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Chapter Text

Chapter 1 Storm Beneath the Surface

The late afternoon sun hung low over Camp Half-Blood, casting long shadows across the hills and trees. The lake, tucked gently into the heart of the valley, shimmered like glass—still and perfect, untouched by the chaos that often echoed in the campgrounds. Here, time seemed to pause. A sanctuary within a war camp.

Percy Jackson sat at the edge of the water, his bare feet submerged in the cool shallows. He wasn’t really looking at the lake. Not exactly. His eyes were fixed ahead, yes—but his mind was adrift, carried by memories far more turbulent than the stillness before him.

The wars had been endless. Kronos, Gaia, the giants, the constant threat of prophecy, gods who pulled him like a puppet from all sides. Even peace—when it came—never lasted long. He’d watched friends bleed, watched some die. And for what? For the gods to go back to arguing on Olympus? For demigods to carry weapons at twelve and scars at thirteen?

His fingers grazed the water’s surface, sending tiny ripples outward. He watched them travel. Even the calm could be disturbed by the slightest touch.

He had fought monsters that could level cities. Held the weight of the sky on his shoulders. Drowned armies, climbed Mount Olympus, journeyed through Tartarus itself. And yet, now—sitting alone with the birdsong distant and the breeze cool on his skin—he felt more exhausted than ever.

It wasn’t the monsters that had worn him down. Not really. It was the expectation. That he’d always be there. That he’d always fight. That he’d always win. That he was the sword in someone else's hand. Even peace had a price—and that price was Percy’s soul slowly bleeding out under everyone else’s needs.

A single cloud drifted lazily across the sky.

He hugged his knees to his chest, letting the soft hum of cicadas and rustling trees fill the silence. A dragonfly zipped past, skimming the water. Somewhere behind him, laughter echoed from the amphitheater—but it sounded like it came from a world away.

He remembered Silena’s sacrifice. Charlie’s burning pyre. Zoe’s last breath under the stars. Luke’s final moment of clarity. Jason falling through the sky. Bob, waving goodbye in the darkness of Tartarus.

They remembered us, he thought, his throat tightening. But no one really remembers them.

Percy drew a long, shaky breath. The lake mirrored the sky perfectly now—blues and golds reflecting off its surface like a painting. He knew what this meant. A calm like this… never lasted.

And deep inside, something was stirring. Something long buried. Not anger, exactly. Something older. He didn’t have a name for it. But it felt like the sea before the storm. Still. Waiting. Inevitable.

Then—

Crunch.

A footstep behind him.

He didn’t need to look to know who it was.

The peace shattered—barely a whisper of wind—but he felt it. A shift. As if the world had exhaled, and now held its breath again.

“Percy?” came her voice.

Annabeth.

Of course.

The dragonfly veered off course and vanished. Percy kept his eyes on the water, but it no longer seemed peaceful. Now, it was a mirror he didn’t want to look into.

And above the lake, unnoticed, the first shadow of a cloud passed across the sun.

“Percy,” Annabeth called again, closer now. Her voice was softer this time—almost careful, like she was testing the air for danger.

He didn’t move.

She stepped beside him, arms crossed. Her storm-gray eyes searched his face, but he kept staring at the lake. The wind brushed gently against the surface, sending the reflections into waves.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she said.

Still, he said nothing. Only blinked.

“I mean,” she continued, “you always came here when you needed space. When you wanted to think.” She tried for a smile. “It’s almost nostalgic, right?”

A pause. Percy gave a small nod. Not to agree—but to acknowledge her voice. That was all.

Annabeth waited. Then, quietly, she sat down beside him—though not close enough to touch. There was space between them. Not physical space, not really. Emotional. A wall.

“I’m worried about you,” she said.

Percy tilted his head, finally looking at her. There was no warmth in his eyes, but no malice either. Just… weariness.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she said, frowning. “You’ve been avoiding everyone. Me. The others. Even Chiron.”

“I’ve been tired.”

“We’re all tired,” she said, a little too sharply. She immediately caught herself, drawing in a breath. “I mean… you don’t have to deal with it alone.”

Percy didn’t answer. The wind picked up slightly, rustling the trees. A single cloud passed overhead, casting a faint shadow on the lake.

Annabeth's brows furrowed. Her voice dropped, probing gently. “Is this about the fight we had last week? About—about New Rome? The Athena project?”

He didn’t respond.

She pressed on, leaning slightly closer. “I just think you’re being unfair. You made promises too. We both agreed on things. You said you’d support me no matter what.”

He blinked slowly, then turned back to the water. “I supported you through two wars, through Tartarus, through the rebuilding of Olympus. I’ve given you every piece of me, Annabeth. Maybe I’m just… done giving.”

The words landed like pebbles dropped into a deep well. Quiet—but they echoed.

Annabeth's mouth tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s not.”

The silence between them grew heavier. A breeze stirred across the lake. The clouds above thickened slightly, though neither of them looked up.

Annabeth’s jaw clenched. She tried again—this time her voice took on the edge of strategy. “Do you remember Mount Saint Helens? When I thought you were gone? Do you remember how hard I fought for you?”

Percy’s eyes snapped to her. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Don’t turn this into a list of things I owe you,” he said, voice low. “Don’t weaponize memories. That’s not love, Annabeth.”

She flinched. But then her expression hardened. “You think I’m trying to manipulate you?”

“Aren’t you?” he asked, standing. “You’re not here because you care. You’re here because you’re losing control of something—and you hate that.”

Annabeth rose too, glaring now. “That’s not true.”

“You always have to be right. Always have to have the last say. You plan everything down to the last breath, and gods help anyone who doesn’t fall in line with your perfect world.”

A gust of wind surged through the trees, bending the branches. The surface of the lake rippled violently now, as if reacting to something deep below.

Annabeth’s voice was sharp. “You’re just angry that I don’t follow your emotions blindly. That I think things through. That I don’t crumble every time something goes wrong like you do!”

Thunder rolled faintly in the distance. Both of them froze.

The sunlight was gone now. Gray clouds blanketed the sky above the lake. The air was thicker—charged.

“I’m not doing this here,” Percy muttered.

He turned and began walking away.

The sky darkens with thickening clouds. The wind begins to howl. Campers start noticing the change in weather but stay distant.

“Why do you always twist everything into being about you?” Annabeth snapped as she stood up, brushing the dirt from her hands.

Percy didn’t stop walking, but his jaw was tight. “I’m not twisting anything.”

“You think I’m trying to control you? Is that what you really think of me?”

