

He held on.  

The mako dragged him effortlessly downward, into the twilight shelf beyond the sandbars. The pressure should have crushed him, but Percy barely noticed it. It felt like going home through a door he’d never dared open.  

Then the world dropped away. The ocean floor vanished beneath them, and they hovered on the edge of a vast chasm—a trench so deep it could have swallowed skyscrapers. A hundred and fifty feet above, the surface glimmered like a ceiling of molten glass. Down here, it was silent. Endless.  

From the darkness below, light rose.  

A pale green glow shimmered in the abyss, growing brighter. A figure approached—riding a great, coral-crested sea horse, her hair like ink spilling through water.  

“Percy Jackson,” said a voice, clear and melodic despite the depth.  

The Nereid dismounted, letting the sea horse drift toward the mako, the two creatures circling one another in playful loops. She walked—glided—toward him, her gown trailing like sea foam.  

“You’ve come far,” she said with a small, approving smile. “Well done.”  

Percy inclined his head respectfully, then let the words form not in his mouth but in his mind. 
<Thank you, ma’am.> 

She blinked once, faintly surprised by the use of thought-speech.  

“I am a Nereid. A spirit of the sea.” She extended her hand. In her palm, three white pearls pulsed faintly. “Your father sent me to deliver these.”  

Percy accepted them silently, watching the way their light refracted against his skin. 
<Interesting that he suddenly finds himself in a charitable mood. Right when I become useful.> His tone in the mind-link was dry, carefully neutral. 

“Do not judge the Lord of the Sea too harshly,” she said. “He stands at the brink of a war no one wants. He is forbidden to intervene directly.”  

<Even with his own children?>  

“Especially with his own children. The gods must not show favoritism. They can only act through indirect means.”  

<I’m starting to notice.>  

She stepped a little closer. “I know you journey to Hades’s realm. Few mortals have ever returned from such a place. Orpheus had his music. Hercules his strength. Houdini his tricks. Do you have such talents?”  

Percy gave the mental equivalent of a smirk. 
<I think so, ma’am.> 

That made her chuckle. “You’re something else, young lord. Your father would not see you die before your time. Take these pearls. If you are in danger, break one at your feet.”  

<What will happen?>  

“That,” she said, “depends on your need. But remember: what belongs to the sea will always return to the sea.”  

<I’d prefer clearer instructions, if possible.>  

Her eyes gleamed with green light. “Go with what your heart tells you—or you will lose all. Hades feeds on doubt. He will use it to trap you. Make you mistrust your own judgment. If you step foot in his realm, he will not let you leave freely. Keep faith.”  

She summoned her hippocampus with a wave. It returned at once, circling her like a loyal hound.  

“Good luck, Percy Jackson.”  

As she mounted the sea horse, Percy thought—only half-intending to send it— 
<What’s with everyone in this pantheon hating the god of the dead?> 

The Nereid didn’t answer. But her smile faded slightly. Then she turned and rode down into the trench, vanishing into the dark.  

By the time Percy rose to the surface, the stars had shifted westward. He stepped onto the shore and found that his clothes were dry, his skin warm. Even the salt didn’t cling to him.  

Grover jumped to his feet. “You’re back! What happened?”  

Percy held out the pearls. “Apparently, my father does care. Just not helpfully.”  

He explained what the Nereid had told him. When he finished, Annabeth grimaced.  

“No gift comes without a price.”  

“Don’t we know it?” Percy muttered, glaring at the bag still stubbornly clinging to Grover’s shoulder.  

They moved higher up the sand, found a dry patch beneath a burned-out pier light, and sat in a loose triangle. The surf whispered at their backs.  

Percy pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. “We need to figure out our next step.”  

“Going into the Underworld,” Annabeth said, “is what they expect us to do.”  

“Which makes it the stupidest possible move,” Grover added.  

“Agreed.” Percy looked at the sky. “What would we even say? ‘Oh, Silent One, sir, we’re three very alive children trespassing in your private kingdom to inform you that, actually, we brought you nothing—but you’re not guilty. That’ll go over great.”  

Percy looked up. Something flashed behind his eyes—an idea, sharp and sudden. “Why are we so focused on the Underworld anyway?”  

Annabeth narrowed her eyes. “Because—?”  

“I mean it,” he said, sitting up straight. “The prophecy never says to go to the Underworld.  

Annabeth, seated cross-legged in the sand beside him, leaned back on her palms. “You shall go west,” she began, her voice steady. “I’d say that one’s done. We’re practically at the edge of the country. Unless the oracle meant Hawaii, but I doubt it.”  

