Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Completing his first quest had been… hell. Percy would never say that to Annabeth—she’d just smirk, roll her storm-grey eyes, and call him a “seaweed brain”—but the truth gnawed at him every time he let himself think back. It had been fire and steel, poison and betrayal, gods and monsters snapping their jaws at his heels, and yet somehow, somehow, he’d survived. They all had. Against the odds, against fate itself, he had walked away.

Not unscarred. Not unshaken. But alive.

And stranger than that—closer to the people who had nearly driven him insane. Annabeth with her relentless lectures, Grover with his anxious bleats, both of them arguing with him in circles until his brain felt like it was melting. Yet now, with the danger passed, he found himself missing that chaos. That odd comfort of being tethered to people who got it. Who knew what it was to stand with one foot in the mortal world and the other in the impossible.

That’s why he had invited them over. His first real friends. The idea had come tumbling out of his mouth before he thought better of it. A chance to sit at a table, to laugh like normal kids. To show them his home.

His Mum had been so excited, shed spent an hour braiding golden thread around Percys pearled hair, the hard pearls wrapped around small golden braids.

He was home.

Home. The word felt strange now. Fragile.

The apartment smelled like lemon cleaner and Sally’s cinnamon candles. His mom had been scrubbing since dawn, as if Zeus himself might swing by for dinner, polishing every surface until it gleamed. The place looked bigger somehow without Gabe’s shadow seeping into every corner. Gone were the beer cans, the greasy poker chips, the stink of cigars that had seeped into the walls. Gone was the permanent scowl, the heaviness that used to hang in the air like smoke.

With Gabe banished, the apartment seemed to breathe again. And Sally—Sally moved like a woman who had been unchained. Her laughter was lighter, her smile easier. She walked with her shoulders lifted instead of hunched under years of quiet suffering.

Percy should’ve been relieved. And he was. But the absence of Gabe only sharpened the presence of someone else. Someone he had thought about for twelve long years, the shadow at the edge of every unanswered question. His father. Poseidon.

The memory clung to Percy, as fresh and raw as the salt on his skin after a long swim. He hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t asked for it, but it stalked him anyway—every time he closed his eyes.

It had happened right after the quest. He had been exhausted, furious, and—though he hated to admit it—buzzing with the wild, reckless excitement of finally meeting him. The god who had haunted his childhood like a half-forgotten dream. The god who had left.

ercy thought he was ready.
He wasn’t.

When Poseidon appeared, the world didn’t split with thunder or crash with tidal waves. No, that would have been easier—something Percy could laugh at or at least yell at. Instead, his father arrived like a storm that didn’t know if it wanted to be rain or fire, a god wrapped in the borrowed shell of a man. His presence pressed down on the room until the air felt too heavy to breathe.

That Hawaiian shirt should have been a joke—sun-faded palm trees, buttons stretched too tight across his chest, the faint reek of seawater clinging to the fabric. But there was no laughter in Percy’s throat. Not when those sea-green eyes locked onto him and widened, as if Percy were something he couldn’t quite name.

“Hello, Father,” Percy said, the words sour on his tongue. Flat. Deliberate. He didn’t bow. He didn’t smile. He stood there trembling with exhaustion and fury, glaring at the man who had left Sally Jackson to fight wolves in the dark, who had left Percy to grow up hunted and half-broken.

He expected distance. Command. Maybe even a smug little smirk like the gods were so good at.
Instead—Poseidon collapsed.

The god of the sea fell to his knees before him.

Percy’s brain stuttered, failed to process the sight: the earthshaker, storm bringer, ancient immortal, clutching at the ground like a drowning man. His shoulders shook, and then—tears.

But not human tears.

They struck the ground as droplets that hissed like acid, bright and luminous, solidifying into molten pearls. Misshapen things, their edges glowing faintly like they’d been dredged from the heart of a volcano. When the first splashed against Percy’s sneaker, he flinched—it was warm, almost burning. When another rolled against his skin, the sting lingered, like salt rubbed into a wound.

Pearls. Poseidon was weeping pearls.

Percy could only stare, horror crawling down his spine. Gods didn’t cry. They especially didn’t cry pearls that reeked of the deep sea and ozone, pearls that melted into the floorboards like they were alive.

The god choked on ancient words, his voice guttural, tumbling into Greek so old it rang like bells in Percy’s bones. “Son… forgive me. My son. My son. At last, at last.”

Percy’s chest constricted. He wanted to run, to scream, to shove Poseidon back with every ounce of rage boiling in his veins. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The sight held him—horrifying, pathetic, wrong.

Then Poseidon reached for him.

“Don’t,” Percy tried to snap, but it came out thin, scared. He didn’t back away fast enough.

Poseidon’s hand, trembling like an earthquake barely held in check, lifted to Percy’s hair. Fingers combed through the white strands, heavy, reverent. And where those fingers touched, the god’s tears followed. The pearls didn’t fall this time. They embedded.

Percy gasped as heat seared his scalp—not pain exactly, but something alien, invasive. The pearls burrowed into the strands, hardened, fused, until his hair glittered faintly under the dim light. Tiny beads of ocean sorrow woven into him. They didn’t sit like jewelry. They sank in like roots.

He clawed at them instinctively, nails scratching his scalp. But they didn’t move. Didn’t come loose. The pearls felt like part of him, lodged under the surface, pulsing faintly with something that wasn’t his.

Poseidon’s voice cracked, still spilling ancient words too fast for Percy to follow, and then—clearer, closer, fevered: “Mine. My son, mine.”

It wasn’t the selfish possessiveness of a deadbeat dad trying to reclaim what he’d lost. It was deeper. Elemental. Like the tide claiming the shore, like the ocean demanding every drop of rain return to it.

Percy stumbled back, his heart jackhammering. His voice broke. “What are you doing to me? Stop—stop!”

Poseidon only wept harder, pearls falling like hail around them. His gaze was wild, reverent, terrified. He looked at Percy as if he were staring at something holy and doomed all at once.

The room trembled. Thunder cracked.

And then Zeus was there.

The King of Olympus didn’t walk through the door. He arrived , the air splitting open in blinding light, ozone burning Percy’s throat. The floor shivered under the weight of storm made flesh. Lightning danced in Zeus’s eyes as they locked onto Poseidon—and then flicked, just for an instant, to Percy’s pearl-threaded hair. Something unreadable flashed across his face. Recognition. Unease.

“Poseidon,” Zeus commanded, his voice layered with thunder. “Come. Now.”

The word wasn’t a request. It was a chain.

Poseidon’s hand lingered on Percy’s shoulder, trembling, reluctant. The god’s face was raw, devastated, like a man being torn away from the edge of a miracle. Slowly, almost reverently, he pried the Master Bolt from Percy’s hand. His sea-green eyes burned with things Percy couldn’t untangle—love, regret, fear.

Then he was gone.

The silence afterward was unbearable. The pearls embedded in Percy’s hair glimmered faintly, mocking him.

“Percy, darling—are you okay?”

Sally’s voice cut through the storm that still rang in his skull. She reached for him, brushing gentle fingers through his hair—and paused. Her hand trembled when she touched one of the pearls. It didn’t shift under her touch. Didn’t come free. It pulsed faintly, like something alive.

Percy forced a laugh, brittle and wrong. “Yeah. Just… zoned out.”

But inside, he felt the weight of the pearls like anchors. Like chains. Poseidon’s grief was in his bones now, and he didn’t know how to tear it out.

He wanted to tell her everything. About his father on his knees. About Zeus’s storm pressing him flat. About the unshakable terror that Poseidon had seen something in him—and whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

But Sally deserved peace. She deserved mornings filled with sunlight and laughter, not another storm cloud creeping into her life.

So Percy buried it. He reached for sarcasm, his oldest shield. “Besides, I think I traumatized the King of the Gods with my natural charm. That’s a win, right?”

Sally gave him a look—half exasperated, half proud—and kissed the crown of his head. Percy let himself lean into her for a heartbeat, pretending he was just a boy at home, waiting for friends to come over.

But deep inside, the truth clung to him like saltwater in his lungs.

Gods did not kneel. And Poseidon’s tears would haunt him long after the laughter faded.

𓆉 𓇼 𓆝 𓆟 𓇼 𓆉

The night after the manticore fight tasted of iron and smoke. The air still hummed with the echoes of monsters dissolving into dust, the woods shivering where claws had raked bark and arrows had bitten deep. For most of the hunters, it was just another victory, another tally in an endless war they had chosen long ago. Percy hid his wounds and let them fester fot the blood was bronze.

For Percy, it was another reminder that he couldn’t pretend to be normal—not anymore, maybe not ever.

The campfire snapped and hissed, sparks spiraling upward into the black sky. He sat at the edge of the circle, as far from the hunters’ laughter as possible, tracing the lines of Riptide’s hilt with restless fingers. His body buzzed with leftover adrenaline, but his mind kept pulling him somewhere else. Back to the ocean. Back to the memory of Poseidon on his knees, salt-streaked tears carving lines into his face.

Gods weren’t supposed to cry. They weren’t supposed to look at you like that.

He dragged his gaze up from the flames and found her watching him. Artemis.

The goddess sat apart from her hunters, as always, her posture perfect and still. The silver glow of the moon seemed drawn to her, pooling in her hair, wrapping her in light that turned the forest into a cathedral. She was so calm it was unnerving, as though she belonged to a rhythm deeper than the heartbeat of the world.

Percy swallowed, suddenly very aware of how dirty he was—smudged with monster ash, blood still drying on his knuckles. He didn’t like her gaze. It was too sharp, too knowing, like an arrow pulled taut.

“You are restless.” Her voice broke the silence, smooth and cool. Not a question, not an accusation. Just a truth, laid bare.

Percy gave a half-laugh, brittle around the edges. “What gave me away? The fidgeting, the staring into the fire, or the fact that I look like I got run over by a hellhound?”

For a heartbeat, Artemis’s lips almost curved. Almost. “You bear weight that is not yours alone to carry.”

“Yeah, well. Story of my life.” He tried for sarcasm, but it landed flat. The woods were too quiet, her gaze too steady. “If this is where you tell me to lighten up, I should warn you—I’m terrible at motivational speeches.”

Instead, she tilted her head, eyes gleaming like cold silver. “Once, long ago, I knew a hero much like you. He, too, carried storms behind his eyes. He fought as though the world itself depended on him, and yet he hid his name from even the gods.”

The fire popped loudly, filling the silence.

Artemis’s gaze didn’t waver. “He burned bright, brighter than any flame, but such fire consumes quickly. The Fates are cruel in their interest. They tug threads too tightly, twist them until they snap. That boy…” Her voice thinned, the faintest edge of grief threading through it. 

Something hollow scraped inside Percy’s chest. He wanted to joke, to say something stupid like sounds like a fun guy at parties, but the words stuck. Because the way she said it—quiet, reverent—felt too close to something he didn’t want to name.

She looked at him then, truly looked at him, and Percy felt pinned like a butterfly. “You remind me of him.”

“Lucky me.” His voice cracked. He coughed, tried again. “I’ve gotta say, not the pep talk I was hoping for.”

Artemis didn’t flinch. “I am saying only this: you are walking a path the Fates themselves watch closely. Their eyes are on you more than you know. And when my brother arrives—” Her tone sharpened, cool steel under silk. “—you must not speak with him. Not beyond what is necessary.”

Percy blinked. “What? Why?”

Her expression chilled further. “Because Apollo is… unsteady. His sight pierces too deeply, and his temper burns too hot. If he looks at you for too long, if he asks too much, the threads may tangle. And tangled threads do not unravel without blood.”

The fire cracked, throwing long shadows across her face. For the first time, Percy thought he saw something close to fear in her eyes. Not for herself, never for herself—but for him.

His mouth went dry. He wanted to argue, to demand answers, but instead what came out was a weak, “Great. Add ‘avoid ticking off a god with glowing eyes and a sun chariot’ to my to-do list. Easy.”

Artemis leaned forward, silver cloak pooling around her like liquid moonlight. “I am not jesting, Perseus. When Apollo arrives, guard your tongue. Guard your thoughts. For your own sake.”

Her words settled over him like frost, sharp and heavy. He shivered.

Later, when Artemis slipped away into the shadows, Percy felt the atmosphere shift. The Hunters’ chatter resumed, but he noticed it now: the way the older ones glanced at him with nods or brief smiles. They didn’t treat him like an intruder; they asked him quiet questions—where had he learned to fight like that, how he’d known to strike the manticore just so, what it felt like to call the sea into his veins. Their voices were curious, almost gentle. Respectful, in their own guarded way.

The younger Hunters, though—twelve, thirteen, faces still soft with childhood—stayed far back. Their eyes darted toward him when they thought he wouldn’t notice, wide and wary, like he was some half-tamed wolf that might snap at any second. When his gaze met theirs, they flinched and whispered to each other.

It stung. Percy kept his focus on the fire.

Thalia dropped onto the log beside him with her usual graceless sprawl. “They’ll get over it. You freaked them out, but in a good way.”

“In a good way?” Percy echoed.