He stopped. Slowly turned. His voice was low, restrained. “You’re not just trying to control me, Annabeth. You do it to everyone. Every battle plan, every prophecy—you need it all to fit into your design. And gods forbid anything or anyone breaks the mold.”

Her breath caught. “That’s not—”

“It is,” he said. “You don’t love people. You manage them. You solve them. You treat me like a puzzle you finished years ago but keep checking for missing pieces.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The trees around them swayed violently in the wind.

“And when I’m not the guy you expect me to be,” Percy continued, voice rising, “you guilt-trip me. You bring up Tartarus. Mount Saint Helens. You use every sacrifice I made like they’re bargaining chips. Like I owe you.”

“You do!” she shouted, stepping forward. “We fought through hell together! We bled for each other!”

“I bled for this world, Annabeth,” Percy roared, eyes flashing like seawater in a storm. “I nearly drowned in it. Again and again. And not once did I ask for thanks. But I’m not going to keep paying emotional rent just so you can feel in control.”

Annabeth’s hands were trembling now. “You’re just mad because I have a future. You don’t know who you are without being a hero, without saving the world.”

“Don’t,” Percy warned, low and dangerous.

“You hate that I’ve moved forward, that I have plans that don’t revolve around you.”

“You mean plans where I’m just a name on a battle report? A body on the front lines? You don’t love me, Annabeth. You love what I do for you.”

That stopped her. For a moment, she looked like she might cry. But pride flickered in her eyes instead—cold and sharp.

“You’re pathetic,” she hissed. “Running away from Camp, from me—every time something’s too real. You’ve never grown up. You’re just the same scared boy from twelve years ago.”

The wind howled louder now. The sky above them darkened into a thick, violent gray. Thunder rolled, louder and closer. The lake behind them boiled with rising waves. Trees bent under the pressure of the storm brewing above.

“You’re one to talk about growing up,” Percy snarled. “You pretend you’re mature because you use big words and make blueprints, but you’re just a scared little girl who has to control everything because you’re terrified of being powerless.”

Annabeth’s voice cracked. “At least I don’t lash out and run away whenever I’m overwhelmed.”

Percy stepped closer. “You lash out every time you don’t get your way. You play the victim, then twist the knife when no one’s looking.”

“Because that’s what you deserve!”

“I’m done, Annabeth,” Percy said, voice ragged but firm, his back already turned. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He didn’t wait for her response. His strides were wide and purposeful, the kind of walk someone takes when they know if they stop, they’ll shatter.

Annabeth stood frozen for a moment in the mud, chest heaving, soaked to the bone. Then she ran after him.

“Percy!” she yelled. “You don’t get to walk away!”

But he kept moving. Past the lake, the fields, the strawberry rows now shimmering with rainfall. His breath was sharp and steady.

“You owe Camp Half-Blood!” she shouted again, catching up beside him. Her voice cracked, drawing attention from nearby satyrs and a few Hermes kids watching from under a pavilion.

“You owe me!”

Percy didn’t look back.

“You think you’re some tragic hero now? Like you’re the only one who’s suffered? Everyone here gave something—we gave everything!”

Still no response.

“You’re a coward!” she hissed. “You’re running because for once, someone challenged you!”

The drizzle became heavier. Thunder rumbled again in the distance. Campers from the training arena stopped mid-duel to glance at the commotion.

“You used to care!” Annabeth shouted. “You used to fight for something bigger than yourself. What happened to that guy?”

Percy paused at the edge of the dining pavilion, now half-abandoned in the rain. Campfires hissed under the growing storm.

He turned just enough to speak—his expression unreadable beneath the shadows of wet hair and dusk.
“He died in Tartarus.”

Then he walked on.

Annabeth flinched. For the first time, the fight seemed to drain out of her.

But her pride wouldn’t stop.

“So that’s it?” she called after him, trailing behind again. “You’re just going to leave? After everything we’ve done together?”

More campers had gathered near the pavilion, muttering, exchanging nervous glances. The Ares kids, already tense, looked ready to intervene.

“I’m not leaving Camp,” Percy said flatly. “I’m leaving you.”

Annabeth froze.

Percy’s voice dropped to a low, almost cruel whisper that cut sharper than a celestial bronze blade:
“And if Camp thinks I owe it more than what I’ve already bled—then maybe it’s never known me at all.”

Percy had nearly made it past the pavilion when Annabeth caught up one last time. Her hair was plastered to her face, her fists clenched, her voice breaking.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!”

He spun around, exasperated. “Annabeth—what do you want from me?! I’ve given you everything!”

“You don’t get to play the victim!” she shrieked. “You want to abandon Camp? Fine! Abandon me? Fine! But don’t act like it’s all my fault!”

“You don’t listen! You never listen—because you think you’re always right!” Percy’s voice cracked like a wave smashing against rocks. “You use people, push them like pieces on a chessboard, and when they stop obeying, you get mad because you can’t control them anymore!”

Campers from all cabins had stopped what they were doing. Swordplay, chores, even lunch—everything stilled. They watched, stunned, as two of their heroes—two of their leaders—erupted like warring gods in the heart of their sanctuary.

“I trusted you,” Annabeth hissed, stepping forward.

“I trusted you too,” Percy said bitterly. “And all you saw was a weapon.”

That’s when she snapped.

With a sudden cry, Annabeth slapped him—full force, across the face.

A collective gasp echoed around the camp. The sound cracked through the rain like a whip.

Percy staggered, not from the pain—but from the betrayal.

Then… he lifted his head.

His eyes, sea-green, flickered with something ancient and wild.

And in one swift, instinctive motion—

He slapped her back.

Hard.

The force sent her stumbling, falling into the mud. Gasps became silence.

Annabeth looked up, stunned. Her lip was split. Her eyes full of disbelief—and pain.

Percy’s chest heaved. His expression unreadable. The skies above them thundered.

Then his hand raised.

The rain coalesced at his feet. The air grew charged. A low roar trembled from the earth.

“Enough,” he said.

The water responded.

A massive surge exploded from the ground, crashing into Annabeth with force—not enough to maim, but more than enough to knock the wind from her lungs and throw her back ten feet.

She slammed against the ground, coughing, drenched, curled on her side.

Then—lightning.

A jagged bolt from the sky split the air and struck the Athena cabin.

Wood cracked. One of the marble owl statues on its roof shattered. Smoke and sparks flew from its walls as the storm above howled.

Gasps. Screams. Some campers ducked. Some simply stood frozen.

And Percy?