“Don’t tempt fate, Annabeth,” Percy muttered.  

A dry breeze kicked up salt from the surf, and Grover shuffled awkwardly beside them, trying to smooth out a crumpled map that flapped like a dying bird in his hands.  

Percy continued, still not lifting his head. “‘And face the god who has turned.’”  

Annabeth went quiet. “That’s… significantly more problematic.”  

“Understatement of the century,” Grover said, folding the map and giving up. “We still don’t know who that means.”  

Annabeth’s expression tightened. “‘Turned’ is vague. Turned evil? Turned away? Turned their back on Olympus? It could still mean Hades.”  

“I’m starting to think the whole point of a prophecy is to make you paranoid,” Percy muttered.  

“Next verse,” Annabeth said. “‘You shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned.’”  

“Optimistic,” Percy said, finally raising his head, eyes shadowed. “But we know it’s not just one thing. The master bolt’s one, and something from the Lord of Death.”  

Annabeth stared at him, pale in the rising moonlight. “So then the next line,” she whispered. “‘You shall be betrayed by one who calls you a sister.’”  

All three of them fell quiet.  

Grover said quietly, “Could that mean… someone from Camp Half-Blood?”  

Percy’s jaw clenched. “Maybe. But I’m not ready to start pointing fingers there. Not yet.”  

Annabeth’s fingers dug into the sand. “And then there’s the last part. ‘You shall fail to save what matters most, in the end.’” She gave a bitter laugh. “The Oracle really knows how to comfort you.”  

“Old heroes had it easy,” Annabeth said, throwing a pebble into the surf. “Their quests were straightforward. ‘Go kill the Chimera. Go find the fleece. Go steal the apples of immortality.’ No riddles. No double meanings.”  

“Actually,” Percy said, brow furrowed, “Oedipus had a whole thing—”  

“Not now, Percy,” she snapped, waving him off. “We’re already halfway to madness.”  

Annabeth’s eyes flicked toward the cursed bag still hanging from Grover’s back, as though it might bite her if she looked too long. “I think we can safely say the bolt is riding with us.”  

“And the god of war made sure of it,” Percy said. “He gave us that bag. He handed it over like a gift, but he wanted us to carry it.”  

Annabeth’s frown deepened. “We still don’t have proof he stole the bolt.”  

“We have something better,” Percy said quietly. “We have motive. The god of war wants Olympus destabilized. He wants blood. If we show up without stepping into the realm of the dead, if we hold the bolt back—” he tapped the sand once with emphasis “—it forces the hand of whoever’s really behind this.”  

Annabeth folded her arms. “And you think Ares is being used? By… what, the Crooked One?”  

Percy nodded grimly. “He’s already whispering to mortals. Why not a god? The god of war isn’t exactly known for his introspection. He’s perfect for this—violent, impulsive, arrogant.”  

Grover made a strangled sound. “Oh no. You’re going to say it. I can feel it.”  

“We bait him,” Percy said.  

Annabeth’s brows climbed halfway to her hairline. “I’m sorry. You want to bait the god of war?”  

Percy leaned forward, elbows on his knees again—but this time his posture was alert, coiled like a spring. “Yes.”  

Grover buried his face in his hooves. “No. Absolutely not.”  

“No, listen,” Percy insisted. “He thinks we’re going to walk right into the trap. Go to the Underworld, try to bargain, probably die, and make my father look like he’s behind all this. But what if we turn it on him?”  

Annabeth’s eyes narrowed. “How?”  

“We don’t go to the Underworld. Not yet. We confront him. Call him out. Force the truth out of him.”  

“You think he’s just going to admit it?” she asked incredulously.  

“No,” Percy said. “But he’ll brag. Guys like him? They can’t not brag.”  

Annabeth looked at the sky like she was praying to Athena for patience. “You want to goad the god of war into monologuing?”  

“I’ve seen worse plans,” Percy muttered. “And if we do it right—if I call him out, if I challenge him—he’ll have to respond. It’s his pride.”  

Grover looked miserable. “And what if you lose?”  

“I will,” Percy said plainly. “If it comes to real combat, I’ll lose. But I just need to survive long enough. If I get a confession, you two run with it. Take the helm. Take the bolt. Finish the quest.”  

“No!” she snapped. “I’m not losing someone else to a war they didn’t start.”   

That silenced him. The tension between them hovered in the air like a sword waiting to fall.  