“You should’ve seen yourself,” Thalia said, smirking. “Charging a manticore with that sword, like you wanted to see who’d blink first. They’ve been told stories of heroes like that their whole lives, and then—bam. You walk in looking like one of Artemis’s scary campfire tales. White hair and all.”

“Yeah, about that,” said another voice. Nico, leaning forward from across the fire, his eyes wide. Bianca sat stiffly beside him, listening intently. “Why is your hair white and covered in pearls? You’re not… old.”

“Gee, thanks,” Percy muttered.

Bianca tilted her head. “It looks… unnatural. Not dyed. Like frost.”

Thalia snorted. “Like he stuck a fork in an outlet.”

Percy groaned. “You guys really know how to boost someone’s self-esteem. Look, I don’t know, okay? It just happened.” He ran a hand through it, the strands still strange under his fingers. “After… some stuff. Things I’d rather not talk about right now.”

Nico leaned closer, almost vibrating with curiosity. “But it means something, right? Everything means something. Maybe it’s, like, a blessing. Or a curse. Or both!”

Bianca touched her brother’s shoulder, pulling him back gently. “Nico.” Her eyes flicked to Percy, softer. “You don’t have to answer.”

Percy managed a smile of gratitude. Thalia elbowed him, smirking again. “See? You’re already mysterious. Kids eat that up. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. I’ll start a fan club.”

But even as the fire crackled and the Hunters’ laughter rose around them, Percy caught the younger ones still watching him from the shadows, whispering, unsettled. His white hair gleamed in the firelight, making him feel like he carried a target painted on his head.

And Artemis’s warning echoed in the back of his mind: When Apollo arrives, guard your tongue. Guard your thoughts.

And then, faintly, from somewhere far off in the woods: the low, thrumming hum of an engine. A vibration in the air, steady, growing closer.

The hunters stiffened, their laughter faltering. Even the night birds fell silent.

Percy felt it before he understood it. A pressure, bright and relentless, like sunlight pressing against the back of his eyes.

Artemis rose in one smooth motion, her cloak whispering like waves against stone. “He is here.”

Percy tried to breathe, but his lungs refused. The engine’s roar swelled, lights cutting through the trees.

A bus. Just a bus, he told himself. Nothing terrifying about that.

Except the driver’s seat glowed gold. And Percy knew, with a certainty that made his stomach drop, that Apollo’s eyes were already searching for him.

Percy, Nico, Bianca and thalia. And a good chunk of hunters piled into the bus.

The bus wasn’t warm. It should have been warm, with sunlight dripping from every chrome handle and golden thread stitched into the seats, but the air carried a feverish bite that made Percy’s skin prickle. Every breath felt like the moment before you step into a blindingly hot shower — a heat so close it hurt.

And all of it came from Apollo.

The god sat in the driver’s seat, his posture lazy, his grin fixed, but something coiled beneath it — sharp, brittle, dangerous. His hands clenched the wheel hard enough that the leather creaked.

The problem wasn’t the bus. The problem was his eyes.

Every few seconds, Apollo looked at Percy in the mirror. Not a casual glance. Not even the typical godly I-know-more-than-you superiority. These looks were hungry, furious, and barely restrained. The sunglasses didn’t hide it. The gold behind the glass burned like wildfire, scorching straight through Percy’s ribs.

Percy hunched lower. If I don’t move maybe he’ll stop looking at me.

He didn’t.

Apollo spoke in a sing-song voice, but his tone rattled with something off-key. “So, Percy Jackson. Do you know how funny it is, seeing you here?”

Every hunter on the bus froze. Artemis’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t turn her head.

Percy forced a shrug. “Uh, I guess? Depending on your sense of humor.”

Apollo laughed. It was too loud. Too sharp. The sound filled the cabin like sunlight stabbing through glass. Grover whimpered beside Percy and covered his ears.

The laugh died abruptly. Apollo’s lips peeled back, and for a moment his expression was pure rage — naked, unfiltered, like the corona of the sun burning around an eclipse. Then, just as fast, the mask slipped back. He smiled too wide. “Tell me, boy. Do you like the ocean?”

Percy’s mouth went dry. Okay. That’s random. “I mean… yeah? Who doesn’t?”

Apollo’s gaze in the mirror snapped sharper. “Not everyone. Not everyone is allowed.”

The bus jerked as his grip spasmed on the wheel. The hunters yelped. Thalia cursed.

Percy swallowed. “You’re, uh… you’re a really safe driver.”

Apollo chuckled again, lower this time. “Safe. Yes. Safe. That’s what we all are, isn’t it? Safe in our little boxes, tied to our little threads, pretending we don’t remember—”

The lights in the bus flickered. For an instant, Percy swore he saw three shadows reflected in the glass: women with shears, their eyes on Apollo.

The god’s teeth clicked shut hard enough that Percy heard it. His knuckles whitened.

When he spoke again, his voice was almost calm. Almost. “Favorite constellation?”

Percy blinked. “What?”

“Answer me.”

The demand in his tone made Percy’s heart thud. He blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Uh — Pisces. The fish. Tied together.”

Apollo froze. His nostrils flared. That wild fury roared behind his grin. Then, like a puppeteer had yanked his strings, he jerked a nod and slammed the wheel straight. “Funny. So funny. ”

The gold in his eyes seared Percy’s reflection in the mirror. “I would have guessed that.”

Percy shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, cool. Glad my zodiac sign is comedy material.”

This time Apollo didn’t laugh. He just stared, and for a horrible moment Percy thought the god might burn the entire bus into cinders just to get whatever words were choking him out of his throat.

It wasn’t loud, but the temperature in the cabin dropped ten degrees. The hunters straightened like they’d been struck.

Apollo twitched, his smile cracking. He looked away from Percy with visible effort, his jaw flexing. “Of course, sister. Drive the chariot, keep the children safe. That’s what I do. That’s all I do.”

But Percy felt it: Apollo’s gaze still pressed against his skin like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

The ride felt like it had lasted an eternity, like every bump in the road was Apollo shaking secrets loose from the seams of Percy’s skull. But when the bus finally rattled to a stop at the familiar pine-tree hill, Percy thought he might cry. The borders of Camp Half-Blood glimmered in the distance, golden and safe. The smell of strawberries drifted faintly on the breeze. For once, he thought, maybe he’d get to just breathe.

The second his sneaker hit the dirt, he exhaled the biggest sigh of relief he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. His chest ached from it, like he’d been carrying a mountain and only just set it down. He muttered under his breath, “Finally. Home.”

He didn’t even care that he’d nearly face-planted on the last step off the bus. He was alive. He was out of that rolling sauna with the unstable sun god. He was—

“Not quite yet.”

The voice coiled behind him, smooth as silk, sharp as a blade.

Percy froze.

A hand, cool but burning with an undertone of heat, brushed against his jaw. Fingers tilted his chin upward—not rough, but deliberate, like a puppeteer adjusting a marionette. Apollo stood over him, smiling, but it wasn’t the kind of smile that warmed rooms or charmed mortals. It was too wide, too bright. The kind of grin you paint on a mask to hide the crack running underneath.

Percy’s stomach twisted. Every instinct screamed don’t move.

Apollo’s golden eyes roamed his face with unnerving intensity, as though reading lines no one else could see, as though Percy’s skin itself was a scroll written in fire. For one heart-stopping moment, Percy swore the god wasn’t looking at him so much as through him—into something deeper, older, hidden beneath.

“Not quite yet,” Apollo repeated, softer this time, almost tender. His breath smelled faintly of sunlight and ashes.

Percy tried to jerk his head back, but Apollo’s grip, though gentle, was iron. A golden aura hummed faintly around his fingers, and Percy felt it vibrate in his teeth.

The world around them seemed to warp. The laughter of the campers waiting nearby dulled, distant, like someone had stuffed cotton in Percy’s ears. The border of camp flickered, the strawberry fields bending like heat mirages.

Artemis’s voice cut through the haze, sharp as an arrow. “Enough.”

Apollo blinked, lashes fluttering, and released Percy’s chin as though it burned him. For a heartbeat, his expression cracked—something raw and furious bleeding through the golden mask. Then he smoothed it back into a grin, too easy, too bright.

Percy stumbled a step back, rubbing his jaw where Apollo’s fingers had been. The ghost of warmth lingered, searing. He forced a laugh that came out more like a cough. “Wow. Personal space, much?”

Apollo didn’t answer. His eyes gleamed, fever-bright, and Percy had the horrible sense that the god hadn’t heard him at all.

Then, just as quickly as it had come, the pressure in the air evaporated. The camp came back into focus—the smell of strawberries, the chatter of campers, the safe golden glow. Only Percy’s pounding heartbeat reminded him that anything had happened at all.

And yet, when he dared glance back, Apollo was still smiling. Still watching. Still waiting.

Chapter Text

Sally Jackson was a strong woman. Everyone said so, and in a way it was true. She endured, she survived, she smiled when she had to. But strength didn’t mean a woman couldn’t break. Sometimes strength was only the art of hiding the cracks until they split wide open.

Her own mother had cracked long before her.

Sally could still remember the day she walked into the bathroom and found her mother slumped in the water, wrists open, her golden hair fanned like seaweed in a red tide. Her mother had been too much ocean to survive the land. Too much grief to survive the silence.

It hadn’t been random despair that drove her there. It had been him.

Sally’s father. A man who had been beautiful in the worst way—cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood, a face so symmetrical it was almost inhuman. People looked at him and saw perfection. What Sally saw was hunger. His beauty was not a gift but a weapon, sharpened by the knowledge of where it came from. His mother had been Aphrodite herself, and he had inherited her divinity twisted into arrogance. He believed beauty meant entitlement. He believed his face meant ownership. And what he owned, he destroyed.

He had stolen Sally’s mother from the sea—a daughter of Atlantis, a creature who did not belong to him. She had been luminous, delicate in a way that was dangerous, because when her hair fell back you could glimpse the gills sealed tight against her neck, the pearled shells in place of ears. She had been too beautiful to remain untouched by him.

It was doomed from the beginning.

Sally had been fourteen when the house turned unbearable. Every fight between her parents was thunder in her bones. When her father’s voice rose, when her mother’s eyes filled with saltwater fury, Sally would gather up Charlie and run. Charlie—her little brother, only five, golden curls and blue eyes like shallow seas. He had inherited their mother’s beauty, her otherness, her seashell ears, her gills hidden beneath soft curls. He was luminous in a way Sally never could be.

Sally was her father’s child. Brown hair, plain face, mortal features, no gifts except the wrong kind of inheritance. She loved Charlie because he was everything she was not. Maybe that was why their mother loved him too—favored him, always, with a softness Sally never received. Sally could almost forgive her for it. After all, Charlie deserved to be loved.

The beach had been their sanctuary. The salt wind drowned out their father’s shouting. The ocean cradled them when the house turned unbearable. Sometimes Sally pretended she was the one born of the sea, not Charlie. Sometimes she let herself pretend she belonged. She even let herself smile at a boy who was too old for her, seven years her senior, but safer than the house ever was.

But safety was fragile.

Charlie died over cigarettes. That was the absurdity of it. He had taken their father’s pack to school, thinking them candy, and lost them. When their father found out, the fight erupted like wildfire. Sally remembered Charlie clinging to their mother’s side, so small, so fragile. She remembered her father’s hand like a thunderclap, Charlie’s body against the wall, the wet crack that silenced the room. One heartbeat he was alive, the next his neck bent at an unnatural angle, blood pooling at his feet.

The scream her mother released was something ancient, something not of this world. She lunged, and Sally remembered nothing after that except chaos and sirens and the copper taste of fear.

Her father was arrested. Her mother slit her throat a month later, before the trial. Sally was left behind. She testified. She stared at her father’s face, still beautiful even behind glass, and spoke the truth. And when it was over, she swore she would bury that part of herself forever.

But fate had other plans.

At fifteen, she was given a child of her own. Perseus. Her son. Her burden. Her only light.

She swore then, cradling him, that she would never be like her parents. That she would be better.

Fourteen years later, Sally was twenty-nine, and she knew vows were fragile things. She tried—gods, she tried—but sometimes when Percy came home with another expulsion letter, she felt the rage simmering. She felt the strike in her blood. And sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, she admitted to herself the darkest truth: there had been nights when she wished she had let him rot in the crib, silent and forgotten.

But she didn’t. Because she couldn’t. Because Percy was more than her son. He was a warning.

The Greeks were darker than the Romans. Their blood was older, richer, undiluted. Roman blood ran copper, but Greek ichor glowed gold. Sally had seen her son bleed once, just a scrape on the knee. It hadn’t been red. It had glimmered yellow, as if sunlight lived inside him.

His hair was turning pale, almost white, too luminous for a mortal boy. His eyes shifted, green like the sea in all its moods, never the same shade twice. He was terrifyingly beautiful. He was what she had always wanted to be. He was what she feared.

“Mum?”

She looked down. Her hands were drenched in blood, the lifeless body of a cow slumped across the floor. She had drained it dry. The coppery tang filled the room. Percy didn’t know. He didn’t know she had been feeding him blood in his food for years, conditioning him, preparing him. He didn’t know what he was becoming.