He stood at the center of the camp, glowing faintly blue beneath the rain, his soaked shirt clinging to his skin. The air around him pulsed with oceanic force. His eyes were calm now—not cold, but resigned.

The son of Poseidon.
Unleashed.

No one dared move.

Even Chiron, who had galloped from the Big House, stopped short at the sight. The old centaur’s expression was tight with grief—but he said nothing.

Percy didn’t look back at Annabeth.

He didn’t apologize.

Annabeth remained on the ground—mud-streaked, soaked, stunned.

She didn’t move.

Campers whispered, some staring at her with pity, others with confusion or discomfort. But no one dared approach. Not even her siblings.

She had lost. Not a battle. Not a debate.

Something far worse.

Percy stood tall at the edge of the hill, just past Thalia’s pine. The rain washed over him, lightning flashing behind his silhouette like the wrath of an ancient god.

His backpack slung over one shoulder. His sword, Riptide, safely capped and clipped to his belt. His steps were slow, but unrelenting.

He didn’t speak.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t even tremble.

Behind him, Camp Half-Blood flickered with chaos—the Athena cabin still smoldered from the divine lightning strike. The storm had not stopped. If anything, it seemed to follow him, the skies above him roiling in sorrow and fury.

Annabeth sat up slightly, one arm cradling her bruised ribs, but still said nothing. Her mouth parted like she wanted to yell again, to call him back—but no sound came.

Not this time.

Percy crossed the border silently, the ward’s magic shimmering faintly as he stepped past the pine tree and down the hill. The sea breeze rolled over the hilltop and tangled his hair.

He didn’t look back.

The storm swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2  Unclouded Mind

 Sally and Paul’s apartment, Manhattan. Late afternoon. The sea visible from the window, storm clouds still fading.

The door clicked shut behind Percy with a hollow finality.

Rain dripped from his hoodie onto the polished wood floor, forming small puddles that mirrored the faint glow of city lights outside. The apartment was still, save for the distant hum of traffic below and the gentle tick of the wall clock in the kitchen. No monsters. No angry gods. No screaming campers. Just silence.

He dropped his duffel bag by the door and stood motionless for a moment, letting the weight of everything settle like stones in his chest. His limbs ached—not from battle, but from the exhaustion of holding himself together for far too long. The soaked hoodie clung to him like a second skin. His jeans were damp and heavy. He didn’t bother removing them before collapsing onto the couch, face tilted toward the ceiling.

Images came without warning.

Annabeth’s hand slamming across his cheek. The sting.
His own fury snapping like a rubber band pulled too tight—striking back harder.
Her shocked expression as she stumbled.
The roar of water as it surged from the ground, slamming into her and sending her flying.
The lightning. Cracking through the sky, spearing down onto the Athena cabin, reducing part of its proud façade to rubble.

And the silence that followed. That silence hurt worse than the shouting.

Percy blinked, his eyes refocusing on the apartment’s ceiling, which had a faint water stain in the corner. He turned his head and looked out the window. The view of the East River shimmered with fading storm clouds in the distance. The sun was struggling to break through, golden rays flickering on the water’s surface like they couldn’t decide whether to stay or vanish.

He sat up slowly, peeling off his hoodie. The chill in the apartment bit at his damp skin. On the counter, a yellow sticky note was pinned beneath a magnet on the fridge.

“I’m at work. There’s sinigang in the fridge. I love you. – Mom ”

The words made something twist in his gut.

Normal.
How could everything be so normal here?

He opened the fridge and pulled out the container of homemade soup. The scent of tamarind and slow-cooked pork hit him like a memory—of better days, of childhood, of his mom’s humming as she stirred a pot.

He heated it on the stove, not bothering with a bowl, and ate it slowly, directly from the pot with a spoon. The sourness cut through the numbness just enough for him to feel a flicker of something—pain, maybe. Or relief. He couldn’t tell.

After eating, he made his way to the bathroom. He stripped off the rest of his soaked clothes and stepped into the shower. The water was hot. Scalding. He let it burn.

He scrubbed until his skin was pink, until the remnants of Camp—the lakewater, the mud, the sweat, the scent of storm—were gone. But no amount of scrubbing could rinse away the guilt.

Annabeth’s face flashed again.

I hit her. I…
His hand balled into a fist against the tiled wall.
She hit me first, he told himself.
But it didn’t matter.

What mattered was the finality in her expression. The finality in his.

He leaned against the wall and let the water beat down on him. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Percy Jackson cried. Not loudly. Not even with sobs. Just quiet tears that slid down his cheeks and disappeared into the drain.

The city pulsed below in golden-orange haze, but Percy wasn’t paying attention to car horns or sirens. His hands rested on the cold steel railing of the balcony, knuckles pale from how tightly he gripped it. The ocean—far beyond the rooftops and avenues—called to him softly, like it always did. Gentle waves glinting under the twilight sky, reaching for the shore like they remembered him.

He closed his eyes. Breathed in the scent of the sea carried faintly on the breeze.

Then the wind shifted.

Not just a gust. It was deeper—primordial. Like the ocean exhaled.

The air thickened with brine and energy. The hairs on Percy’s arms rose.

Behind him, the balcony’s shadows shimmered. The temperature dropped just enough to make the breath catch in his throat. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

“I was wondering when you’d show,” he said.

From the shadows, Poseidon stepped forward. Regal as ever—sea-green armor polished like abalone shell, eyes deep as the Mariana Trench. But there was something different now. Something less... divine. More human. Worn. Tired. Present.

Percy didn’t move. Didn’t greet him. He just stared forward.

But in that silence, memories surfaced—small truths he never said aloud.

Poseidon had changed. After all the wars, after Tartarus, after Gaia… he wasn’t the same aloof god Percy had once resented.

There were signs. Quiet signs.

When Percy had been trapped by sea hags in Maine and the waters suddenly surged to free him—he knew whose hand that was. When the sky turned clear during one of his darkest nights by the shore—he knew whose comfort had brushed through his dreams.
And that night Annabeth had nearly drowned and Percy swore the ocean calmed just to let her breathe—he knew.

Poseidon never said it aloud. Maybe the old man didn’t know how. But he had started showing up, even when he wasn’t seen.

Even when Zeus forbade it.

And Percy remembered the arguments on Olympus—whispers from Hermes and Chiron about Poseidon defying the law of non-intervention. How he skipped meetings. How he almost fought Zeus over a "mortal tie that mattered too much."

Now, here he was.

Poseidon stepped beside him, watching the same horizon.

“The storm at camp,” Percy said quietly, “You didn’t stop me.”

