Chapter Text
When Sally gave birth to her son, she had expected him to look like her or like the man she had loved. Instead, he came into the world with a battle cry on his lips and hair white as fresh-fallen snow. His face carried echoes of another—features she could not claim as her own—softened into something almost delicate. But the hair… the hair should never have been.
“Sally, that is the most beautiful baby I have ever seen,” murmured one of the doctors, a tall woman with a smile so soft it seemed almost apologetic, as though aware of something Sally wasn’t.
She took the child into her arms. He was perfect—too perfect. The curve of his nose, the smooth line of his jaw, the faint weight of him against her. She loved him—or at least she thought she did—but somewhere deep inside, a quiet and dangerous thought whispered: she could smother him now, before life had a chance to hurt him. Before he had the chance to hurt her.
A true mother wouldn’t think such things. But Sally told herself she was the mother now. And if she chose to keep him, it would be her choice alone.
She had heard what grief could do. Her own mother had written about it in her suicide note after losing a baby son Sally had never met.
“It’s an ugly, vile thing that creeps into your mind, making its home in your flesh and bone. It grows weary of joy and feeds on your pain.
It’s a pet you amuse with memories, an emotion that turns predator.
It festers, it blisters, boiling to the surface like pus and rot.
It’s a two-faced spectator, a sweet home-wrecker, that makes living unlivable.”
Those words had followed Sally her whole life, clinging to her like a shadow. Perhaps that was why she’d fallen for Poseidon—because in all his immortal life, he had carried oceans of grief and yet, as a god, had learned to rise above it.
She’d met him when she was fourteen , and he claimed to be twenty-three. They slipped quickly into something that mimicked love, though Sally never realized what he truly was—or what the child in her arms truly was—until she brought him into the world.
–
Yancy Academy was damp. It didn’t matter if it had been raining or not — the air always carried that faint smell of wet stone, like the walls had been soaked sometime in the past century and never fully dried.
Percy Jackson didn’t hate it more than his other schools, but that was only because the competition was fierce.
Today was better than most. A field trip meant no math, no Nancy Bobofit, and no reason for the teachers to notice he’d been wearing the same bucket hat every day for weeks. Nobody had ever asked why he wore it, and Percy wasn’t planning to give them a reason to start.
The bus ride into the city rattled and groaned. Grover sat next to him, hunched forward like he was bracing for something.
“You’re jumpy,” Percy said.
“Am not,” Grover muttered, though he didn’t look up.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was colder than outside, the kind of cold that made the hairs on Percy’s arms stand up.
Mr. Brunner led the way, his voice echoing off marble. “Stay together, please. This way.”
Percy liked him. Brunner had a way of making Latin less boring, though sometimes he’d ask Percy the strangest questions — things that seemed to have nothing to do with class.
They drifted past shields, statues, and weather-worn fragments of stone until Brunner stopped in front of a glass case.
“This piece,” he said, his tone shifting just a fraction, “is from the late Trojan period.”
Inside was a crown. Not the heavy kind with jewels, but delicate gold that curved like curling vines and waves, meant to frame a face rather than sit on top of a head.
Percy couldn’t explain why he stepped closer. The gold caught the light in a way that made the air feel warmer, just for a second. Somewhere, faint as a breath, he thought he smelled salt.
He blinked, and it was gone.
Grover mumbled something about how it looked too fancy to fight in. Percy didn’t answer.
From across the room, Brunner was speaking to another man — tall, with golden hair — who glanced over briefly. His expression didn’t change, but for that moment Percy had the strange, irrational thought that the man was looking at him, not the crown.
Lunch in the courtyard was the same as always: Nancy Bobofit found someone to bother. Today it was Grover, and a minute later, she was sputtering from the fountain spray.
Mrs. Dodds appeared almost instantly. “Mr. Jackson,” she said in a tone that left no room for argument, “come with me.”
Grover looked uneasy. Brunner was still talking to the golden-haired man, but Percy caught the faintest pause in their conversation as he was led away.
They walked down a quiet hall. The sounds of the rest of the class faded behind them.
Dodds stopped in a small, empty gallery.
“Long time coming,” she said softly, as if to herself.
Percy frowned. “What?”
Her expression sharpened. “You don’t know?”
Before he could ask what she meant, the air shifted. Her skin seemed to pull tight, her eyes darkening.
Somewhere behind him, a voice called, calm but urgent: “Heads up!”
Something small arced through the air toward him. His hand closed around it. A pen.
Percy’s arms swung and BAM!
One second there was a math teacher. The next, there was… nothing.
No Mrs. Dodds. No pile of monster dust. Just Percy standing alone in the gallery with his heart punching the inside of his ribs.
The pen in his hand was gone, replaced by… nothing. He couldn’t even remember when he’d dropped it.
“Jackson!”
He turned. Mr. Brunner was wheeling toward him, the golden-haired man trailing just behind.
Brunner’s eyes swept the room once, quick and sharp, like he was checking for something that wasn’t there. “Where’s Mrs. Dodds?”
Percy opened his mouth. Closed it again. He didn’t actually know what he was supposed to say.
“She—uh—” He stopped. Something about the way the golden-haired man was watching him made his throat dry. Not unfriendly. Just… searching.
Brunner didn’t wait for an answer. “Back to the group. Quickly.”
Grover looked relieved when Percy rejoined the class. Everyone else was laughing about Nancy’s run-in with the fountain, like nothing weird had happened at all.
“Where’s Mrs. Dodds?” Percy asked Grover quietly.
“Who?”
Percy stared at him. “Mrs. Dodds. The math teacher.”
Grover blinked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Dude, we don’t have a Mrs. Dodds. You feeling okay?”