Because he wasn’t just Poseidon’s son. He was the son of the old Poseidon. The one who had ruled the seas before mortals reshaped the gods with their prayers. Before they grew soft and human-like. Once, the gods had been monstrous—horns curled from their skulls, eyes black as the void, mouths filled with fangs. They had been worshipped in fear, not love.

And Percy carried that inheritance in his veins. Every day, she saw it growing. His power stretched his human skin too thin. His core cracked a little more each time. Soon, there would be no boy left—only god. Only monster.

“Nothing,” Sally whispered. Her voice trembled. “Go back to sleep.”

It was 1:19 a.m. Percy didn’t move. His gaze lingered, sharp with worry. He had always worried about her. Always too kind for the destiny in his blood.

“Can I stay with you?” His voice was soft, skittish. In the moonlight, his hair was silver-white, his face as fragile and otherworldly as the sea itself.

Sally hesitated, her bloody hands trembling. “Kiddo… you’ll get blood on you.”

“I don’t care.”

And he wrapped his arms around her. His warmth pressed against her, his breath slow against her shoulder. His innocence—still intact, still alive—cut her deeper than any blade could.

For one fleeting moment, she let herself believe it was worth it. That the struggle meant something. That maybe she could keep him human, keep him hers.

But she knew better. Morning would come. And tomorrow, she would forget again.

Because Percy was changing. And Sally could feel the ocean calling for him, the way it had once called for her mother.

And when it finally took him, Sally knew—she would break, just like the women before her.

𓆉 𓇼 𓆝 𓆟 𓇼 𓆉

Camp was finally starting to feel like home.

For weeks, Percy had walked around with his shoulders tense, waiting for something to go wrong. Monsters. Prophecies. A god showing up to casually ruin his day. But lately, the edges had softened. The Apollo kids had adopted him for their games and songs, Hermes cabin had stopped treating him like an intruder, and even the Ares kids had downgraded from open hostility to mild glares. That counted as progress.

He was laughing more. He was sleeping better. And he was beginning to believe—just a little—that maybe he belonged here.

Not that it was perfect. The eyes of Mr. D still strayed to him at meals or across the campfire, heavy and unreadable, like the god knew something Percy didn’t. At first, the stares unnerved him. Now, he was almost used to it. Almost.

“Morning, Percy!”

Annabeth’s voice rang out from across the green, bright and determined. She sprinted toward him like the entire Trojan army was at her back. Behind her thundered Mrs. O’Leary, the massive hellhound bounding happily, scattering a few nervous satyrs out of the way.

Percy managed a wave. “Morning, Annabeth.”

Things between them had been strange lately. Half the camp seemed convinced they were secretly dating, a rumor that spread faster than wildfire no matter how many times Percy denied it. The truth was simpler and, apparently, much harder for people to believe: Percy was very, very gay. He hadn’t exactly made an announcement, but still—how anyone thought he and Annabeth were sneaking kisses behind cabins was beyond him.

“Heading to breakfast?” Annabeth called, her gray eyes gleaming with mischief. “Because if you are—race you!”

Before he could answer, she launched herself onto Mrs. O’Leary’s back. The hellhound gave an excited yip before bucking like a bull at a rodeo. Annabeth shrieked as she was launched into the air, landing hard in the grass.

Percy doubled over, laughter tearing out of his throat until it hurt. He hadn’t laughed like that in months. Not the small, awkward laugh he used when people expected it—but a real laugh, raw and burning.

Annabeth scrambled to her feet, glaring but already smiling. “Not funny!”

“It’s a little funny,” Percy admitted, still wheezing.

Mrs. O’Leary bounded up, tail wagging like she hadn’t just body-slammed one of the smartest demigods in camp.

“Fine,” Annabeth said, brushing grass from her hair. “You asked for it. Race you.”

She bolted forward, her long stride eating the ground. Percy blinked, then swore and sprinted after her, Mrs. O’Leary bounding joyfully at his side

Annabeth nearly beat him to the mess hall steps, but Percy’s longer stride caught up in the last few feet. He flung himself through the entrance with all the grace of a falling anvil, half-tripping over his own sandals. Annabeth stumbled in right behind him, Mrs. O’Leary barreling happily between them and sending both campers sprawling.

A wave of laughter rolled through the hall.

The mess hall was always chaos in the mornings—tables creaking under the weight of food, satyrs already nibbling, campers from every cabin weaving between benches with plates stacked high. The smell of syrup and strawberries mixed with smoke from the eternal brazier at the center. For Percy, the noise and smells had once been overwhelming. Now, they were almost comforting.

“Nice entrance, Seaweed Brain,” Annabeth muttered, untangling herself from Mrs. O’Leary’s tail.

Percy groaned, pushing himself upright. “She tripped me.”

Mrs. O’Leary barked once, like she knew exactly what he was saying and disagreed.

“Of course she did.” Annabeth smirked, brushing herself off and heading toward the Athena table. She didn’t wait for Percy to reply.

Percy grabbed a plate and slid into the Poseidon table—the smallest table, the loneliest one. It always felt strange, sitting alone while the other cabins clustered in noisy groups. But today, before he even set his plate down, a few Apollo kids waved him over.

“Jackson!” called Lee Fletcher, grinning broadly. “Come sit with us. We’re adopting you for breakfast.”

Percy hesitated. Technically, you weren’t supposed to sit at another god’s table. But no one looked like they cared, and honestly? He was tired of sitting by himself. He slid onto the Apollo bench, balancing his plate between bowls of fruit and pitchers of orange juice.

“See? Feels less depressing already,” Lee said cheerfully. “We’ll even let you laugh at our jokes.”

“Let me?” Percy asked dryly.

“Condition of sitting here,” said Kayla, another Apollo kid, pointing a spoon at him like it was a weapon. “No free rides.”

Percy smirked. “Fine. Tell a joke, then.”

Across the table, an Apollo boy raised his cup dramatically. “What did Dionysus say when someone asked him for a sober day?”

A beat of silence. Percy braced himself.

“Wine not!”

The table erupted in groans and laughter. Even Percy chuckled, though he muttered, “That was terrible.”

“That’s the point,” Kayla said smugly. “The worse, the better.”

Before Percy could reply, something cold and slimy dropped into his lap. He jolted upright with a yell, nearly upending his juice. The Hermes table burst into raucous laughter. One of the Stoll brothers was leaning back, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

“Seaweed in the Seaweed Brain’s lap!” Connor called.

“Classic,” Travis added.

Percy yanked up the dripping mess of kelp and glared. “Really?”

“Don’t act like you’re not used to it,” Connor said innocently.

Lee rolled his eyes and tossed a grape at them, which Travis caught neatly in his mouth. “Children,” Lee muttered, shaking his head.

Percy dropped the seaweed on the floor, trying not to laugh himself. He was supposed to be annoyed—but honestly? The pranks, the laughter, the warmth around the table—it felt good. Normal.

And then, as he reached for his cup, Percy’s gaze snagged across the room.

Mr. D sat slouched at the head table, his purple shirt stretched over his round belly, a glass of Diet Coke in hand. His eyes were fixed on Percy. Unblinking. Studying.

For a moment, Percy’s throat tightened. The laughter around him faded, muffled under the weight of that gaze. Dionysus didn’t look angry. He didn’t look bored. He just looked—interested. And that was worse.

Then the god blinked, turned to say something to Chiron, and the moment passed.

After breakfast, the cabins spilled out onto the green, scattering toward their scheduled activities. Armor clinked, arrows rattled, voices carried on the warm summer air.

Percy trailed after the Apollo kids, who were heading to the archery range. He wasn’t scheduled for it—Poseidon’s son or not, he was still expected at the sword arena—but Lee insisted.

“You can’t spend your whole life swinging metal, Jackson,” Lee said, slinging his bow across his back. “Try hitting a target for once.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “With my luck, I’ll hit you instead.”

Kayla clapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit.”

The archery range stretched out under the trees, lines of hay-stuffed targets painted with circles. Apollo campers moved like a choreographed dance, arrows flying in golden arcs, thudding perfectly into the red rings. Percy shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t touched a bow since gym class.

“Relax,” Lee said, handing him one. “It won’t bite.”

“Unless I shoot myself in the foot.”

“Then you’ll have a great story.”

Percy sighed and took the bow. It felt awkward in his hands, the string too tight, the wood too stiff. The Apollo kids lined up, and Percy tried to mimic them, drawing the string back until his arms trembled.

“Breathe out when you release,” Kayla coached.

He let go.

The arrow sailed gracefully through the air—then buried itself two inches deep in the dirt halfway to the target.

The Apollo line erupted in laughter.

“Impressive,” Lee said solemnly. “You’ve invented a new kind of warfare. Digging trenches with arrows.”

Percy’s face heated, but he couldn’t help laughing with them. He tried again. This time the arrow veered left, nearly taking out a tree branch.

“Close enough!” someone called.

“Maybe the tree offended him.”

Percy groaned. “Remind me why I agreed to this?”

“Because you like us,” Kayla said sweetly. “And you didn’t want to sit alone again.”

She wasn’t wrong.

They kept him shooting until his arms ached. Percy never hit a bullseye, but he managed to graze the edge of a target once, which earned a cheer loud enough to make him blush. For the first time, failing didn’t feel humiliating. It felt like… belonging.

The mood didn’t last.

Halfway through, a horn blew across camp. Capture the Flag practice.

Excitement rippled through the Apollo line. Bows slung over shoulders, they jogged toward the woods, dragging Percy along with them. The last time he’d played, he’d nearly drowned everyone with an uncontrolled river surge. This time, he swore he’d keep things under control.

The teams assembled in the clearing, banners raised: Athena and Apollo on one side, Ares and Hermes on the other. Percy found himself shoved between Lee and Annabeth, both radiating battle-ready energy.

“Stick with me,” Annabeth said, tying her blonde hair back. “You’ll last longer.”

“Gee, thanks,” Percy muttered.

The horn blared again. Chaos exploded.

Campers scattered into the trees, swords flashing, shields clashing. Percy sprinted after Annabeth, branches whipping his face, the smell of pine thick in his nose. He’d barely drawn his sword before a Hermes kid leapt from the undergrowth, grinning wickedly.

Percy blocked the first strike clumsily. The force rattled his arms, but something inside him surged—the pull of the sea, the pulse of combat. His body knew what to do even if his brain didn’t. He shoved forward, disarming the boy with a strength that startled even himself.

“Not bad,” Annabeth said, darting past him to engage another opponent.

Percy charged after her, the thrill of the game pounding through his chest. He blocked, parried, slipped, stumbled, but kept moving. For once, he wasn’t dragging behind. He was holding his own.

And then the ground beneath him trembled.

Percy froze. Water. He could feel it, deep underground, surging like it was answering his heartbeat. It called to him, begged to be unleashed. His grip tightened on his sword.

“Percy!” Annabeth snapped, pulling him back to focus.

He blinked, and the sensation vanished. Just trees, dirt, the clash of swords. No flood waiting to break.

They ducked under branches, weaving between trunks, heading toward the Ares-Hermes side of the woods. Annabeth’s eyes darted everywhere, sharp and calculating. Percy was mostly just trying not to trip over tree roots.

“Left!” Annabeth hissed.

Percy spun, just in time to meet an Ares camper charging straight for him. The boy swung his sword with enough force to knock the air from Percy’s lungs. Percy barely managed to block, stumbling back. His opponent grinned savagely.

“You’re mine, Jackson.”

Percy swallowed. He really hoped that wasn’t true.

The camper lunged again. This time, Percy’s instincts kicked in. He sidestepped, shoved hard with his shield, and sent the boy crashing into a tree trunk. The impact rang through the clearing.

Annabeth raised an eyebrow. “Not bad.”

Percy tried to smirk, but his heart was racing.

They pressed deeper into enemy territory. Through the trees, Percy spotted a shimmer of red fabric—the enemy flag, fluttering in the breeze, tied high in the branches of an oak. Two Hermes kids guarded it, both grinning like they’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Annabeth crouched low, whispering quickly. “I’ll distract them. You climb.”

“Climb?” Percy hissed.

“You’ve got legs. Use them.”

Before he could argue, Annabeth darted forward, sword flashing, engaging the guards in a flurry of strikes. Percy groaned and scrambled for the tree.

The bark scraped his palms as he climbed. His legs trembled, his grip awkward, but he hauled himself higher. The flag fluttered just out of reach—red silk against green leaves. Almost there.

And then the air shifted.

Percy froze.

He felt it again: water. Not in rivers or streams, but in the sap of the trees, in the moisture clinging to the leaves. It pulsed, alive, answering his heartbeat. It wanted him.

His vision swam. For a split second, he saw it—saw the way he could draw it out, rip it from the trees, unleash it like a tidal wave through the forest. He could drown them all if he wanted. He could—

“Percy!” Annabeth’s shout snapped him back.

He blinked, the vision gone. His hand shot out and grabbed the flag, tearing it from its branch.