Poseidon’s voice was calm, low. “Because it wasn’t my place to stop you. It was my place to stand with you, even from afar”

“Camp’s a mess,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“I hurt her,” Percy added. “Not just emotionally. Physically. I—” He bit back the wave of shame. “She hit me first. But I still—”

“I know,” Poseidon repeated, his voice calm, but not unfeeling. “The storm in you isn’t just weather, Percy. It’s pain. Grief. And years of being expected to carry the world.”

Percy turned to face him now, eyes tired but searching. “You’re not like before.”

“I am still who I am,” Poseidon replied. “But the sea… adapts. Shifts. Finds a new shore.”

A silence settled between them.

Then, Percy spoke again, voice raw. “I don’t know who I am without war.”

Poseidon’s reply was immediate. “You are my son.”

He placed a hand over Percy’s heart. “But you are also your mother’s blood. And there is a strength in that older than Olympus.”

Percy’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Poseidon didn’t answer directly. He looked toward the sea, eyes glinting with something like nostalgia. Or longing.

“There is power in you that doesn’t come from Olympus,” Poseidon said slowly. “I’ve felt it since the moment you were born. Old power. Deep. Rooted in a different current.”

Percy’s brows furrowed. “You mean Mom?”

“I don’t know what she truly is, Percy. Not entirely.” His tone was not suspicious, but… reverent. Curious. “But I know her spirit. She walks between worlds—not just metaphorically. There’s magic in her blood I cannot name.”

A breeze rolled over them, salty and cold.

“I once believed it was her strength, her fire, that drew me to her,” Poseidon said, his voice softer now. “But there was more. Something I couldn’t explain then… but I feel it in you now.”

Percy said nothing, but his heart beat a little louder.

Poseidon turned, placing one hand gently on Percy’s chest. His palm glowed faintly with seafoam light.

“You are being pulled,” the god said, “toward a world long buried. A world of spirits… of soul… and of forgotten magic. One that calls not to your godhood, but to your blood.”

He stepped back.

“Listen to it.”

“What do you mean?” Percy asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Is this… prophecy stuff again?”

Poseidon smiled sadly. “No. This is older than prophecy.”

His form shimmered, sea breeze curling around his armor like mist. His last words hung in the air like a wave that never broke:

“Listen to your blood.”

And then he was gone—faded into the wind, leaving only salt in the air and questions in Percy’s heart.

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The apartment was silent, save for the soft hum of distant traffic below. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, casting silver stripes across the floor.

Percy sat on the edge of his bed, towel draped over his shoulders, hair still damp from his shower. Sleep didn’t come. Couldn’t come.

His chest still echoed with his father’s parting words:
“Listen to your blood.”

With a sigh, he rose and went to the old drawer near the window — one he rarely opened. He was just looking for an old Camp Half-Blood T-shirt. Something familiar. But as he shuffled through the clutter, his fingers brushed against something unfamiliar: smooth wood.

He pulled out a small, ornate wooden box he didn’t recognize. It had delicate carvings—waves and birds and leaves—etched around its sides, and a small brass latch shaped like a seashell.

Inside, resting on a deep violet cloth, was a necklace.

It wasn’t just any necklace. It shimmered with a golden chain, and at even intervals were small golden beads, warm to the touch as if recently kissed by the sun.
But what held Percy’s gaze was the pendant.

A small golden disk with the symbol carved into it

Two mirrored, serpentine shapes curling around a central void.
The lines were fluid yet symmetrical — almost alive. Like the ocean in symbol form, but more arcane.

On the back of the pendant, engraved in delicate lines, were symbols Percy couldn’t read.

They weren’t Greek. Not Latin. Not anything he’d seen at Camp Half-Blood or even from Chiron’s books. The strokes were graceful, curling, almost like waves dancing on parchment.

Baybayin.

He didn’t know the word for it yet — but something in his blood stirred.

He lifted the pendant, letting it catch the moonlight. It gleamed faintly purple for a moment — like an echo of something long gone but still whispering through time.

Beneath the velvet lay a photograph.

An old, sepia-toned photo. A woman in a baro’t saya, standing in the middle of a garden, holding a woven basket of herbs and roots. Her posture was proud but kind.
Her eyes… her eyes looked exactly like Sally’s.

Warm. Wise. Watchful.

Percy sat back down, stunned. The air in the room suddenly felt heavier. Older.

This wasn’t just a trinket. It was a key. A fragment of a world hidden just beneath the waves of his own.

And suddenly, Poseidon’s words made sense:
"Your mother once walked between two worlds.”

Percy clenched the necklace in his fist, heart thudding louder now.
The air tasted faintly of sea salt and lavender.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 Sally’s Truth

The smell of garlic fried rice and eggs drifted through the apartment, grounding Percy in the ordinary. For a moment, he let the warmth of it settle over his aching bones. It reminded him of mornings from before monsters, before war — before Camp Half-Blood.

Sally was back.

She greeted him with a tight, tired hug and a kiss to his temple, like she always did, and Paul offered a small clap on his shoulder with a knowing smile. But Percy didn’t miss the way Sally’s hand lingered a second too long on his back. Or how Paul glanced between them and gently said, “I’ll go pick up coffee,” before slipping out the door, his presence vanishing like fog from glass.

Sally moved quietly, setting two plates on the table — tapsilog and a bowl of sinigang reheated from the night before. They sat together without speaking at first. Just eating. The kind of silence where words have weight, waiting for the right moment to fall.

Percy finally broke it.

He reached into the pocket of his jacket hanging on the chair and pulled out the wooden box. Slowly, reverently, he opened it and held up the necklace.

Sally’s breath hitched.

Her eyes softened, but something else passed through them too — memory, maybe even fear. She reached out and ran a thumb over the pendant. The golden disk shimmered faintly under the light.

“That… belonged to your great-grandmother,” she said finally, voice low.

Percy watched her. “I found it last night. In my drawer. You put it there?”

Sally nodded, smile gentle but weighed down by emotion. “I always meant to tell you, but there was never a right time.”

He turned the pendant over, letting her see the markings. “What do these mean? I’ve never seen this script before.”

Sally stared at the characters for a moment — graceful strokes that looked like waves coiling inward. “It’s old. Older than Greek. Older than Latin. They’re… symbols from our ancestors. Filipino, yes—but not just that.”

Percy blinked. “Not just Filipino?”

Sally leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the window. The sky outside was beginning to clear, but the heaviness between them remained.