“We are screwed anyway,” Percy said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The ocean wind lifted the ends of his hair and tugged at the hem of his shirt, and something in his eyes looked like he’d already made peace with the worst-case scenario. “If we go to the Underworld with that bag, we walk straight into his trap. If I’m right and we confront him, maybe we get the helm and the truth. If I’m wrong…”  

Annabeth crossed her arms. “If you’re wrong, you’ll be a smear on the pavement.”  

“I’m fast,” Percy said, offering a weak, half-smile. “And slippery.”  

“This isn’t a monster, Percy. This is a god.”  

“You realize,” Grover said faintly, “he could show up riding a boar the size of a minivan and slice you in half just for fun.”  

“Then I’ll dodge.”  

Finally, Grover spoke, voice soft. “You’ve been right so far, Percy. I trust you. But… please don’t make us watch you die.”  

Percy looked down at the pearls in his hand, their pale glow soft against the darkness. His fingers curled around them slowly.  

“I won’t die,” he said. “I’m too stubborn.”  

For a few beats, only the surf spoke—hissing up the sand like a serpent drawing breath.  

Annabeth crossed her arms, chewing her bottom lip. Then she gave a reluctant nod. “Okay. I’m with you. Let’s draw out the war god.”  

Grover whimpered. “This is going to suck.”  

Percy stepped toward the surf, letting the tide wash over his shoes. He raised his arms like a conductor.  

And then he called.  

“ARES!” he shouted, his voice echoing across the Santa Monica shore. “GOD OF WAR!”  

A group of nearby surfers turned and bolted, suddenly afraid  

“YOU COWARD!” Percy bellowed, voice crackling with divine force. “YOU SET US UP! WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID!”  

The wind stilled. The sea pulled back just slightly.  

“YOU STOLE THE BOLT AND THE HELM!” he continued, daring the god to show himself. “WE’RE NOT YOUR PAWNS. YOU WANT WAR? COME SAY IT TO MY FACE!”  

The beach fell silent.  

No waves. No wind. Even the lights of the pier seemed dimmer, shadows stretching long and sharp.  

Then—BOOM.  

The surf exploded.  

A wall of steam and salt crashed upward, hissing with heat. From the plume stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man in battered red-and-black biker leathers, his eyes burning like coals. His chest was bare beneath the jacket, a bronze breastplate strapped carelessly across it. A wicked barbed sword rested on his back.  

He looked like a soldier who had killed in every war he had ever fought.  

“You called, punk?” Ares growled, smoke curling from his breath.  

Percy turned to face him, shoulders square, heart pounding in his ears.  

He didn’t draw Riptide. Not yet.  

“Yeah,” he said calmly. “We need to talk.”  

Chapter Text

The beach held its breath. Even the tide had stilled.  

“You tricked us,” Percy said. His voice didn’t rise, didn’t shake. “You stole the helm and the master bolt.”  

Ares grinned like a wolf at a funeral. “Didn’t steal them personally. Gods don’t do grab-and-go. Bad form. But heroes? They’re a dime a dozen. Easy to aim, if you’ve got the right bait.”  

“Who? Doesn’t seem like something your kids could pull off.” Percy tilted his head, thinking about how loud Ares’ kids had been  

That got a snort. “Doesn’t matter who. Just matters that the pieces moved. You were supposed to die in the Underworld. Then Seaweed Daddy would lose it, blame Corpse Breath. Hades would have Zeus’s bolt. Zeus would want vengeance. Hades would still be hunting for this…”  

He pulled a ski mask from his pocket and tossed it casually between the handlebars of his flaming motorcycle. The fabric shimmered, twisted, and became an elaborate bronze war helmet, dark as obsidian and ringed with shadow.  

Grover choked. “The Helm of Darkness…”  

“Bingo,” Ares said. “Now picture it: Hades gets framed. Zeus and Poseidon start throwing hurricanes and lightning at each other. Meanwhile, I sit back, enjoy the fireworks, and when the smoke clears—well, someone’s gotta clean up. Might as well be me.”  

“They’re your family,” Annabeth snapped. “You’d start a war just to watch your relatives kill each other?”  

“Best kind of war,” Ares said, grinning. “Always personal. Always bloody.”  

Percy narrowed his eyes. “The backpack. You gave it to us in Chicago. The master bolt was inside the whole time.”  

“Yes and no,” Ares said. “It’s a sheath. Magically linked. Just like your sword, kid. You drop it, it comes back. The bolt was tied to the bag—it wouldn’t return until you got close to Hades. Then boom. Delivery confirmed. If you died along the way, no big loss. Still had the weapon. Still got my war.”  

Percy cocked his head. “Been taking lessons from Annabeth’s mom? That plan’s… strategic.”  

Ares’s grin faltered.  