A triumphant cheer rang out behind him. Annabeth had the Hermes guards pinned, her gray eyes flashing with victory. Percy slid down the tree, flag clutched in his fist, and together they sprinted back through the forest.

They didn’t make it far.

A wall of Ares campers blocked their path, shields braced, swords gleaming. Their leader—Clarisse—grinned like a wolf.

“Well, well,” she sneered. “If it isn’t Seaweed Brain and Wise Girl.”

Percy groaned. “Really? Right now?”

Clarisse didn’t wait for an answer. She charged, spear crackling with electricity.

Annabeth lunged to intercept, but Clarisse was too fast. The spear slammed toward Percy’s chest—

—and the ground answered.

Water surged from the dirt in a violent burst, soaking the earth, knocking Clarisse off balance. She stumbled, swearing as mud sucked at her boots. The other Ares campers faltered, shouting in confusion as the forest floor turned slick.

Percy’s heart lurched. He hadn’t meant to do that. He hadn’t even tried.

Annabeth’s sharp eyes flicked to him. For a moment, she looked less impressed and more… worried.

But then she grabbed his wrist. “Don’t just stand there—run!”

They tore through the chaos, mud sucking at their feet, shouts ringing behind them. Percy clutched the flag like it was life itself, lungs burning, legs aching. At the edge of the woods, the clearing opened up—and the horn blew.

Their side had won.

The Athena-Apollo team erupted in cheers. Campers swarmed Percy, clapping him on the back, shouting his name. He stumbled under the attention, blinking, overwhelmed. For once, it wasn’t whispers or suspicion. It was celebration.

And yet—across the field, Clarisse glared at him with murder in her eyes. Across the tables, Mr. D lounged with his Diet Coke, gaze fixed on Percy, sharp and curious.

Percy forced a smile for the others, but inside, unease curled like a shadow. He hadn’t meant to use his power. Hadn’t meant to feel the water’s pull so strongly.

And he couldn’t shake the thought:

What if next time, he couldn’t stop?

Chapter Text

Achilles huffed as he charged toward the rising wall of water. Around him, men fled for higher ground, the earth trembling beneath their feet as the sea pulsed with unnatural life. But Achilles did not run. He was born of the ocean; nothing within it could shake him.
Or so he believed.

From the heart of the tsunami, a figure rose. A god.

His hair spilled long and white as hoarfrost, the tips dissolving into seafoam, every strand braided with pearls that shimmered like stars. Upon his head sat an Atlantean crown—so revered that even Thetis herself, goddess of the sea and Achilles’ mother, had never dared to wear one.

It gleamed Gold, its frame catching the dim light, two massive shells jutting from either side like the horns of some ancient beast and meant to frame a face rather than sit on top of a head.

“My Lord,” Achilles breathed, his voice unsteady, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

The God Looked Few Years Younger than Himself.

The figure laughed, the sound low and unsettling. His form flickered, and in an instant, he was no longer a towering deity but a youth standing before Achilles. His hair shortened to his shoulders, dark as a starless night, threaded still with pearls. His glow faded, and though he now looked almost human, his eyes betrayed him—too bright, too sharp.

“I am no god, Achilles,” he said with a smile that showed teeth too many and too keen. “I am a half-blood. Like you.”

A cold shiver crawled up Achilles’ spine at the words. It wasn’t just the unnatural smile or the inhuman teeth—it was the claim of mortality. He had fought and bled as a demigod, and he knew what was possible. What this being had just done was far beyond the reach of any half-blood.

“Then why are you here?” Achilles demanded, though he already knew the answer. Children of the gods always came, sooner or later.

“To help,” the boy said softly.

And as he spoke, the towering walls of water parted. Through the churning passage slid two great warships, their black hulls slicing the waves. Upon their decks stood raiders and warriors, fierce and scarred, their eyes glinting like predators.

What Achilles’ band of demigods lacked in numbers, the enemy more than compensated with sheer ferocity.

𓆉 𓇼 𓆝 𓆟 𓇼 𓆉

Isadora’s scream ripped from her throat before she could stop it, high and ragged against the crash of waves. She had frozen in place, her sandals half-buried in the damp sand, her whole body stiff as though she herself had turned to stone. There, not ten paces before her, the sea had delivered something strange and terrible: the limp body of a boy, dragged up by the tide as if the ocean itself had chosen this shore to abandon him upon. 

He looked so very young—no older than sixteen, perhaps even younger. His limbs were thin yet taut with lean muscle, like the wiry frame of a hunter or runner, not the broad-shouldered bulk of the Greek men she had grown used to serving in her lord’s house. He was small, almost slight, and for that Isadora felt an unexpected pang of fear. Boys like this—too slender, too compact—rarely survived long in this world. They burned quickly or broke under the weight of it. And yet, somehow, she could not bring herself to look away.

What Surprised her the Most was the colour of his hair.

White.

As white as the seafoam, that washed along the shores.

And it was filled with pearls, beautiful white pearls littered his hair like stars in the night sky, was he a thief? How could someone have such wealth in their hair.

His skin bore a strange sheen in the light, as though it had been kissed too long by the sun and yet scrubbed clean by salt. Tanned, yes, but unnaturally so, as if it glowed faintly beneath the grime and water clinging to him. He lay still, eerily still, his chest unmoving, his lips parted in silence. The ocean that had carried him in now retreated back across the sand, hissing around his limbs, tugging weakly at his ankles as though reluctant to let him go.

Isadora’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to run. Every part of her screamed to flee back to the house on the hill, to the safety of its stone walls and busy halls. Yet her body betrayed her; instead of retreating, she leaned forward, her hand trembling as it reached toward him. Logic told her to turn away, to fetch a man, to let someone stronger decide whether this boy was a gift from the gods or a curse meant to destroy them all. But her body, stubborn and foolish, insisted she stay, insisted she press through her terror to touch him.

The boy did not move.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, loud enough she barely heard the voice that cut across the shore behind her.

“Isadora!”

She spun, skirts whipping against her legs, her throat tightening in dread. Pelagia stood at the edge of the beach, her presence like a blade unsheathed. Isadora had served the lady of the house long enough to know what that look meant. Pelagia’s sharp brown eyes were narrowed, suspicion carved into every line of her face. For the briefest instant, though, that suspicion cracked into something else—something that looked like surprise.

Isadora lowered her head quickly, hands trembling at her sides, trying to school her expression into neutrality. She had seen many noble wives in her years as a servant, but none commanded space the way Pelagia did. Even when she stood in silence, even when her gestures were gentle, there was something about her—something coiled and dangerous beneath her fine silks. To disappoint her was to invite ruin.

“Now,” Pelagia said, her voice quiet but sharp enough to slice the air, “who has washed up on my lord husband’s shore?”

Isadora swallowed hard, forcing her voice not to shake. “I don’t know, my lady. I was preparing for your garden party. I thought to gather some shells to decorate the path, and I saw him—he was swept onto the sand.”

Pelagia moved closer, her stride unhurried, her silks whispering against the wind. For a moment her expression softened, a smile brushing her lips, delicate as a feather. She knelt by the boy with surprising grace, her slender fingers reaching to sweep the wet hair from his brow. The gesture was tender, almost maternal, but Isadora knew better. She knew when her mistress was scheming.

“Cancel the garden party,” Pelagia said without looking up. “Reschedule it for next week. And fetch my husband.”

The command cracked like lightning in the air. Isadora flinched. For a moment, Pelagia seemed to grow taller, her shadow stretching long across the sand. She was not a large woman, not physically, but when she chose, she could fill the world with her presence.

Isadora turned and ran, her sandals slapping against the packed earth of the path, her chest heaving as she fled toward the looming house above the cliffs. Every breath came sharp and ragged, every step louder than the last. She didn’t dare slow, didn’t dare falter, though her legs burned with the effort.

She burst into the courtyard, past startled servants, and up the marble steps that led to the great hall. Inside, the air was cooler, heavy with the scent of olive oil and parchment. Adamantios, her master, stood at his desk in the center of his study, bent over the neat lines of a trade agreement from some northern noble. He did not notice her at first; his dark eyes were fixed on the ink, his mind still wrapped in politics and profit.

“Master Adamantios,” Isadora gasped, bending at the waist, “your wife is in need of your assistance. An important matter—”

She had no chance to finish. At the sound of “your wife,” Adamantios’ head snapped up, his face tense, his body already moving. He did not waste time with questions or hesitation. Whatever else could be said of him, Isadora knew this truth: though it was not uncommon for noblemen to treat their wives as property or burdens, Adamantios loved Pelagia with a devotion so fierce it could be mistaken for madness. He loved her with the same fire he had used to win her hand, defeating rivals with both blade and cunning. He had fought off men more powerful than him, claimed her in defiance of her disgraced house’s shame, and never let her slip from his grasp.

He bolted past Isadora, his sandals striking the stone floor in a rapid rhythm, and she whirled to follow, heart hammering all the harder. She ran to fetch fresh water as she had been ordered, stumbling into the kitchen and filling a vase from the cistern. The water was cool, biting at her fingers as it splashed over the rim. She clutched it tightly, the clay slick against her palms, and forced herself back into a sprint despite the awkward weight. Her chest ached, her legs screamed, but she pushed harder, determined not to falter.

By the time she returned to the beach, a crowd had gathered. Servants whispered in clusters, their voices hushed but urgent, their eyes wide as they tried to peer over one another’s shoulders. Isadora shoved through, clutching the vase against her chest like a shield until she reached the circle’s edge.

Adamantios was kneeling in the sand, his ear pressed to the boy’s chest, his face tight with strain. Pelagia crouched beside him, her hand still resting near the boy’s brow, her expression unreadable. The crowd held its breath as Adamantios pulled back, shaking his head ever so slightly. The boy’s chest remained still. No breath stirred his lips. No heartbeat thudded beneath his ribs.

Isadora felt her stomach twist. The world seemed to lurch sideways, as though the earth itself had decided to tilt beneath her. This boy—whoever he was—was gone. She could see it in the set of Adamantios’ jaw, in the way Pelagia’s fingers twitched once, then stilled.

And then, without warning, the boy sat bolt upright.

The movement was violent, unnatural, as though some invisible hand had yanked him back from the jaws of death. His mouth opened wide, and water poured out in a choking rush. He gasped, retched, coughed until his whole body shook. The servants cried out, some recoiling, others pressing forward in awe.

“He’s alive!” Adamantios’ voice thundered above the din, his face breaking into a grin of relief so raw it startled Isadora. The crowd erupted in chatter, excitement spilling like wildfire through the air.

But Isadora’s gaze was fixed not on Adamantios, nor on the servants, but on the boy himself. His eyes were open now, and they were not the eyes of a mortal. They were every color of water—blue, green, grey, silver—shifting and swirling with each blink, never the same twice. They burned with an intensity that seemed to cut straight through her, divine and inhuman. She shivered, every hair on her arms standing on end.

The boy’s lips parted again, and a stream of guttural, nonsensical sounds spilled out. Words, but not words she knew. Harsh consonants, rolling vowels, a tongue older and stranger than anything she had heard in the markets or the ports. He winced when he realized they could not understand, then switched, his accent thick and strange, but his vocabulary startlingly precise.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his gaze locking onto Pelagia with terrifying intensity.

Pelagia did not flinch. She never flinched. She regarded him with the same measured calm she might give to a viper slithering across her path—aware of its danger, but unwilling to show fear.

“I am Lady Pelagia,” she said evenly, “and this is my lord husband, Adamantios. But that is not the question that matters. Who are you?”

The boy’s expression shifted, hardening with something between pride and pain. His lips curved into a grim line.

“I am Perseus.”

The name hung in the air like a storm cloud, heavy and electric, and for a moment no one dared to breathe.

𓆉 𓇼 𓆝 𓆟 𓇼 𓆉

Percy was taken to the medics’ room, where they gave him a careful once-over before deciding he was stable enough to move, though not without the medics staring at his hair for a solid minute. 

He barely noticed as they guided him to the guest chamber. The room was enormous, its windows stretching skyward to frame the endless ocean beyond. Percy collapsed against the edge of the bed, staring longingly at the sun slipping slowly into the horizon, the water catching fire with gold and crimson.

But the colors didn’t soothe him. They felt hollow, mocking. His heart was heavy—not racing, not thumping, because it had stopped feeling anything at all. His mother was gone forever. Luke was dead. And he…he had died with them, in every way that mattered.

Percy’s chest tightened until he could barely breathe, and then the grief hit him like a wave breaking over jagged rocks. He sank to his knees beside the bed, his hands pressed to his face as tears burned down his cheeks. They weren’t human tears. They shimmered pearlescent, strange and unearthly, spilling onto his arms like molten light. 

Just Like his fathers.

He sobbed until his vision blurred, until the storm of loss inside him seemed unbearable. The world narrowed to a single point of emptiness. And then, softly, a presence: the room’s door had opened, and a young servant stood there, hesitant, small, her dark almond eyes wide. She carried a bundle of clothes, her movements tentative, almost afraid to interrupt him.