“She was a healer,” she said at last. “A real one. People would come from towns away just to see her. She didn’t need potions or spells or syringes. She’d touch someone’s hand, and she could feel if their soul was fractured. Broken in ways the body couldn’t explain.”

Percy gripped the necklace tighter.

“She was… connected,” Sally continued. “To something deeper. Something older than Olympus. She called it the Daluyan ng Diwa — the river of souls. Said she could feel it move through her when she healed someone.”

Percy’s brow furrowed. “So she was like… a demigod?”

Sally shook her head. “No. She wasn’t half anything. She was whole. Something else entirely.”

Percy looked down. “You said she was Filipino.”

“She was,” Sally said, a wry smile touching her lips. “But more than that. She wasn’t just of the land. She was… of its soul. The spirit of the mountains, the rivers, the trees. She lived in both the visible world and a deeper one beneath it. And she knew how to walk between them.”

Percy’s heartbeat slowed as he tried to take it in.

He thought of Poseidon’s words:
"Your mother once walked between two worlds.”

“…She’s why you could see Dad,” Percy whispered. “Isn’t she? Why you weren’t afraid when you saw him in the sea?”

Sally nodded slowly. “I always felt… something. Even as a child. That the sea and the wind would speak if I listened long enough.”

She reached across the table and touched the necklace gently again. “Your great-grandmother never feared death. But she could… ease it. Not erase it, not cheat it. But… delay it. Shift it. Let someone live long enough to say goodbye. Or heal. Or forgive.”

Percy looked up sharply. “That’s… that’s not normal magic.”

Sally’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“She could move souls, Percy. I only saw her do it once. She touched a dying girl and placed her hand over the heart of a man who’d just drowned. The next morning… he woke up. And the girl was gone.”

Percy felt a chill run down his spine.

Sally added, “But she didn’t abuse it. She didn’t want to live forever. She said ‘true healing is knowing when to let go.’ That power… it ran in her blood. In our blood.”

He looked down at the pendant again. The curves of the twin serpent-like swirls seemed to pulse faintly with light, the same violet hue that had danced in the lightning the night before.

“Do you know what she was?” he asked softly.

Sally shook her head, eyes distant. “No. Only that she came from a place not found on maps. A place of magic and power, long forgotten. A place only the soul remembers.”

A beat of silence.

Percy’s voice cracked: “And me? What does that make me?”

Sally smiled, but there was sadness there too.

“It makes you whole. You’re not just the sea. You’re not just Olympus. You’re the blood of two worlds, Percy. And maybe… maybe your path was never meant to stay in just one.”

“Why did You leave” Percy asked, curious as to why this history and and legacy was buried by his mother.

Sally’s eyes momentarily glistened, like the shimmer of wet glass slowly mirrored on her eyes, suddenly she averted her gaze from Percy then looked toward the window pane, pain evident yet restrained.

They had once been revered.

In a quiet barangay nestled between the lush jungles and crashing waves of Catanduanes, Sally’s family was known as the Bantay-Diwa — guardians of spirit and soul. For generations, they lived in a bahay-na-bato at the edge of the forest, a home that smelled of burned kamangyan, crushed dahon ng saging, and earth after rain.

Her Lola Magdalena, Percy’s great-grandmother, was the heart of that legacy. The villagers would come barefoot down the mud path—fishermen with salt-chafed hands, mothers with fevered babies, old women too weak to stand. They brought woven baskets of rice, tobacco leaves, and fresh-caught fish as offering—not payment—for her healing.

“She didn’t ask for gold,” Sally said softly. “She just wanted to help. And for a long time, they loved her for it.”

Sally grew up watching her lola mix herbs in coconut oil, whisper prayers in a language older than any dialect she heard in school, and sometimes… place her hand over someone’s chest and draw out the sickness with a glowing touch. It was soft, gentle, never flashy. She never called herself a witch or a sorceress. She simply said:

“Pinakikinggan ko ang diwa”(I listen to the soul.)

But magic, even healing magic, comes at a cost.

And people are quick to forget kindness when they become afraid.

The shift happened when a young boy from the village fell sick—gravely sick, his skin hot as coals, his breathing shallow. His mother ran to the Bantay-Diwa house barefoot and crying. Sally remembered how her lola calmly opened the doors, took the child into her arms, and laid him by the altar of leaves and stones.

For three days, Lola Magdalena didn’t sleep.

She whispered, chanted, bathed him in healing water drawn from a spring only she knew, and burned palaspas leaves under his bed.

But on the fourth day, he died.

And the mother screamed—not from grief alone, but from blame.

“Nilason niyo ang kaluluwa ng anak ko!” (You poisoned my son’s soul!)

The whispers began.

"She let the sickness in."
"They’re not healers — they choose who lives and dies."
"My daughter had a fever too... what if they cursed her next?"

Then one night, someone left a pig’s head outside their door. Another day, Sally saw anting-anting strung on trees nearby, meant to ward them off.

And then the fire came.

A group of men, faces half-covered with cloth, torches in hand, burned down the lumang silong — the ancestral hut where their scrolls, dried herbs, and ritual stones were kept.

The forest, Sally said, screamed that night.

“Lola stood in front of them and told them to go. She didn’t fight back. She just said, ‘May awa ang kalikasan. Babalik ito sa inyo.’ (Nature has mercy. But it will return to you.)”

But mercy didn’t save them from fear.

Sally was fifteen when they packed what they could and left.

“She told me never to use the gifts,” Sally told Percy, staring down at the pendant. “She said our name was already ash in their mouths.”

They left for Manila, then moved to New York through a scholarship Sally earned through pure grit — no magic. No blessings. Just the need to survive.

“I tried so hard to forget,” she whispered. “But some things… some things stay in your blood, Percy.”

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The apartment had quieted again. Sally had gone out to grab groceries — or maybe she just sensed Percy needed space. Either way, he was alone. Alone with his thoughts, his blood, and a storm of half-memories rising in his veins.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, the box open before him. The necklace gleamed softly, catching stray shafts of fading sunlight. Percy ran his thumb over the pendant, tracing the curved twin-serpent design — the same as the violet symbol that had appeared in his dream. Or… was it a memory?

His fingers hesitated over the photo tucked beneath it again. The woman’s warm, wise eyes stared up at him — his great-grandmother in her baro’t saya, herbal basket nestled in the crook of her arm like a wandless staff.

The image blurred slightly as a memory of their conversation surfaced:

“Why did you move to New York, Mom?”

Sally had paused while washing dishes. “Because when I was fifteen, people in Catanduanes started calling us witches.”