“You’d think the god of war would want to keep the weapon for himself,” Percy went on. “So why send it to Hades? Why not keep it? That kind of power? That’d make Olympus kneel.”  

There was a twitch in Ares’s jaw. The flame behind his sunglasses wavered.  

For a second—two—he froze.  

Percy exchanged a glance with Annabeth. Ares’s face cleared too quickly.  

“I didn’t want the hassle,” the war god said, voice a little too loud. “Better to frame you. Let the gods tear each other up while I sit pretty.”  

“You’re in denial,” Percy said. “Sending the bolt to the Underworld wasn’t your idea. Someone whispered in your ear. Someone made you afraid.”  

Smoke hissed from Ares’s shades. “I don’t take orders from anyone!”  

“You didn’t order the theft,” Percy pressed. “You were sent to find the thief—and you did. But instead of handing them over, you made a deal. Kept the items. Waited for someone else to make the final drop.”  

Percy’s voice turned ice-sharp. “What a crooked little scheme.”  

The word echoed.  

Ares flinched.  

Ares’s snarl cracked through the air. “I’m the god of war! I don’t take orders—especially not from shadows! I don’t have dreams!”  

Percy’s smirk was slow. Measured. “Who said anything about dreams?”  

The god’s face twisted into a snarl, but the hesitation was there—plain as firelight. Annabeth saw it too. Her jaw tightened.  

Ares snarled. “Enough. You challenged me out loud. You accused me. You think I’m going to let you climb Olympus and start pointing fingers?” He snapped his fingers.  

The sand exploded .  

A boar the size of a pickup truck burst from the ground, tusks gleaming like daggers, eyes red with rage. It pawed the ground, snorting steam, and fixed Percy with a death glare.  

“Percy—run!” Annabeth shouted.  

But Percy didn’t flinch.  

“Do you really need a pig to deal with a kid?” Percy taunted, “Wow, how brave.”  

Ares barked a laugh—but it cracked at the edges. “You got guts, punk.”  

“Scared?”  

“In your dreams.” But the metal of his sunglasses was beginning to warp, heat bleeding up from his skin.  

“No direct involvement,” Ares said. “Sorry, kid. You’re not at my level.”  

The boar charged.  

Riptide flashed in Percy’s hand. One clean arc—steel through flesh—and the beast crumpled to the sand in a wet heap. Guts spilled steaming onto the shore.  

Percy turned back to Ares.  

“Any other pet?” he asked.  

Ares’s face flushed purple. “Watch it, brat. I could turn you into—”  

“What? A maggot? A prairie dog? Go ahead, everyone will know that the god of war had to use tricks to get rid of a kid.”  

Flames surged from the god’s glasses. “You’re begging to be annihilated.”  

Percy stepped forward, eyes gleaming. “Then let’s make a deal.”  

Ares raised a brow. “What kind of deal?”  

“First blood. One drop of ichor. If I win, the helm and the bolt are mine. You disappear.”  

The war god laughed. “Cute. You’re my cousin, so I’ll even make it fair. First blood it is.” He drew his sword—long, serrated, dripping with heat. “How do you want to get smashed—classic or modern?”  

Percy showed him Riptide.  

“That’s cool, dead boy,” Ares said. “Classic it is.”  

“Percy—don’t do this,” Annabeth pleaded. “He’s a god.”  

“He’s a coward,” Percy said. He didn’t take his eyes off Ares.  

Annabeth moved closer. She reached up and tied her necklace around Percy’s neck. Five years of camp beads. And the silver ring from her father.  

“For luck,” she said.  

He touched it briefly. “Thanks.”  

Grover fumbled in his pocket and handed Percy a crumpled tin can. “The satyrs stand behind you.”  

Percy stared. “Grover…”  

“Don’t make me say something sappy,” Grover muttered, blinking fast.  

Ares cracked his neck. “You done? Good. Let’s dance.”  

He came like a freight train—sword raised, a whirlwind of flame and steel.  

“I’ve been fighting for eternity, kid. My strength is unlimited, and I cannot die. What have you got?”  

A smaller ego and some surprises, Percy thought, but said nothing; instead, he let go.  

Let the grace rise through him—silver bleeding into his eyes, muscles tightening with divine precision. He ducked, and Ares’s blade missed by inches, cleaving a trench in the sand.  

He didn’t reveal the wings—not yet. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind:  

Don’t show them everything, sweetie. Let them underestimate you.  

But Ares was no fool. The god twisted, rebounded, and came in from the side. His blade struck Percy’s hilt hard enough to rattle his bones.  

Not bad. Not bad.  