“The Lord and Lady will see you soon,” she said gently, her voice a soft echo in the heavy quiet. “They asked me to bring you clothes.”

Percy blinked at her, barely noticing her approach. He didn’t care about clothing, or appearances. He barely cared about breathing. But the girl knelt beside him anyway, careful hands pressing a damp cloth to his cheeks, murmuring soothing words. She smelled faintly of lavender and sun-warmed linen.

“What’s your name?” Percy croaked, his voice raw.

The girl flinched, dropping a pin in her shock. She scrambled to retrieve it, and Percy noticed the trickle of blood before it touched the floor. His chest ached not for himself but for her. The panic and guilt in her eyes struck him like a blade. And then, as the minutes stretched and the grief within him slowed into a dull ache, he saw it—he saw his mother, Sally, reflected in the girl’s movements, in her gentle, trembling care.

Percy’s body went rigid, a sharp pang of longing slamming into him. He drew in a shuddering breath of sea air from the window, tasting the salt and the wildness, the promise of power that still thrummed beneath the earth and water. He wanted to disappear into it, to melt into the storm outside.

“It’s okay,” the girl whispered. Her fear gave way to patience, to quiet strength. She wrapped the small cut on Percy’s hand with care, her fingers brushing his skin. In that touch, he felt the echo of countless mornings with his mother, the gentle ritual of healing and comfort, the quiet moments before life’s chaos swept them all away.

“My name is Isadora,” she said softly, coaxing him back from the edge of his grief. Percy clutched the fabric she offered, his hands trembling, but slowly, inexorably, he allowed himself to be guided upright, his body still stiff with sorrow.

A small boy appeared in the doorway, barely nine, eyes wide and dark with fear. “The Lord and Lady request you now,” he squeaked, before dashing away, sandals slapping sharply against the floor. Percy watched him go, a flicker of curiosity breaking through the heavy fog of mourning.

He followed Isadora, his mind a chaotic tangle of rage, grief, and wonder. This world—the air, the architecture, the smell of the sea—was ancient and alive. Every shadow seemed to whisper secrets, every echo hinted at gods and monsters, heroes and sacrifices. And yet, in the midst of it, he felt the fragile pull of humanity, of connection.

The dining hall was vast, illuminated by the fading sunlight streaming through high windows. Pelagia sat beside her husband, Adamantios, her gown shimmering like woven moonlight, her eyes steady and watchful. Percy felt both awe and suspicion; he had seen enough betrayal in his life to know beauty and power could hide cruelty.

He sat where they indicated, trying to force himself into the role of a polite guest. His stomach rebelled, still tight with grief, but the smell of food—the sweetened meat, the honeyed fruits—pushed him to action. He ate, ravenous at first, desperate to feel anything, and then slower, savoring each bite as if grounding himself in the present. Pelagia’s gentle encouragement and Adamantios’ playful glance made him feel almost human again, almost safe.

When the plates were cleared, the warmth of hospitality dissolved, replaced by the weight of expectation. Adamantios’ eyes sharpened. “Where did you come from?” he asked, his tone neutral but probing.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Not even that deep into manhood,” Pelagia bit out, anger seeping into her words. She seemed to carry a deep resentment for lost children. Percy felt it—her pain, a longing for motherhood; a childless mother and a motherless child.

“Your hair…” Pelagia whispered, her voice trembling. “Why is it white—like sea foam—and shining with pearls?” percys eyes widened finally they were asking him questions and he was not prepped.

Pelagia and Adamantios looked at his hair with awe and a little bit of fair, he couldnt blame them, they knew of the gods and their wrath.

Percy let out a slow breath, the sudden hush of the crowd pressing in on him. He could feel their stares, heavy and unrelenting, drawn to the unnatural glow of his hair.

“I was blessed by a god,” Perseus said at last, his voice calm but guarded. He would not yet speak Poseidon’s name. Trust had to be earned—carefully, step by step.

Pelagia and Adamantios’s expressions faltered, their regal composure slipping into disbelief before they quickly masked it again. Pelagia glanced nervously toward her husband, seemingly unsure of what to say. Adamantios spoke in her stead.

“And who is your patron god?”

“It is not within my power to say, my lord.” Even if Percy had wanted to tell them, he knew it was wiser to remain silent. For now, he needed to lie low.

Adamantios opened his mouth, a determined look on his face, but before he could press further, Pelagia shot him a particularly unsettling glance. Whatever he had meant to say died on his lips, and he wilted under her gaze.

Huh. I guess the man really does love his wife, Percy thought.

“How’d you get here?” Adamantios asked. Despite seeing his wife’s sadness, he persisted. He, too, had been a fatherless child who craved someone who needed guidance, yet he didn’t wear that secret on his skin the way his beloved wife did.

“I was a sacrifice.” Percy Lied, his features were strange that it was possible, he needed their sympathy to be able to stay.

 The room seemed to pause. Adamantios’ eyes widened slightly before hardening, his eyebrows furrowing as he tried to hide any shock. His sacrifices had never left the altar, but instead of the fate of marriage, theirs had been death.

“And how did you escape?”

“I don’t know…” For the first time since his arrival, Percy’s voice wavered, his confident demeanor cracking. The dim lighting of the room made Adamantios look older; the lines under his eyes darkened as he calculated his options.

Percy had been scared many times in his life, but never like this. He had never needed anything other than Riptide, who was stuck in the past. His trusted blade was gone, and so was his protection.

Pelagia broke through the deafening silence as gently as she could. “Percy, give my husband and me a moment to discuss something. We’ll be back soon.”

Adamantios had clearly not expected her to speak, but as gently as he could, the two sat up and began to walk down the corridor. Their whispered words made Percy fidget like a small child once more.

His mother had once taken him to a single-parent party. She had left him with a friend to talk with another woman, pretty with gorgeous blond hair and dark brown eyes. Something had felt wrong when Percy was around her, yet she would come over often afterward, spending time with Percy. He had loved it, even though something always felt off. His mother and her friends’ whispered conversations were just like Adamantios’ and Pelagia’s now.

Percy had been nervous, and he felt himself grow more and more reserved. He chewed the inside of his mouth, tearing at the skin. The coppery taste filled his mouth, but to his surprise, it wasn’t as bitter as blood had once been.

“Percy, I know you have nowhere else to go, and we are fortunate to invite you to stay with us,” Pelagia said, her soft sympathy gone. The noble, political Pelagia had emerged in her stead. “But in exchange, we’ll need something from you.”

Adamantios continued for his wife. “My wife is unable to bear children, and with no one to inherit our lands, the other houses will try to take over. We need an heir. You may have a strange hair color but you have delicate facial features like my wife’s. Though you are not yet a man. We would like to take you in as our own.”

Percy inhaled, weighing his answer. Pelagia’s hopeful gaze met his, eyes bright with expectation. He knew he would likely never marry, that his ascension could only be stopped by death. But he also knew he couldn’t die now—there was much to do. If he had to begin somewhere, he would rather it be in a place where he could build a foundation.

The weight of their expectation pressed on him, but Percy met it head-on. He had been powerless too long. “I agree,” he said, “on the condition that I am allowed to train as a boy here would—in strategy, tactics, and weaponry.”

Adamantios’ expression darkened briefly, then broke into a deep laugh. “Now why would you want that?”

“I never want to be left defenseless again,” Percy said, steady now, the storm of grief settling into a simmering resolve.

Pelagia smiled, radiant and approving, and Adamantios nodded. “Then be welcomed, Percy, to the house of Thalassinos of Crete.”

Percy sat in silence after the nobles’ words had sunk in. The room felt impossibly large, empty, and yet full all at once. The weight of what had just happened pressed down on him, heavier than the grief he had carried before. He had agreed—he would live here, among strangers, in a world that was not his own—but nothing about that lifted the ache inside his chest. If anything, it deepened it.

He sank to the floor, his hands clutching at the hem of his tunic as the tears he had tried to hold back all day spilled freely now. Sobs wracked his body, shaking him to his very bones. He thought he could hear the distant crash of waves outside, echoing the turmoil inside him. He didn’t even try to stop it. Not now. Not after everything.

Pelagia rushe to his side, silent and careful. She knelt beside him, her small hands brushing against his trembling ones. “It’s alright, my Son,” she whispered. The words felt strange to Percy’s ears, formal yet gentle, a balm against the raw edges of his grief. “You’ve been through so much… let it out.”

Percy shook his head violently, a strangled sound escaping his throat. “I—I can’t… I shouldn’t… everything is gone!” His voice cracked, bitter and broken. “My mother… Luke… I—”

He broke off, clutching at his chest as the grief threatened to swallow him whole. The world around him wavered, and in the corner of his vision he saw shadows coalesce into shapes, the faces of those he had loved most. Sally. Luke. Annabeth. Grover. The warmth of his mother’s hand, the pride in Luke’s eyes—they were here and yet gone, teasing him with memories he could no longer touch.

Pelagia pressed closer, wrapping her arms around him in a firm, steady embrace. “You are not alone,” she said softly. “You are here, with me, and with those who care for you. You do not have to bear it all by yourself.”

Percy’s knees gave way, and he leaned into her as if clinging to a lifeboat in a storm. The tears flowed freely, unrestrained, and for the first time since he had arrived in this world, he allowed himself to truly grieve—not as a boy who had to be strong, not as a hero or a survivor, but simply as Percy, a child who had lost everything.

Other servants quietly gathered around, drawn by the sound of his despair. Milo appeared, his small frame barely able to support the heavy tray of fresh water, but he set it carefully beside Percy, watching with wide, worried eyes. “Here… drink,” he said softly. “It helps, maybe.”

Percy didn’t answer, but he took the cup, letting the cool liquid soothe his throat, grounding him in the present for just a moment. Pelagia held his hand through it, her fingers small but unyielding, a lifeline to reality.

Minutes stretched into hours, though it could have been seconds; grief had a way of bending time. He wept until his chest ached, until the salt stung his eyes and left his cheeks raw. And through it all, the servants stayed—silent witnesses, steady anchors, giving him the space to unravel without shame or judgment.

Gradually, the sobs slowed, replaced by quiet, trembling breaths. Percy lifted his head, wiping at the streaks of pearlescent tears on his face. “I… I don’t know how to… live here,” he admitted in a small, broken voice. “Everything is… different. Everything is strange.”

Pelagia smiled gently, brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead. “Then let it be strange,” she said. “You have been through horrors we cannot even imagine. Here, you can start again. One breath at a time. One step at a time. And we will be here with you.”

Percy’s gaze drifted to the ocean outside, now glowing under the moonlight. The waves crashed against the cliffs, relentless and eternal, as if echoing his own chaotic heart. He wanted to feel the power thrumming in the air, the pulse of the earth and sea, but for now he allowed himself only the human, fragile sensation of being held and not alone.

Milo crept closer, holding out a small blanket. “You… you should rest,” he said softly. “We can make you comfortable.”

Percy accepted it, letting the servants guide him to the bed. The fabric smelled faintly of the sun and sea, soft and grounding. He curled up beneath it, feeling the weight of the day pressing down, and yet, somehow, a small spark of something new flickered inside him—a fragile ember of hope, or perhaps resilience.

Pelagia stayed by his side, murmuring quiet encouragement as he drifted toward sleep. “Tomorrow, we start again,” she promised. “And the day after that. You are Percy now. You are safe, for the first time in a long time. You are ours to protect.”

As he surrendered to exhaustion, Percy let himself imagine a life beyond loss—a life where grief could coexist with love, where courage could be forged in the warmth of trust, where even a boy who had lost everything could rise again. The waves outside roared their endless song, a lullaby for the broken, a reminder that even in a world so ancient and strange, life continued, and he could continue with it.

Sleep claimed him at last, deep and dreamless, cradled by hands that would not let go, in a place that might finally become home.

Chapter Text

Ever since he had been adopted into the House of Thalassinos, Perseus had noticed that things were going quite well. Better than he had expected, at least. Sure, it was taking him time to adjust. The halls of the villa were wide and full of echoing voices, the air scented with brine and the faint perfume of olive oil lamps, so different from the small New York apartment he had grown up in. It was awkward—eating among nobles, walking past servants who bowed their heads as though he were already carved into marble—but he was honestly fine. Or, at least, he kept telling himself he was fine.

This morning, as pale sunlight spilled through the arched windows, Isadora stood behind him, carefully combing his hair. Her touch was gentle but practiced, the comb sliding through strands of white hair that had grown longer in the past month. He had never cared much about his appearance before, but here, every day seemed to bring some new ritual—hair oiled, styled, draped with pearls, skin rubbed down with perfumed water. He supposed he should be grateful. He looked less like the half-wild boy Sally had raised and more like the son of a noble house.

Today, he, Adamantios, and Pelagia were going to the waterfront to have tea. It sounded simple, almost too ordinary for all the fuss being made, but in this household even small things became events.

Isadora had been fawning over his clothing options all morning. Tunics and chitons of every shade had been laid out and discarded across the floor, jewelry scattered like spilled treasure. Her fingers moved delicately now, braiding his hair into an updo of sorts, skillfully weaving strands so that the loose ends framed his face. Pearls clicked softly as she worked them into place.