Percy remembered how soft her voice had been, how the sound of running water had filled the silence.

“They said we were cursed. That everyone who came to our doorstep either walked away healed or didn’t walk away at all. That we were a plag“I tried so hard to forget,” she whispered. “But some things… some things stay in your blood, Percy.”

Percy swallowed the lump in his throat.

He turned back to the pendant and grabbed his phone. He snapped a picture of the symbols engraved on the back, then typed into Google:

“Filipino ancient script identification.”

It took some scrolling through blogs, culture sites, and hobbyist posts until something caught his eye — a clean chart of Baybayin characters.

Percy held the phone side-by-side with the pendant.

Some symbols weren’t matching — they curled more, or had additional strokes — but others… they mirrored nearly perfectly.

His eyes caught on one particular grouping.

ᜁᜈᜃᜈ᜔ᜆᜇᜓ

Percy stared at it. He typed the word into the translator.

“Encantadia.”

The word didn’t translate fully.

But it echoed. Inside him.

Percy whispered it aloud:
“Encantadia.”

A shiver ran down his spine. Something stirred — not in the room, but deep inside his chest. Like a memory he never lived trying to claw its way forward.

A whisper — no, a vibration — in his bones.
Like something ancient had heard him.

He set the phone down with trembling fingers and lay back on the bed, necklace still clutched in his hand. Outside, the sky remained a pale blue, the sun retreating into Manhattan’s silhouette.

But his eyes were growing heavy.

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He stood in total darkness.
There was no floor beneath his feet, no wind, no sound — only the silence of space between worlds.
Then, a spark.

A flame.

Not red. Not gold. But white, burning so purely that even shadows refused to gather near it. It hovered before him, suspended in the void.

A voice spoke.

Not in English. Not in Greek.

The words twisted and folded like silk in water — soft, flowing, powerful. A language older than Olympus.
It spoke his name.

“Percy…”

The flame pulsed.

“Muling gisingin ang diwa…”
(Awaken the soul once more...)

Percy jolted upright.

He gasped, chest heaving like he’d been drowning in his sleep. His hand flew instinctively to the pendant at his chest—

It was glowing.

Not golden.
Not white.
But a soft, ghostly blue, like moonlight on ocean water.

He blinked, and that’s when he heard it.

Rain.

But it wasn’t raining outside.

He ran to the window — the sky was still clear. Not a single cloud overhead. The sun hadn’t even fully set.

But water ran down the glass.
Heavy. Steady. Rain — from nowhere.

Percy stared down at the necklace, feeling it thrum with something that wasn’t Greek magic.

His destiny was shifting.

The pull in his chest — that whisper in his dream — wasn’t going away.

Chapter Text

The light filtered gently through the gauzy curtains, casting warm streaks of gold across the kitchen floor. The scent of brewed coffee hung in the air—earthy, grounding—though neither of them touched their cups. Percy sat across from his mother at the kitchen table, a half-eaten piece of pan de sal on his plate, forgotten.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The storm had passed—outdoors, anyway. But in the space between them, something still churned.

Sally finally broke the silence, her voice soft and fragile. “Did you sleep?”

Percy gave a small shrug. “Some.”

She nodded, glancing out the window. “The rain came out of nowhere.”

Percy’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table. “Yeah… it tends to do that when I’m upset.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, slowly—almost hesitantly—Percy spoke. “Mom… I’ve been thinking.”

Sally looked at him, brow furrowing slightly.

He didn’t look at her directly, instead watching the steam curl up from his untouched coffee. “I… I think I need to go away for a while. Just… not far forever, just long enough to clear my head.”

“You mean Camp?” she asked gently, worry already surfacing in her voice.

Percy shook his head. “No. Not Camp. Not New York. I mean—” He swallowed. “The Philippines.”

Sally blinked. “The Philippines?”

He looked up then, eyes tired but steady. “I want to go to Catanduanes. To where your lola lived. Where the picture came from. Where the pendant started glowing. I need to know what’s calling me.”

Sally leaned back in her chair, her lips pressing into a line. “Percy, that’s—”

“I know,” he cut in softly, raising a hand. “It sounds crazy. But everything lately... the dreams, the rain, the voice—I feel like I’m not going to find peace here.”

Sally rubbed her hands together, clearly torn. “It’s not just that. You can’t fly. You know that. If Zeus senses you in the air, he’ll—”

“I won’t fly,” Percy said calmly. “I’ll… I’ll ask Dad. He’s helped before. He can get me there.”

Sally looked unconvinced. “Percy, it’s dangerous. And expensive. You’ve just been through—so much. You’re not exactly… steady.”

“That’s why I have to go,” he said, voice firmer now, eyes locked on hers. “I can’t keep drowning in the same waters. Not after… everything.”

She flinched slightly—she didn’t need him to say Annabeth’s name. The pain was already present in his eyes.

“I’m not running,” he added gently. “I’m trying to go home. Maybe not the home I know, but the one that’s waiting. For both of us.”

Sally’s eyes softened, her hand twitching toward his across the table. “You think you’ll find answers there?”

“I think I’ll find clarity,” he replied. “Maybe even healing. For me. Maybe for you too.”

At that, Sally’s gaze faltered, her throat working as she tried to hold something in. Pain? Regret? Or simply the ache of letting go?

Paul, who had quietly stepped into the doorway with a mug of tea in hand, spoke up at last. “Let the kid do what he has to do, Sal. You’ve kept the past buried long enough.”

She turned to him, uncertain. Paul gave her a gentle, reassuring look. “You’ve told me before… that place never stopped calling to you. Maybe now it’s calling him too.”

Sally looked at Percy again—really looked at him. Her little boy who’d fought gods and monsters, who had the weight of the oceans in his blood and the burden of a world on his shoulders. But right now, he was just her son, asking for a breath of fresh air from a land soaked in memory and meaning.

“I’ll only agree,” she said slowly, voice thick, “if you promise this is something you truly need. Not just an escape.”

Percy nodded solemnly. “I promise.”

Sally let out a slow breath, her eyes misting. “Okay. But we talk to your father. He handles everything—no flights, no half-baked plans.”

“Deal,” Percy said softly, smiling just a little.

She rose from her seat, pulled him into a quiet hug, her arms lingering.

Paul raised his mug in mock toast. “To rainbows and storms, kid.”

Percy didn’t quite understand the words—but the feeling? That, he understood completely.

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Percy stood on the fire escape outside his window, the golden necklace warm at his chest, the faint hum of the city blurring beneath him.