Ares pressed the advantage—each swing heavier, faster. Percy gave ground, sliding back toward the surf, but he couldn’t get close. Riptide’s shorter reach was a liability.  

Get in close, his uncle had once said. You are still small, kid, get inside their guard .  

Percy feinted left, then lunged. Ares anticipated it. He batted the sword from Percy’s grip and slammed a boot into his chest.  

Percy went flying.  

Twenty feet. Maybe more.  

His wings snapped open mid-air—blue and silver and firelight—and caught the wind. He landed in a crouch, not even breathing hard.  

Ares halted. His face twisted.  

“What in Tartarus are you?” he growled. “Poseidon’s been busy. Another monster spawn.”  

Percy hovered, wings outstretched. They weren’t soft now. They’d hardened—metal-feathered, edged like razors.  

“No, I’m my mother’s son first,” he said coldly.  

Wings of war. Wings of heaven. Wings of judgment.  

And beneath the calm rage.  

One thing about Percy is that both his parents are known for having short tempers. The fact that Percy is as calm and quiet as he is, is a small miracle in and of itself, but there is a small part of him, a part that is usually silent, inherited directly from the earthshaker and the fist of heaven, that is thrilled to fight against an opponent he doesn't have to hold back.  

There weren’t bystanders nearby this time  

Ares was safe to hit.  

And part of Percy—just a small part—loved that.  

The sand sizzled beneath Ares’s boots as he advanced, sword raised, eyes molten with fury.  

Percy rolled hard to the left as the god’s blade slashed into the place where his skull had been a moment before, sending an explosion of molten glass and sand into the air.  

He ran—bare feet kicking up seawater—toward where Riptide had fallen, snatched it from the surf, and swung with lethal intent at Ares’s face.  

CLANG.  

The blade met metal. Ares caught it with the flat of his weapon, his snarl curling like smoke.  

“Cute,” he growled. “But I know every move you’re gonna make, boy. You’re slow and obvious.”  

Percy’s wings flared behind him  

He stepped back into the tide, forcing Ares to follow. The war god grinned, pacing in, knee-deep, his weapon held with casual violence.  

“Admit it,” Ares said. “You’ve got no chance. I’m just toying with you.”  

Percy didn’t answer.  

His body was humming. Wide awake. Every muscle coiled. His senses were alive with divine clarity—he felt the tension in Ares’s knees before the god moved. He smelled iron under salt. He heard Annabeth’s heartbeat thirty feet away, steady but fast. Grover’s was less steady. Terrified.  

Ares struck again.  

Percy raised his wings like shields—clang!—the blow skittered off hardened feathers, sparks flying. He countered, feinted high and slashed low, but Ares blocked without effort.  

“Getting cocky,” the god said. “You trying to impress the girl?”  

Percy surged deeper into the sea. Ares followed.  

The water was at his thighs now. The waves pressed behind Percy’s back like a living thing. Waiting.  

He let Ares strike again. A wild, full-bodied blow. Percy blocked with his blade, used his wing to absorb the follow-up, feathers chipping as sparks sprayed. The god’s strength rattled up his arms.  

Still, Percy retreated. Let him come.  

He was holding the sea in his mind. Ten sing it. Like a muscle waiting to spasm.  

“I’ll break every bone in your body,” Ares spat, lunging.  

The tip of the war god’s blade tore Percy’s sleeve. Just missed the skin.  

Close enough.  

Percy let his blade drop a fraction. His stance weakened. Deliberate.  

Ares grinned, sensing blood.  

He raised his sword.  

“Now,” Percy whispered.  

The sea exploded.  

The tide behind him released with the force of a detonation. A six-foot wall of water slammed into Ares with crushing power, flipping the god into the air. Salt and foam swallowed the war god whole.  

Ares came up sputtering, hair full of seaweed, sword arm flailing.  

Percy moved.  

He landed behind the god in a blur, wings flaring to break his fall, sword feinting high—same move as before.  

Ares raised his sword to block it.  

But Percy vanished, left, and dropped low. He stabbed down into the surf—Riptide punched clean through Ares’s heel.  

The roar that followed cracked the sky.  

The sea parted from him in a shockwave, blasting outward in all directions. The beach cleared for fifty feet around, the sand vibrating with the sound of a wounded god.  

Ichor. Glowing, golden. Flowing from the boot of the war god like holy fire.  

Percy backed up, blade raised. Wings spread. Chest heaving.  

Ares stood in the surf, stunned. He looked down at the blood pouring from his foot as if he couldn’t comprehend it. He limped once. Twice.  

Then his face twisted. He muttered ancient curses that made the wind recoil.