“You’re restless,” Isadora murmured, not needing to see his expression to know.

Perseus shifted in his seat. “I’m nervous,” he admitted softly.

Isadora hummed quietly, her eyes never leaving his hair. The last week had been strange, heavy with unspoken things. There was always suspicion in the eyes of his father’s steward, Sorophon, whenever Perseus passed. Other servants seemed to avoid him, whispering in corners. And yet, in contrast, the maids seemed unable to keep their eyes away from him. Every time he walked through the halls, they stared—curious, wide-eyed, as though he were something both fragile and untouchable. It made him feel like an exhibit, a creature of fascination rather than family.

“Don’t be nervous, Perseus,” Isadora soothed, her voice warm and even. “They love you.”

“But they could’ve had any chance to adopt,” Perseus pointed out. There were many children on the grounds, slaves and orphaned local kids, all younger than him.

Isadora’s fingers paused for a moment, then continued their work. “But they didn’t. Pelagia doesn’t really bond with many children. And even with the ones she does… she cannot adopt them. You’re different. You’re meant to be here.”

The light hit Isadora’s face, making her look younger, almost radiant. Perseus thought she would have made an amazing scholar, if life had been kinder. At night she read him stories, even though she was supposed to sleep in the servants’ quarters. Perseus couldn’t sleep without either Pelagia or Isadora nearby—his night terrors were far too intense. Sometimes he woke with his throat raw from screaming, chest heaving, sea-dreams still clawing at him. On those nights, Isadora would sit with him until dawn, her voice soft as she read by lamplight.

“Now, come on, young master,” Isadora said at last. She gently folded Perseus’ fingers in her own before guiding him through the house.

As they passed through the corridors, maids turned to look again. Some whispered behind their hands, others simply watched him with strange expressions—curiosity, awe, perhaps even envy. One maid dropped the folded linens she had been carrying, too distracted by watching him to notice. Perseus lowered his gaze, pretending not to notice, though inside his chest a tight knot of discomfort grew. He was used to being invisible, not this.

They stepped outside onto the rocky path that led toward the beach. The air smelled sharp with salt, the wind carrying the cries of gulls. The beach was beautiful today—the waves a crisp blue, foam glittering white beneath the sunlight. The sight of it made Perseus ache with longing. Every part of him wanted to leap into the sea and let the water cradle him in comfort. But he held back, aware of the eyes always on him.

Pelagia and Adamantios sat waiting at a low table set out by the shore. Pelagia was radiant as always, her dark hair pinned in intricate coils, her fingers adorned with rings. Adamantios sat upright, broad-shouldered and dignified, though when his gaze fell on Perseus, something warmer softened his stern features.

A spike of pain surged through Perseus’ chest as he realized this was all he had ever wanted as a boy: a loving family. And now he had that—yet without his actual mother. A sting of betrayal burned within him.

“Perseus, you should really try the figs—they’re sweeter than usual,” Pelagia said excitedly, passing him some.

He popped one into his mouth and smiled faintly as a tender warmth flooded across his tongue. Pelagia kept piling more food onto his plate like a woman possessed, her eyes bright with satisfaction each time he ate another bite.

She’s like Will when I was injured, Perseus thought, a somber smile flickering across his face. Always trying to heal, always trying to feed, as though food itself could keep someone safe.

Adamantios must’ve noticed, for he laughed lightly to distract his wife. “Dear, you should probably stop stacking our son’s plate with food. At this rate, the boy will have enough to last through a full winter’s voyage.”

Pelagia shot him a scandalized look before reluctantly setting down the bowl of honeyed pork.

“You know, Perseus,” Adamantios said with a grin, “when we were younger, your mother Pelagia used to stuff my plate with so much food as a hint that she fancied me, that I thought she was trying to fatten me up to cook and eat me!”

Perseus choked on his food, trying to hold back a laugh, as Pelagia smacked her husband on the back of the head.

“Really, Father?” Perseus asked, his voice trembling with amusement.

Adamantios’ laughter quieted. This was the first time Perseus had called him father. His cheeks warmed, and he couldn’t hold back the wide grin that spread across his face.

“Oh yes,” Adamantios chuckled. “I thought she was a witch or something, trying to kill me!”

The couple began to argue cheerfully, bickering over what either of them had meant in the past. Their voices overlapped, Pelagia’s indignant protests rising above Adamantios’ teasing laughter. Perseus watched them, and for a fleeting moment, the scene was perfect. A family at ease, sunlight dancing on the water, laughter spilling into the air.

And yet, bitterness stirred within him. This is what my mother deserved—a family with Paul. A family that wasn’t stolen from her by monsters, by gods, by fate. And now that he was gone, she could never have one.

Wet, crocodile tears welled in Perseus’ eyes and ran down his face before he could stop them. The laughter around him faltered. Pelagia and Adamantios froze mid-argument, their expressions shifting instantly to worry.

“Perseus?” Adamantios said, his voice cautious.

Then Perseus began to sob, shoulders shaking as he pressed a hand against his face. Pelagia and Adamantios rushed to his side, their faces aged by fear and concern.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Pelagia asked, her voice breaking.

“Nothing, Mother,” Perseus whispered hoarsely, clinging to her hand. “Just… grateful for you two.”

Pelagia looked startled, then began to laugh through her own tears as she gathered him into her arms. She held him close, rocking him as though he were still a child.

Pelagia was like the mother he couldn’t have in another life, her mood gentle, her voice steady, her touch warm. Sally had been an amazing woman, strong and determined, but she was also bitter, worn down by years of hardship. Pelagia was different—softer, yet no less fierce.

Adamantios reached out, resting a large, calloused hand on Perseus’ shoulder. For a long moment the three of them simply stayed like that, the waves crashing in the distance, the servants standing back at a respectful distance but staring—always staring—at the boy who had somehow become the heart of the Thalassinos household.

𓆉 𓇼 𓆝 𓆟 𓇼 𓆉

Sally had been in the kitchen a week ago when she first heard the news. The radio had been playing softly, some jazz station Paul liked to leave on in the mornings, when the phone rang. She hadn’t thought much of it until she heard Annabeth’s voice on the other end—raw, trembling, breaking in a way that made Sally’s chest seize before she even understood the words.

“He’s not in his cabin,” Annabeth had said. “We—we looked everywhere. He’s gone.”

At first, Sally thought it was another one of those moments. Percy sneaking out of camp to avoid cabin chores, disappearing for a few hours just to swim until his skin wrinkled. He’d always had that stubborn streak. But Annabeth’s voice had cracked again, and Sally knew. This wasn’t that. This was something else entirely.

The camp had spent five frantic hours searching. Five hours combing through the forest, the cabins, the shoreline, even the farthest edges of the magical barrier that kept them safe. Not a single trace. No footprints, no broken branches, no familiar scent of sea-salt clinging to the air. Percy had vanished as though the world itself had swallowed him whole.

Desperation drove the campers to Mr. D, who usually brushed off their questions with lazy sarcasm. This time, however, Dionysus hadn’t mocked them. He had looked past them, his expression strangely blank, his tone uncharacteristically heavy:

“Perseus is gone. And likely… you’ll never see him again.”

The words had spread through camp like wildfire, leaving devastation in their wake.

Poseidon’s wrath came first. The sea had not stilled for days. It heaved and roared like a wounded animal, thrashing against coastlines with waves tall enough to devour entire harbors. Fishermen abandoned their boats; cargo ships rerouted thousands of miles off course. Beaches once filled with children were empty now, swallowed by storms. Even inland, rivers swelled and surged, bridges washed away by floods that came without warning.

Above New York, a permanent storm-cloud settled—dark, churning, heavy with rain that never fully fell. Paul came home one night, exhausted from teaching, and told Sally that the schools were shutting down. Not because of damage, not even because of danger. Simply because no one dared leave their homes. Parents whispered about the news—flash floods, lightning in clear skies, tornadoes where no tornadoes should be. It seemed the entire world was shouldering the cost of one boy’s disappearance.

At camp, the silence was unbearable. The campfires burned low at night, laughter vanishing as quickly as it sparked. Training was half-hearted; Chiron tried, but even he couldn’t disguise the hollowness that Percy had left behind.

The younger campers cried themselves to sleep. Older ones pretended they weren’t afraid, offering more prayers than usual at the hearth. Not just to their godly parents, but to anyone who might listen. Offerings piled high, incense burned constantly. Still, there was no answer.

And on Olympus—there was chaos.

Hera’s temples reported shattered statues, marble faces cracking as though struck from within. Zeus loosed storms over the Mediterranean, thunder rattling the sky for days without pause. Athena’s owls perched silently, refusing to fly. Hermes’ messengers carried whispers of unrest: gods blaming one another, tempers flaring, threats laced into every word. The fragile truce between Olympians wavered on the edge of collapse, all because one mortal-born child was gone.

And through all of it, Sally sat in her small apartment. The storm outside rattled the windows, but she hardly noticed. She had spent the week drowning in her own storm, sobbing until her throat was raw, until her chest felt hollow and cracked. Paul tried to comfort her, but what could he say? What comfort could there be for a mother who had lost her only son?

She clutched the photograph—Percy as an infant, tiny fists curled against his cheeks, his hair already a dark mess. The photo had been handled so often that the edges curled, the image creased, but it had never felt heavier than it did now. Heavy with years she had taken for granted, heavy with all the words left unsaid.

Sally had never truly thought about life without him. Percy had always come back before. Bloodied, scarred, exhausted—but alive. Always alive. She had believed he was indestructible. She had let herself believe.

Now, the illusion was gone.

When she had first held him, so many years ago, she had hated him. That was the ugliest truth of her heart, the one she could never say aloud. He had been a newborn, innocent and perfect, but to Sally he had also been the symbol of everything she had lost—her youth, her freedom, her chance at a simple, unbroken life. She had wanted to kill him in that first moment. She had wanted to end the curse before it began.

But she hadn’t. Something in his tiny face, some flicker of warmth or fate, had stayed her hand. Instead, she had raised him. And for years, she had swung between two selves: the caring mother and the bitter matriarch. She loved him, she fought for him—but there had been moments she resented him too.

Sally pressed the photograph to her forehead, sobbing harder now. For so long she had taken him for granted, seeing his best qualities only when he was away. Every time he left, she worried, but she always believed he would come home. Now, for the first time, he hadn’t.

She needed him. She had so much to tell him. So much to apologize for. So much love she had failed to show.

Her wails filled the apartment, echoing against the walls until even Paul stepped back, helpless, unable to soothe her.

“POSEIDON!”

The name tore itself from her throat, half scream, half prayer. She didn’t even know why she shouted it. Perhaps she wanted to blame him. Perhaps she wanted to beg. Perhaps she simply wanted someone else to feel the same unbearable loss.

The air shimmered. Salt filled the room, dampness gathering on the walls. And then he was there.

Not the Poseidon Sally remembered, not the man who had charmed her in a dingy seaside shack. This was the god, the father of her son. He wore mourning attire from the depths of Atlantis—woven kelp, silver thread, a crown of bone. Scales glimmered faintly along his arms and throat, tiny opals catching the dim light. His eyes were vast and black, oceans unto themselves, streaked with pearlescent tears.

For a moment, Sally could only stare.

Then rage overtook her.

She ran at him, fists raised, pounding uselessly against his chest. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He only looked down at her with sorrow.

“Where is my son?” she screamed, her voice raw and breaking. “Where is he?!”

Her fists weakened, her body sagged. She collapsed against him, wailing into his chest, her sobs shaking them both.

Poseidon wrapped his arms around her. Not as a lover, not even as a god, but as a father who had lost his child.

They stayed like that for hours—Sally crying until her body could no longer produce tears, Poseidon holding her in silence. When at last he left, shimmering into mist, Sally was left alone again. Alone with her demons.

She had been only a child herself when she bore Percy. A child raised in shadows, in fear of monsters that had never truly left her. For years she had pushed that part of her life aside, pretending it wasn’t there.

But now… perhaps it was time. Time to face them again.

Her hand shook as she lifted the landline, dialing her lawyer’s number from memory. Her voice cracked when he answered.

“Larry,” she whispered. “I need some help.”

𓆉 𓇼 𓆝 𓆟 𓇼 𓆉

Perseus shifted his weight, feeling the familiar awkwardness of the practice blade in his hands. The balance wasn’t quite right; the build was bulky, unrefined. Still, it was serviceable—except, of course, for the fact that it was wooden. Armor was unnecessary. He had no need for it, not since the curse of Achilles had sunk into his veins. But Adamantios did not know that. To his adoptive father, Perseus was just a boy in training.

The training yard was wide, stone-flagged and edged by tall columns that caught the late afternoon light. Servants lingered at the edges, as they always did, sweeping the flagstones halfheartedly, carrying pitchers of water, pretending to busy themselves when in truth they were watching. Ever since Perseus had entered the household, their eyes had been on him—curious, skeptical, fearful. Some stared with awe as if he were a strange animal brought into their midst, others with envy at how quickly he had risen from an outsider to the son of the house. He felt every gaze pressing against his back like the weight of another sword.