The word still echoed inside his mind—Encantadia.

Sleep hadn’t come easy. Even now, there was a buzz in his bones, as if something in the air had shifted forever.

With a quiet breath, Percy closed his eyes and whispered into the breeze, “Dad, if you’re listening… I need you.”

He wasn’t expecting thunder, or salt winds, or an epic godly entrance. And he didn’t get one.

Instead, the breeze simply shifted. The scent of the ocean rolled in—salty, familiar, comforting.

And then Poseidon stood beside him.

No armor. No crown. Just a man of the sea—calm, timeless, radiant with quiet power. His presence always felt vast, like the tide stretching into unseen horizons.

Percy turned toward him. “Thanks for coming.”

Poseidon nodded. “I always do, when it matters.”

A pause stretched between them. There was no urgency, just an unspoken understanding.

“I’m leaving,” Percy finally said. “To the Philippines. With Mom and Paul.”

Poseidon’s eyes sparked with something—recognition? Memory?

“To Catanduanes,” Percy added.

Poseidon’s expression warmed. “Ah... Catanduanes,” he echoed, almost fondly.

 “A beautiful island. Harsh and kind all at once. I’ve always admired the mortals there. Strong hearts. Resilient. They face my storms without fear—and when they fall, they rise again.”

He gave a small smile. “I’ve sent many waves to their shores, some by accident, some not... and yet they never leave. They build, they sing, they remain. Mortals like that—they stay with you.”

Percy watched him, thoughtful.

“Your journey there,” Poseidon continued, voice low, “will not just be one of distance. That island holds pieces of your mother’s past—fragments scattered, quiet and waiting. You may not find answers right away… but you’ll find something. Something that connects you to who you were always meant to become.”

Percy didn’t reply, not immediately. But Poseidon could see the decision already in his eyes.

“I’ll keep the skies clear,” Poseidon said. “No interference from above. No prying eyes. Not even Zeus.”

“And getting us there?” Percy asked.

Poseidon smirked. “Already arranged. A sea route has opened. You’ll arrive safely. Quietly. Let the mortals think it’s chance.”

Behind the window, Sally peeked through the curtains—watching, listening. Paul stood beside her, hand gently resting on her shoulder.

Poseidon turned his gaze toward them briefly and gave a nod. “She’s right to be afraid. But she’s stronger than her fear.”

He placed a hand on Percy’s shoulder. “So are you.”

And then, softer—“Go. Find what was lost, even if you didn’t know it was missing. Trust the sea. Trust the land. Let your roots speak.”

With that, Poseidon’s form dissolved into a salt-laced mist, vanishing with the wind.

Percy lingered on the fire escape a moment longer, staring at the horizon. The necklace at his chest glowed faintly, responding not to power, but to purpose.

The journey had begun.

Chapter Text

The sea shimmered beneath the rising sun as the ship pulled into Virac port. Mist clung to the hills beyond, softening the edges of jagged mountains that jutted from the land like ancient bones. The scent of salt, wet wood, and distant rice paddies filled Percy’s lungs.

He stepped onto the dock beside Sally and Paul. It was quiet, peaceful, unassuming—yet something stirred in his chest, as if his blood recognized the soil before his mind could name it.

They looked like any family arriving for a countryside vacation. The mist, guided by Poseidon, cloaked their divine ties. No monsters, no campers, no celestial attention—just three tired souls stepping foot onto land rooted in forgotten magic.

They hailed a tricycle, the only vehicle in sight, and began their journey through the island. Percy’s thoughts drifted back to a conversation days before, on the apartment balcony.

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Flashback – Two Days Ago

Poseidon stood barefoot on the wooden floor, the glow of city lights playing off his sea-green armor. He seemed calmer now—less like a god of storms and more like a father who had found purpose in watching from the tide’s edge.

“I’ll make arrangements for a house,” Poseidon said gently, turning to Sally.

Her brows knit with hesitation. “I don’t want to burden anyone in the province. My family… they wouldn’t remember me kindly.”

“There won’t be anyone to burden,” Poseidon replied, tone soft but certain. “I’ll place it near where your line once flourished. Discreet. Safe. The locals will see it as part of their world, even if it never was before.”

Sally gave him a look—half gratitude, half disbelief. “And Percy?”

Poseidon looked toward the darkened hallway, where Percy was asleep. “He’s ready to meet the half of himself the sea couldn’t show him.”

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Return to Present 

The tricycle rattled along the winding coastal road—Percy squeezed inside the narrow sidecar with Paul, while Sally sat behind the driver. The motorbike sputtered and growled as it climbed narrow, curving paths carved into cliffs that dropped straight into the ocean.

Palm trees waved overhead, their fronds slapping together in rhythm with the wind. Small carabaos grazed near the roadside. On one bend, Percy saw a shrine with candles burning beside a worn-out statue of a saint.

Everything was foreign, yet familiar. Quiet, but speaking. The island didn’t rush. It waited.

“This is beautiful,” Paul murmured, ducking under the low roof of the sidecar.

Percy nodded slowly. “It feels… real. Not magical. But older than that.”

“You’re smiling,” Sally called back from the front seat.

He hadn’t noticed—but he was. Not wide. Just a small tug of something like belonging.

The tricycle finally pulled into a small barangay, nestled between hills and shaded by acacia trees. The house Poseidon arranged sat a little apart from the rest—nipa walls, polished bamboo slats, and wide capiz windows glowing golden in the early sun. There was a garden already growing with herbs Percy didn’t know the names of, and vines crawling lazily along the fence.

No one greeted them—no long-lost relatives, no ceremony.

Just a few neighbors peeking through curtains or pausing on their way to fetch water. They didn’t recognize Sally after all these years, not as the girl who left at fifteen. But Filipino warmth was woven into the soil.

“Magandang umaga po,” an old woman waved from across the path.

Sally smiled and returned the greeting. “Magandang umaga rin po.”

Percy just watched—curious at the exchange, the words unfamiliar but gentle.

No names were asked. No stories demanded. But eyes softened, smiles were offered, and doors remained unlocked.

As they entered the house, Percy felt the sea breeze follow him inside. The walls were silent, but not empty. There was presence here. The kind that lingered after generations passed through.

He walked to the back veranda and looked toward the distant mountains.

A strange calm settled over him.

He whispered without meaning to: “Thank you, Dad.”

The winds carried the smell of the sea faintly in reply.

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A week had passed since their quiet arrival, and Percy had started to adjust to the island rhythm. He’d learned to say Salamat po, and understood enough to spot when someone was offering suman versus latik. The locals never pried. They simply smiled, shared food, and offered space.