They made it through the rest of the museum without incident. Percy kept glancing over his shoulder, but Brunner was deep in conversation with the golden-haired man again. Every once in a while, Percy caught one of them looking his way — Brunner in that concerned-teacher way, the other man like he was trying to place a face he’d seen before.
It was probably nothing.
The bus ride back was quiet. Percy slouched low in his seat, trying to puzzle through what had happened. He couldn’t. Every time he replayed it in his mind, it was like the memory blurred at the edges, leaving only the heat of fear and the faint smell of ozone.
By the time they pulled up to Yancy, the bucket hat was low over his eyes again.
That night, Percy lay awake in his dorm room. Grover was snoring softly on the other bed.
Through the narrow gap in the curtains, Percy could see the moonlight catching on the snow outside, making it look almost white-gold.
He had the strangest thought — not that it reminded him of the crown, but that the crown reminded him of something older, something buried deep where he couldn’t reach it.
The feeling stayed with him long after he finally fell asleep.
–
Camp Half-Blood, Percy decided before he’d even finished his first glass of that weirdly sweet camp juice, was basically a tired little summer camp where kids played hero because they didn’t know any better.
Three things had stood out right away — and none of them were exactly inspiring.
First, the place clearly hadn’t had a health and safety inspection in decades. The climbing wall literally spewed lava. The lake had a giant shadow swimming under it that campers insisted was “nothing to worry about.” And the cabins… well, some looked like luxury retreats, others like something you’d find in a horror movie.
Second, Percy had apparently stumbled into the only camp in America where he was the one with weird hair habits. The other kids didn’t dye theirs — not even for fun. Meanwhile, Percy had a whole stash of black hair dye packed into his rucksack, more bottles than any reasonable person needed. He wasn’t about to explain why.
Third — and strangest of all — was the camp director.
When Percy had first walked into the Big House, the man hadn’t said hello. He hadn’t even looked up from the Diet Coke in his hand. Then, slowly, his gaze had lifted, locking on Percy in a way that felt… heavy.
“Aquilonis,” he said.
One word. Soft, almost reverent, but in the same tone you might greet someone you hadn’t seen in centuries.
Percy had no idea what it meant. Probably some kind of ancient video game reference.
“I’m sorry, sir, but my name’s Perseus,” Percy said, shifting on his feet. The room felt smaller all of a sudden, as if the air itself had thickened.
The man — Mr. D — froze, his fork halfway to his mouth, eyes wide, unblinking. For a second, Percy swore he looked like he’d seen a ghost. Then his lips parted, but no words came out.
“No… I haven’t, you’ve got everything but—” Mr. D’s voice trailed off into silence. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to shake some memory loose. His hands, which had been resting casually on the table, twitched slightly, betraying the calm he normally wore like armor.
Percy raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Mr. D swallowed. His throat moved, a low, raspy sound. Then he shook his head violently, as though to dislodge a sudden weight pressing down on him. “Never mind,” he said finally, his tone sharp again, but with a tremor that Percy couldn’t miss.
Percy felt a strange pulse of heat rise in his chest. Something in Mr. D’s eyes — the flicker of wetness, the momentary vulnerability — made him want to ask more, but he didn’t. Instead, he just nodded, wondering how a man so impossibly old and cranky could still carry… that.
That trace of grief. That recognition.
For a heartbeat, the dining hall fell away. The shouts of campers, the clatter of cutlery, even the faint smell of lake water drifting in from the open windows — all of it disappeared. There was just him and Mr. D, and something unspoken that hovered between them. Percy didn’t know what it was, but he knew it mattered.
Finally, Mr. D pushed his chair back with a sharp scrape. “Go. Get ready for Capture the Flag.
Percy blinked. That was it? No explanation, no lecture, no ominous prophecy? Just that?
He swallowed hard and stepped back, feeling the weight of the name on his tongue: Perseus.
And somehow, it already felt bigger than him.
The man — Mr. D — was strange. He looked at the other campers with a mixture of boredom and mild disgust, always mispronouncing their names just to watch them squirm. “Names aren’t precious,” he’d say everytime with a smirk. But with Percy, it was different. He never got Percy’s wrong.
Not once.
And sometimes — when he thought no one was watching — there was this… flicker in his expression. The smirk would falter, his gaze would soften, and there’d be this wetness in his eyes, like he was remembering something he didn’t want to. Then it would be gone, and the sarcasm would be back in place like armor.
Chiron — or Mr. Brunner, except now with hooves — had been quietly trying to push Percy toward the Hades cabin since day one, claiming he “smelled of death.” Whatever that was supposed to mean. Percy refused. That cabin gave him the kind of chills that had nothing to do with the wind.
So he stayed in Hermes, where the chaos was at least familiar.
Luke, the cabin leader, had tried to help him unpack his first night. He’d unzipped Percy’s bag and stopped short, staring at the neat rows of black hair dye.
“Uh… not judging, but that’s a lot of—”
“It’s mine,” Percy cut in.
Luke closed the bag without another word. A faint smile tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s… healthy to take care of yourself. Especially in times of grief.”
Percy didn’t bother correcting him. He wasn’t grieving, not exactly. His mom was alive — somewhere. But she’d always had two sides: warm and soft one day, distant and unreachable the next. He never knew which one he’d get, and maybe that was what hurt the most.
Now, the whole camp was buzzing with energy. Today was Capture the Flag day, and apparently that was the closest thing Camp Half-Blood had to the Olympics. Campers were stringing up armor, sharpening weapons, and muttering about strategy. Some bragged loudly about past victories, others made quiet promises about settling grudges.
As for Percy? He was mostly wondering how a game could possibly be that important — and why, when Mr. D had announced the teams that morning, his eyes had lingered on Percy just a second too long.