Perseus’ new instructor, Nerithos, stood opposite him. A no-nonsense man, tall and broad-shouldered, with the hardened look of one who had lived by steel. His skin was weathered, his dark hair bound tightly, and his thick arms bore scars that spoke of long campaigns. He had been sent by another noble house—a gift, they said, to aid in Perseus’ education. Though Perseus was young, his reputation for strange strength had already preceded him, and Adamantios, proud and cautious, had accepted the gift.

Nerithos was rough around the edges, brusque, almost coarse. Yet he bowed his head respectfully when he was introduced, and Perseus—still trying to find his place in this family—had decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt.

The two of them now faced each other on the training ground, the air heavy with expectation. Perseus’ stance widened instinctively, his body lowering into the crouch of a predator preparing to spring.

“We’ll start with a simple duel,” Nerithos rumbled, his voice carrying easily across the yard. “I want to see your skills.”

“We start now,” Perseus said simply, and then Nerithos moved.

The instructor charged forward like a bull seeing red, every step thundering across the stones. His size dwarfed Perseus, his body nearly ten times the boy’s. But size did not mean invulnerability.

This is a bit much for a child, Perseus thought dryly as their weapons clashed.

The first strike reverberated through the wooden blade, jarring his arms. Nerithos parried hard, expecting Perseus to stumble, but instead Perseus slid smoothly into a counter, catching him with a riposte meant to test his defenses. Nerithos staggered back, his eyes narrowing as if, for the first time, he realized this was no ordinary youth.

The servants whispered at the edges of the yard. A few gasped. Others leaned forward, unable to look away.

Nerithos adjusted his grip. His strikes grew tighter, more disciplined, his body angling to cover his torso, his movements more precise. He had underestimated Perseus’ strength, and now he sought to correct that mistake. The wooden blades cracked together again and again, sharp echoes filling the yard. Perseus’ control of distance and timing was uncanny, his footwork smooth as water across stone.

Yet as the duel continued, Nerithos’ style shifted. His movements became more reckless, his strikes wilder. He pressed forward with brutal strength rather than grace, hammering blows down as if determined to break Perseus through sheer force. The servants stepped back, their whispers rising to nervous mutters.

“You’re taking this a bit—” Perseus began.

BANG!

A dagger whistled past his face, grazing his cheek, embedding itself in the column behind him. Perseus froze for half a heartbeat. The weapon had been hidden in Nerithos’ tunic.

This wasn’t training.

He was here to kill him.

“I’m sorry, child,” Nerithos said, his face twisting with something between regret and cruelty. “You are truly a diamond among rock… but you need to die.”

The words fell like stone in Perseus’ ears. The servants screamed. Some dropped their tools and bolted toward the house; others simply froze, hands over their mouths, too shocked to move. A few guards at the far end of the yard began shouting, sprinting toward the fight.

But Perseus knew no one would reach them in time. Nerithos lunged again, striking with lethal force, every blow meant to kill. The clash of wood against steel filled the yard as Perseus parried desperately, his arms straining under the weight of the man’s strength.

From the balcony above, Adamantios appeared, flanked by guards. His voice rang out, fury cracking through the air.

“Perseus!”

Perseus’ head snapped up. His father was struggling against several guards holding him back from leaping down to the yard.

That single glance cost him.

Blistering pain erupted as Nerithos slammed him to the ground, his skull ringing against the stone. For a heartbeat, blackness rimmed his vision.

And then—the fury came.

A righteous, burning anger surged through his veins. His teeth felt sharper, his muscles stronger. The thrill of battle consumed him, drowning out pain, drowning out fear. He moved like a wild animal, no, like something more—a god wearing the skin of a boy.

He roared, launching forward with savage strength. His wooden blade screamed under the force of his strikes. Nerithos’ eyes widened as Perseus became a storm, each blow cracking with unnatural power.

Then—SNAP.

The wooden sword shattered across Nerithos’ skull. The man crumpled, his body thudding against the stone, blood spilling, staining the training ground.

Silence.

The servants stood frozen, pale as ash. Some stared wide-eyed at Perseus as though they had seen a monster unleashed. Others dropped to their knees, muttering prayers. The guards who had come running slowed, staring at the boy who stood, chest heaving, over the fallen soldier.

On the balcony, Adamantios’ face was carved with shock and sorrow. Perseus looked up and saw the crestfallen look in his father’s eyes—a mix of pride, fear, and something else he could not name.

Then Pelagia was there, flying across the yard, skirts whipping against the stone.

“Perseus!”

She threw herself into his arms, clutching him as if to shield him from the world.

He let himself collapse into her, his body trembling. The fight had been one of the easier ones in his life—thanks to the curse—but something deeper had been torn from him. A small piece of his soul, ripped and left bleeding on the stone.

He had never killed a mortal before.

“Mother…” His voice cracked, and Pelagia held him tighter, rocking him as though he were still a child.

Inside him, he felt it—the stirring of a monster, gentle but terrible, a shadow whispering of endings. His chest tightened with every breath. He had time still, he knew, but for how long?

Adamantios remained on the balcony, his knuckles white against the railing.

“Sir,” came Sorophon’s voice at his side. The steward’s usually steady tones were trembling. “The medics are here to tend to young Perseus’ wounds.”

“Good,” Adamantios said hoarsely, his eyes never leaving the boy. “Make sure there’s not a scratch left on him.”

Later, Adamantios watched as Perseus curled against Pelagia by the fire. The flicker of the flames cast soft light across their faces as Pelagia gently wove his hair into braids, her fingers soothing him with every twist.

Perseus had been their son for some time now; almost 10 months, his 17th birthday fast approaching. Adamantios had never seen his wife happier.

When he married Pelagia, he had known children would not be possible. An accident in her youth had left her unable to bear them, her womb scarred, her dreams of motherhood shattered. Yet her kindness toward the young—slaves, orphans, strays—had always betrayed the longing in her heart. She had begged him once to adopt Milo, but his bloodline had made that impossible.

Now, with Perseus, it felt as though fate had granted her what she had been denied.

“Mother, can you put my hair into a simple braid?” Perseus murmured drowsily.

It had taken him time to call them Mother and Father, but when he did, it filled Adamantios with a pride he could not put into words. Perseus had told them once that his true father lived somewhere far away, in the depths of the sea. Yet he had added quickly, “But you will always be my parents.”

Adamantios had clung to those words.

His son was a prodigy with the blade, a strategist beyond his years. But he struggled with letters, his reading halting, his handwriting nearly illegible. Still, Adamantios was proud—more proud than he ever imagined he could be.

He stepped closer, embracing them both, holding his little family in the glow of the fire.

For a moment, they seemed perfect, and he wished he could keep them like that forever.

“What day are you going to the summit?” Pelagia asked softly, never pausing in her braiding.

“I leave when the sun sets,” Adamantios said.

The summit—a gathering of the noble houses without the king—was his chance. He intended to confront Lord Arytron of House Leonidaia, the man he now suspected of sending Nerithos.

Pelagia smiled faintly, though her eyes dimmed. She hated his departures. A week-long journey each time, a week where she was alone without him.

“Don’t worry, love,” she murmured, tucking Perseus’ hair back from his face. “I have our son to keep me company.”

Adamantios nodded, but inside, the image of the shattered sword and the blood-stained stones haunted him.

Something was changing in Perseus. And the world was not ready for it.

Chapter Text

Young Perseus was strange. His too-bright eyes seemed to shine in the dark, yet there was no life behind them—only an endless distance. When Isadora bathed him, his skin glowed faintly, and he knew far too much for a boy without noble blood. Sometimes she caught him staring ahead, as if trapped in a world only he could see.

He was beautiful, no longer soft with childhood flesh but built of lean, strong muscle. His white, pearled hair had grown long enough for Pelagia to braid, though today he had left it loose, cascading down his back in a graceful tumble. Isadora could not look away.

When Perseus was taken in as the masters’ child, he became the subject of endless whispers. His bond with a god was undeniable—though none could say how deep it ran. That uncertainty did not stop the staff from talking. Most were Ethiopian slaves, Greek handmaids, or household helpers. Isadora herself was Egyptian, raised in captivity, the daughter of a prostitute. She understood little of their constant chatter, but she could not ignore the way their eyes followed Perseus.

In the first month, gossip consumed the household. Everyone pressed Isadora for answers—why Perseus had chosen her and Milo as his attendants, what he was truly like. Poor Milo had been hunted down by questions for days. Yet in the end, it was worth it: higher wages, lighter chores, and more freedom.

But Isadora had seen darker things.

Once, she overheard a maid boasting that she had crept into the young master’s chamber to steal a lock of his hair and one of his pearls. She had fled in terror when neither would yield—“The pearls on his head would not come off, and his hair would not be cut. I swear I’d have needed Atropos’ own scissors for a single strand!”

The girl Sophia, listening beside her, only shook her head and answered with a rumor of her own.

Isadora, hidden in the corridor, said nothing then. But later she slipped through the halls to the mistress’ chamber and told Pelagia what had happened. The lady of the house was furious. The next morning, that maid was gone.

Now as she sat in her shared chambers with Milo she felt much more content.

Milo’s small fingers worried at the hem of his tunic, tugging loose a thread until it curled between his nails. He sat cross-legged on the floor, watching Isadora braid her dark hair with slow, precise movements.

“You shouldn’t sit like that,” he muttered, his voice pitched low. “The others say it makes you look proud.”

Isadora’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “And if I am proud, little one?”

Milo scowled at the title but said nothing, his wide eyes fixed on her hands. At last he blurted, “They’ll notice. They always notice.”

Isadora tied off the braid with a strip of linen and leaned back, regarding him with something soft in her gaze. “You notice, Milo. But you are kinder than most.”

He looked down quickly, ears burning. “That’s only because Lady Pelagia said so. She said you and I should watch out for each other. And if the mistress asks it, we must do it.”

“That’s true,” Isadora agreed, though her voice carried a warmth that didn’t sound like duty. She reached out and touched his shoulder lightly. “But I would have watched out for you even without her saying.”

Milo blinked at her, startled. For a moment he was silent, then whispered, “Even though I’m only a boy?”

Isadora’s gaze lingered on him, and in the dim light she seemed older than her sixteen years—older than the chains they both bore. “Especially because you are a boy,” she said quietly. “Because boys grow into men, and men forget what it was to be gentle. You must not forget.”

Milo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his small face earnest. “Perseus hasn’t forgotten.”

The name made Isadora pause. She thought of the young master, the way his hair shimmered like pearls in the lamplight, the way his distant eyes never quite looked at the world they lived in. Her hands fell to her lap.

“No,” she said at last, though her tone was more prayer than certainty. “Not yet.”

Milo leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think he’ll save us one day?”

Isadora startled, her heart lurching. The boy’s faith was a dangerous thing—too bright, too hopeful. She pressed a finger to his lips before the words could grow bolder.

“Careful, Milo. Hope can be louder than shouting if you’re not careful.”

But even as she hushed him, she found herself wishing—against reason, against fear—that perhaps the boy with pearl-white hair and eyes full of distance could be their deliverance after all.

𓆉 𓇼 𓆝 𓆟 𓇼 𓆉

Isadora’s earliest memories were of heat. The kind that clung to the skin and filled every corner of her lungs, thick with smoke and perfume. The brothel was always hot, always loud — full of painted laughter that rarely reached the eyes of the women who raised her.

Her mother was one of them. Beautiful, with kohl-lined eyes and a smile like sharpened glass. To Isadora, she was a goddess. To the men who came and went, she was nothing more than a body. Her mother never spoke of the Greek man who had fathered her, save for a single bitter line: He gave me a child and left me to pay the price.

Still, there was tenderness. When the nights grew quiet, her mother would press Isadora close, whispering old stories in the Egyptian tongue, stories of Isis and Osiris, of gods who loved so fiercely they tore the underworld apart. For those moments, Isadora could almost b elieve they were a family, just the two of them against the world.

But the world has a way of breaking illusions.

When she was seven, the brothel owner decided a child was too costly to keep. Isadora remembered the day clearly: her mother weeping in the corner, hands bound to prevent her from clawing the man’s face. The girl was dragged into the sun, bartered like trinkets at the market. Her protests meant nothing. Her mother’s cries followed her down the street until even those were lost.

The years that followed were blurred with hunger, fear, and shame. She was sold to men who saw her as less than human. She was hurt, mocked, degraded until the spark her mother had tried to kindle seemed on the verge of dying. 

The dreaded day came, she was Eight, and she remembered it all too vividly. The swelling, throbbing penis that hung heavy from his hips, his hairy, grotesque balls swollen with seed. The wrinkled foreskin peeled back, revealing the mushroom tip glistening with pre-cum. She had been so scared, her heart pounding in her chest as she lay there, helpless and exposed.

The stretch was agonizing as the tip pressed inside, forcing its way past her tight, unyielding flesh. She gasped in pain, her body convulsing as he pushed deeper, relentless in his invasion. The burn intensified, a searing fire that spread through her core, tearing at her delicate tissues. Her nails dug into the sheets, knuckles white as she tried to bear the excruciating pain.