Now, the barangay was alive.

A modest fiesta bloomed in the plaza near the town center—a celebration of local life and harvest. While not as grand as Catanduanes’ Abaca Festival, it echoed the same heart: pride in culture, resilience, and joy through storms.

That morning, Percy had wandered through a local display of abaca products, marveling at the textures and colors: dried abaca fibers twisted into ropes, handwoven banig mats, slippers, bags, hats, even framed tapestries of saints and mountain scenes. A young vendor had shown him how abaca twine was spun from scratch, her fingers deft and patient.

The process reminded Percy of something ancient—ritualistic, almost spiritual. Creation, not destruction, he thought.

By afternoon, the street dancers arrived.

Children and teens formed lines along the narrow road leading to the plaza. Dancers wore costumes intricately woven with abaca fiber, dyed in bright reds, deep greens, and sunny yellows. Golden threads shimmered in the late light. Music blasted from makeshift speakers—drums and kulintang instruments clashing in a rhythm both festive and primal.

At the heart of the procession, like a beating sun, stood the Festival Queen.

She was older than most of the dancers, her movements graceful and commanding. Her costume—part regal, part mythic—gleamed with finely cut abaca strips layered like feathers. A long golden train followed her as she twirled and dipped, her gestures complementing the rhythm of her ensemble. Her hands moved in slow, fluid arcs, mirroring stories Percy didn’t understand but felt in his chest.

Percy couldn’t look away.

It wasn’t attraction. It was awe.

There was something timeless about her—a Diwata in motion, a living memory of a thousand dances passed down in blood and thread.

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As the sun dipped lower, an elder approached—a wiry man with white hair tied back, skin lined by sea and sun. He wore a shirt stitched with old patterns and walked with a cane carved from twisted balete wood.

“Ah, the American boy who watches,” he said, eyes twinkling as he looked at Percy.

Percy blinked. “Uh, yeah?”

Sally stepped beside him and greeted the man in Tagalog. The elder responded with a short, respectful nod and more words Percy couldn’t follow.

“Sabi niya, ikaw daw ang batang banyaga na laging nakamasid.” Sally translated softly: “He said you’re the foreign boy who always watches.”

The old man sat beside Percy, offering a wrapped pastillas candy. “You see, but you don’t understand. Yet.”

He pulled something from his woven satchel—a palm-sized piece of balete wood, aged and smooth, its center carved with faded runes Percy couldn’t read. Not Latin. Not Greek. Something else.

“I found this near a plain land, years ago,” the man said. He spoke slowly in Tagalog, and Sally translated in a whisper. “Some say it came from a tree that isn’t there anymore. Others say it was never truly here.”

Percy felt his heart thump louder.

The elder pointed to the carving with his cane. “Sa ilalim ng bagyo, hanapin mo ang arko.”

Sally blinked. “Under the storm, seek the arc.”

That phrase hit Percy like cold seawater.

"Under the storm, seek the arc."

It echoed the dreams that had haunted him each night: a blazing white arc, rain thundering around him, and whispers of the word  Encantadia.

“Where’s this hill?” Percy asked, breath shallow.

“Sa hilaga ng Burol. Pero hindi ito laging nagpapakita,” the elder said.

Sally translated again. “North of the hill. Near our house, but it doesn’t always appear. Some trees are just trees. Some are doors.”

He tapped his cane once. “You’ll know when you’re ready.”

Later that night

The barangay plaza transformed again as dusk settled. Torches flickered, casting golden halos around groups gathering for the evening Pantomina.

Couples danced barefoot across the cobbled plaza, mimicking courtship with twirls and hand waves. It was lighthearted, communal, slow and deliberate—performed with laughter and music beneath the stars.

Sally was pulled into the dance by a cheerful kapitana, and Paul joined soon after, clumsily mirroring the locals.

Percy stood at the edge, watching.

Not separate. Not quite belonging. But closer than before.

In his palm, he turned over the carved wood the elder had given him.

Somewhere beyond the hills, something waited.

Not just answers.

But belonging.

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The day after the fiesta, Percy found himself restless. The carved wood from the elder burned softly in his palm like an echo that wouldn’t fade.

Behind their temporary home stood a trail, overgrown with thick grasses, disappearing into a hill-slope field no one seemed to tend. Paul had joked it was probably just cow pasture. But Percy felt something tug.

He followed the trail.

The island quieted behind him. Each step into the grassland narrowed the world until it was just him, wind, and green.

The sky dimmed.

Wind grew fierce, whipping leaves sideways. Thunder rolled softly above, and lightning briefly veined the horizon.

At the field’s center stood a massive balete tree—its trunk impossibly wide, roots gnarled and thick like petrified serpents locked in an eternal dance. Its branches arched into a natural dome, darkening the space beneath.

Percy slowed. The air around the tree was heavy, charged.

And then he saw it—

At the tree’s base, faintly etched into the earth, was a ring of violet light, pulsing gently like a sleeping heart. Arcs of energy shimmered in the rising drizzle, the circle glowing more clearly with every drop.

Percy’s pulse echoed its rhythm.

The wind whispered.

A word, or a name, he couldn’t quite grasp—but it curled in the back of his throat like memory.
“Encantadia.”

His breath caught.

He took a slow step closer.

The ring of light pulsed. Magic stirred.

A glow of emerald and violet wavered faintly beneath his feet, like something old recognizing his presence.

Percy’s fingers clenched the balete carving. The runes on it shimmered faintly, matching the rhythm of the storm.

Then—the pendant on his necklace flared.

Not brightly. But steadily.

Its golden chain grew warm against his skin, and the pendant itself shimmered—its etched characters glowing with a soft inner blue. The light pulsed in sync with the ring at the balete’s roots.

He could feel it—like a compass pointing forward, like the land itself reaching through blood and magic.

Just as he was about to step into the center of the ring—

“Percy!”

Sally’s voice cut through the wind.

He blinked. The light faltered. The magic paused.

“Percy, where are you?”

He turned. Through the grass, he saw her outline approaching with Paul a few paces behind.

The storm above seemed to pull back, thunder softening.

Percy looked one last time at the glowing ring.

It was still there. Waiting. Watching.

And so was the pendant—still warm, still lit—but dimming slowly.

Not yet.

He stepped back.

The glow dimmed.

The wind died down.

And the balete tree returned to silence.

He turned and walked back toward Sally, the carved wood still clenched in his hand, the pendant now cool but no longer just a relic—it was calling.