He grunted, a primal sound of satisfaction, as he finally buried himself to the hilt. She felt the weight of him, the press of his body against hers, pinning her down. The pain was overwhelming, a raw, primal agony that left her breathless and trembling. Tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision as she struggled to endure the brutal assault on her body.

Each thrust was a fresh wave of pain, a cruel reminder of her powerlessness. His hips slammed against hers, driving him deeper, harder, until she thought she might shatter from the intensity. The room filled with the wet sounds of their coupling, a sickening symphony of flesh against flesh, punctuated by her whimpers and his grunts of pleasure.

As he reached his climax, his body tensed, and he let out a final, guttural roar. She felt the hot spurt of his seed, a scalding flood that seemed to go on forever, filling her until it spilled out, a testament to his brutal conquest. Exhausted and broken, she lay there, her body aching, her spirit shattered, as he rolled off her, leaving her alone with the echoes of her own screams and the bitter taste of her tears.

Isadora remembered thinking ‘ god’s don’t give me a child, don't make me pay the price.’

On the second day, she felt the lowest of lows.

A second man thrust into her with savage force, his hips pounding against hers in a relentless rhythm. The pain was different this time, a new kind of hell, as he stretched her even further, his cock hitting depths she hadn't known existed. She screamed, a raw, primal sound that seemed to come from the depths of her soul.

… Yet no one answered her pleas.

The first man, now returned, joined in, his hands rough on her body as he positioned himself behind her. She felt the press of his cock against her other entrance, and a new wave of terror washed over her. He pushed in slowly, a cruel, deliberate invasion, and she felt herself tear, the pain so intense it bordered on madness.

The two men moved in sync, their bodies slamming against hers, filling her completely. The room was a cacophony of grunts, moans, and the wet sounds of their coupling. She was a plaything, a vessel for their pleasure, and they used her ruthlessly, their cocks pumping in and out of her with brutal force.

As they reached their climaxes, they roared their release, filling her with their hot seed. She felt it spill out of her, a mixture of their pleasure and her pain, a stark reminder of the brutal ordeal she had endured. Exhausted, broken, and utterly spent, she lay there, her body aching, her spirit shattered, as the two men rolled off her, leaving her alone with the echoes of her own screams and the bitter taste of her tears.

She was used over a Hundred times.

Isadora learned silence. She learned to move carefully, to listen more than she spoke, to survive in the shadows.

At eleven, she found herself i n the slave pens again, sunbu rnt and bone-thin, expecting nothing but another cruel master. And then Pelagia came.

The lady’s presence had been different from the moment she stepped into the square. She was not cruel in her bargaining, nor careless in her eyes. When her gaze fell on Isadora, the girl almost turned away, unable to bear the thought of another false kindness. But Pelagia only knelt, lifted her chin gently, and said softly: This one.

Isadora did not understand why. She was not pretty enough to fetch a high price, not strong enough to carry heavy burdens. But Pelagia took her home.

Then she met Milo.

The first time Isadora saw Milo, he was four almost five, he was standing barefoot in the courtyard, staring at a pigeon as though it were some divine messenger. His tunic was too big, slipping off one shoulder, and his curls were wild from skinny as a reed and darker than the other children in the household.

She had just been brought from the market a few weeks before, still raw with mistrust, her body adjusting to regular food and her heart struggling to believe she was safe. When Pelagia’s steward told her she would be sharing chores with another child, her stomach clenched. Another mouth to whisper, another rival to endure.

But Milo only looked at her with wide, curious eyes.

“Are you the Egyptian girl?” he asked, in his lilting accent.

Isadora bristled at the bluntness. “And if I am?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Then you’re the first Egyptian I’ve ever met. The others say you’re proud. But you don’t look proud. You look… sad.”

Her throat closed, caught between anger and the sting of truth. Before she could reply, he smiled — quick, bright, utterly guileless — and held out half a fig he had been saving. “Do you want it? I don’t mind sharing.”

It was the simplest of gestures, yet it broke something in her. Not the walls she had built, but the heaviness pressing down on them. No one had shared anything with her since her mother. She took the fruit without a word, chewing slowly as Milo watched her, pleased with himself.

From that day, he followed her like a shadow. At first, she found it irritating — the constant questions, the way he trailed after her with his endless energy. But slowly, she grew used to the sound of his small footsteps. He had a way of softening the hard edges of the world.

When nightmares woke her in the night, Milo would whisper stories he remembered from his village — tales of lions and clever hares, of spirits who tricked greedy men. When the older slaves mocked her accent, Milo stood at her side, fists balled, ready to defend her even though he was half their size.

One evening, when they were left to wash linens by the shore, he asked, “Do you think Lady Pelagia bought us because she liked us? Or because she pitied us?”

Isadora paused, wringing water from the cloth in her hands. The sea stretched out before them, endless and untamed. She thought of Pelagia’s gentle touch under her chin, the softness in her voice when she said this one.

“I don’t know,” she admitted honestly. Then she looked at him — all eyes and hope and too-big smiles — and added, “But if she hadn’t, we never would have met.”

Milo grinned at that, flashing his teeth in the fading light. “Then I’m glad she did.”

For the first time in years, Isadora allowed herself to smile back.

By sixteen, she was no longer the starved child in chains. Her scars had not vanished — some never would — but she had grown into a quiet resilience. She carried herself with dignity even in servitude, her pride unbroken despite all attempts to crush it. She had learned to guard Milo like a sister, to serve Perseus with watchful eyes, and to trust that in Pelagia’s house she was more than a possession.

Sometimes she still wondered why Pelagia had chosen her. Perhaps it was pity. Perhaps it was fate. But Isadora had come to a truth of her own: whatever gods had written her story, they had given her one mercy. They had led her to a woman who saw her not as property, but as a person worth saving.

And for that, Isadora would serve faithfully — not out of chains, but out of choice.

𓆉 𓇼 𓆝 𓆟 𓇼 𓆉

Pelagia rested her back gently against a tree. Perseus lay fast asleep in her lap, his white hair spread across the long grass the green making her sons hair stand out more. 

As she carded her fingers through his white locks of hair, she felt content. 

The waves rolled softly in the distance.

Evenings alone with her son were rare. He had been with them for almost a year, yet they had never truly been without Adamantios’ company.

Her husband had gone off to a noble meeting, also making inquiries about dueling instructors. Word had quickly spread about Perseus, yet no noble house had shown real curiosity. They still believed themselves important enough to inherit her husband’s lands once his line passed. They thought themselves far too powerful to worry about an adopted son.

Her hands trembled as she rolled one of her son’s pearls between her fingers. The beads never left his hair, no matter how hard one might pull.

He was Blessed by a god.

She was Blessed by a god.

Yet her blessing was scarce while his was bountiful.

It had started with her father.

He had been a powerful man, but with no sons he believed no child of his could inherit the powers of their forefathers—powers gifted by Poseidon himself.

The gift of prophecy. Long ago, Poseidon was a god of death, holding dominion over both gods and prophecy. But gods are only what their believers shape them to be, and Poseidon Wanax had faded from relevance. Though Pelagia’s mortal blood had diluted this gift, she still dreamed in vivid flashes that too often came to pass.

She had seen the fates of everyone she had ever loved… except her son. And now she feared for his future among mortals.

A boy whose blessings from the gods ran deep—though no one knew just how deep.

Pelagia’s heart burned as she looked upon her lands: rolling hills in the background, the sea lapping gently against the shore, the sun sinking into the horizon.

She looked down at her child and admired his face. He was perfect. The curve of his nose, the smooth line of his jaw, the faint weight of him against her. Too beautiful to be human. Yet she loved him all the same.

It did not matter that he wasn’t her natural son. It did not matter that he was blessed by a god.
What mattered was his safety—and his future.

She gathered a strand of his hair and gently rubbed it between her fingers, a grounding act, to feel him close to her.

He was her whole world.

A gentle breeze tickled her nose. It must have tickled her son’s too, for one moment he was silent and the next he let out an adorable sneeze.

“Achoo!”

… Cute.

And yet, despite the sound, the boy still slept safely in her embrace.

Pelagia smiled at the small sound, her hand instinctively moving to shield him from the wind. How fragile he seemed in moments like these, his breaths soft and even, as though the world could never harm him. And yet she knew better.

She knew the world had claws.

The gods gave freely, but their gifts were never without cost. She had learned that truth young—each vision she carried was both a blessing and a wound. What price, then, would her son be forced to pay for his endless bounty?

Her throat tightened, and she leaned down to press her lips to his forehead. His skin was warm, carrying the faint salt of the sea air. For a heartbeat, she let herself believe in something impossible: that perhaps the gods had chosen mercy this time. That perhaps Perseus could remain hers, untouched by the cruelty of fate.

But the visions that never came—his future absent from her dreams—were not mercy. They were silence. And silence was a greater terror than any nightmare.

She wrapped her arms more firmly around him, as if she could anchor him to the earth with her embrace.

“Mine,” she whispered into his hair, her voice as soft as the tide. “No matter what storms come. No matter what the gods demand.”

The last light of day kissed the horizon, and for a moment, the sea gleamed like hammered bronze. Pelagia felt the weight of eternity in that sight—how small she was, how small her child, and yet how fiercely her heart defied it all.

Innocent, perhaps, to believe love could shield them. But not naïve. She knew love alone would never be enough.

So she prayed, not for herself, but for the boy who dreamed in her lap. She prayed that when the time came, her strength would be enough to face what she had not yet seen.

For she would not surrender him. Not to men, not to gods, not even to fate.

The cicadas had begun their evening song, a thousand voices rising from the olive groves. The rhythm of it settled into her chest, steady as a heartbeat. Perseus stirred faintly, his hand brushing against her wrist before falling slack again.

Pelagia froze at the touch, struck by the strange familiarity of it. How could a child not of her womb feel as though he had always belonged there, as though her body had carried him and her soul had carved space for him long before she knew his name?

It was love, yes. But it was something else too. Something older, deeper. As though she had been waiting her whole life to find him.

Her gaze drifted toward the sea. The waves seemed darker now, shadows rippling beneath their surface, and a chill prickled her spine. She thought she saw movement far off, where the horizon met the fading sun—a figure half-formed, tall and watchful, as though the waters themselves bent around its shape.

Tall horns stood from its head, and deep inside her blessed mortal blood, Pelagia felt her patron god’s eyes fall on her.

Her breath caught, and the world seemed to still. The cicadas ceased their song, the waves held their breath, even the grass seemed unwilling to sway. She was small, seated against the tree with Perseus asleep upon her lap, and yet those eyes — unseen, but burning — found her as surely as the sun finds the sea.

Her veins thrummed with recognition. The same ancient shiver that haunted her dreams, that hollow pull in her chest whenever prophecy coiled too close, now surged through her with undeniable clarity. Poseidon Wanax. Death-god, sea-god, oracle of the forgotten deep. He was watching.

Pelagia bowed her head, her hand instinctively tightening around her son. It was not reverence that drove the motion, but terror. For she knew the truth of the gods: their gaze was never idle. To be seen was to be marked, to be placed upon the board where mortals were but pawns.

Her lips formed a soundless plea. Not him. Not my son. Take me, but not him.

The horns gleamed as though crowned by the last ember of sunset, then faded into shadow, dissolving like mist on the tide. But the weight of that gaze did not leave her. It lingered in her bones, in the hush of the air, in the pounding of her heart.

Perseus shifted in his sleep, his small hand brushing against her wrist, grounding her in the present. Pelagia drew in a trembling breath, smoothing his hair as though nothing had changed. But everything had.

The god had looked, at her son, with something akin to parental love.

And though she did not know what fate he wove for her son, she knew this: the silence of her visions was no longer mercy. It was warning.

She lifted her gaze to the horizon where the sea met the sky. “If you mean to test me,” she whispered into the wind, “know that I will not yield him. Not to gods, not to kings, not to fate itself.”

The waves answered with a crash, low and steady, as if mocking or promising. Pelagia could not tell. But she held her child tighter, her resolve as fierce and unyielding as the cliffs that broke the tide.

Her sweet seventeen year old. Who was not aging.

Her fingers tightened in Perseus’ hair. Not yet, she thought fiercely. Do not come for him yet.

Never, had she been so afraid.

The boy sighed in his sleep, a soft sound that melted her fear for a moment. But Pelagia knew her peace was only borrowed. The silence of her visions was not protection, but a veil. Whatever future awaited Perseus, it was hidden even from her eyes—and that meant it was a fate the gods themselves sought to guard.

Her heart wavered between love and terror. And yet she knew this truth: she would not allow herself to falter.

If the gods thought her too small to stand against them, they had forgotten that a mother’s love is not measured in power but in will.

She lowered her head, resting her cheek against Perseus’ hair. The night was creeping in, cool and vast, but she closed her eyes and drew him closer, as if by holding him tightly enough, she could bar the world from stealing him away.

Let them whisper, let them watch, let them weave their threads in secret.

Pelagia would be ready.