Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter One: Giants in Gym Class

By now, Percy Jackson had gotten used to two things:

1. The Force never gave him a break.

2. Whenever he thought a school day was going to be “normal,” it meant incoming disaster.

That particular Tuesday morning at Meriwether Prep felt like a prime example.

The air in the gym was thick with sweat and Axe body spray. Boys in gym shorts loitered around the basketball court, while Coach Nunley scribbled something in his notebook — which Percy was fairly certain was a grocery list — and muttered about cafeteria tater tots. The coach didn’t notice half his students were a solid foot taller than they should be, or that their eyes glowed faintly orange in the dim gym lights.

But Percy noticed.

He always noticed.

The Force hummed with warning around those boys. They weren’t human. They weren’t even disguised well. He should’ve expected monsters. They always tracked him down.

But what threw him was the boy standing nervously at his side, shifting awkwardly in a pair of gym shorts a size too small, shoulders hunched like he wanted to disappear into the floor. Tyson.

Tyson wasn’t like the others.

Most kids at Meriwether avoided him — a homeless kid with one too many growth spurts and a way of looking at the world like it was brand-new every morning. Percy didn’t avoid him. He couldn’t. Something in Tyson reminded Percy of the padawans he’d trained with on Coruscant: open, guileless, trusting in a way most people forgot how to be. He had Luke Skywalker’s impossible optimism and just a hint of Ahsoka Tano’s awkward enthusiasm when she’d first stepped into a sparring ring.

Tyson had latched onto Percy from day one, and Percy — against his usual instincts to keep people at arm’s length — hadn’t had the heart to push him away.

“Perce?” Tyson’s deep voice rumbled with worry as they picked up basketballs. “You’re making your thinky-face.”

Percy forced a smile. “Just trying to figure out how not to embarrass myself.”

Tyson grinned, showing teeth too sharp for comfort. “You never embarrass. You’re awesome.”

Percy sighed. Force help me, he actually believes that.

The game started badly.

For one thing, the “Canadian exchange students” — seven of them, each built like linebackers on steroids — didn’t bounce the dodgeballs. They hurled them like flaming meteors.

The first ball whistled past Percy’s ear, the heat prickling his skin. It exploded against the bleachers, sending sparks across the gym floor.

Coach Nunley didn’t look up from his notebook.

“Okay,” Percy muttered. “Definitely not regulation dodgeball.”

Tyson caught the next ball. It burst in his massive hands like a firework, but instead of burning him, he just laughed, shook off the smoke, and tossed the remains aside. “That tickled!”

The Force whispered danger. More balls. More fire.

The giants roared, fanning out to surround them. The other human kids bolted for the exits — not that Percy blamed them. This wasn’t their fight.

Percy tightened his grip on the lone rubber ball he’d managed to snag. His saber was back in his dorm, locked in a footlocker. No way to explain a glowing sea-green sword in gym class, anyway. Which left him with Force, instincts, and a stubborn streak a mile wide.

“You always get the fun classes, huh?” Percy muttered.

Tyson tilted his head. “Fun?”

Another cannonball whooshed by, this one close enough to singe Tyson’s hair. He yelped, but his grin never faded. “Oh! Fun!”

The first Canadian giant lumbered forward, winding up with a ball the size of a bowling ball, already glowing with heat. Percy dodged, the Force sharpening the world around him, slowing it down just enough for him to weave past the incoming fireball. He hurled his rubber ball at the giant’s face. It bounced off uselessly — but it distracted the brute long enough for Tyson to body-check him into the bleachers.

The wood cracked. The giant didn’t get up.

“Nice one,” Percy said.

Tyson’s ears went red. “You too.”

Another fireball came screaming toward them. Percy lifted his hand, pulling on the Force, and shoved. The ball’s trajectory wobbled midair, curving just enough to smash harmlessly against the scoreboard instead of his ribs. Sparks rained down.

The giants blinked, surprised. Then they snarled.

“So much for staying low profile,” Percy muttered.

The gym became a battlefield.

Giants launched fireballs every three seconds, faster than any normal kid could hope to dodge. Percy slipped through them, the Force guiding his steps, redirecting projectiles with flicks of his hands, ducking and weaving between bursts of flame. Tyson, meanwhile, didn’t dodge — he tanked. He caught fireballs in his bare hands, swatted them aside, and barreled into giants like a wrecking ball in sneakers.

But there were too many.

Percy counted six still standing, spreading out, herding him into a corner. Tyson tried to cover him, but even he was getting scorched, smoke curling from his shirt.

Think. Tactics. Percy’s mind raced. No saber. No blasters. Just a gym, fireballs, and a Force-sensitive cyclops with the optimism of a golden retriever.

He spotted the fire alarm.

“Tyson!” he shouted. “Cover your ears!”

Tyson obeyed instantly, hands slapping over his ears. Percy reached with the Force, yanked the alarm handle down, and the gym shrieked with sound. Sprinklers burst overhead, drenching the court.

Fireballs fizzled midair, sputtering out in showers of steam. The giants roared in frustration.

Percy grinned. “Now it’s a fair fight.”

He charged.

Without his saber, he fought the way Jedi were trained to before they earned their blades: pure instinct, hands and feet, the Force woven into every movement. He ducked low, sweeping a giant’s legs out from under him, then used the Force to fling another into the wall.

Tyson roared, swinging a broken bleacher plank like a club. He smashed one giant into another, sending both sprawling.

The biggest of the bunch — their leader, Percy guessed — bellowed and hurled two fireballs at once. Percy leapt, twisting midair, and they screamed past beneath him, colliding with the scoreboard in an explosion of sparks. He landed in a roll, came up in front of the leader, and drove a Force-enhanced punch into his gut.

The giant crumpled like a cheap folding chair.

When the smoke cleared, only Percy and Tyson were left standing. Giants lay scattered across the gym floor, groaning. One dissolved into monster dust already, leaving behind the faintest shimmer of a red infinity symbol before it vanished. Percy’s stomach tightened at the sight.

Tyson leaned on his plank, chest heaving, eyes wide with childlike glee. “That… was… awesome.”

Percy glanced around at the wrecked gym — the soaked floor, the scorched bleachers, the smoking scoreboard. He winced.

“Yeah,” he said grimly. “Awesome.”

The Force whispered again, darker this time. This wasn’t random. This was the opening move.

And the storm wasn’t done with him yet.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Two: The Bus Heist

The Meriwether Prep gym still smelled of smoke and scorched rubber when Percy and Tyson slipped out the back doors. Alarms blared, students scattered like startled pigeons, and fire trucks wailed in the distance. Percy’s Force senses hummed with danger. Not the immediate kind — they’d handled the giants — but the creeping kind, the kind that meant someone higher up had orchestrated this little dodgeball massacre.

“They will come back, won’t they?” Tyson asked nervously, clutching the broken plank he’d used as a club. He looked like a kid expecting detention, not like a literal giant-killer who’d just flattened half a dozen fireball-throwing monsters.

“They always come back,” Percy muttered. He scanned the parking lot through the mist of the sprinklers, his instincts tugging him toward something unusual. Then he saw it.

At the far end of the lot, parked crookedly across two spaces, sat a bright yellow school bus. Not just any bus, though. Its paint was too fresh. Its windows too dark. Its aura — the Force practically hissed around it.

“That’s how they got here,” Percy realized aloud. “That bus brought the giants.”

Tyson blinked. “So… it’s bad?”

Percy tilted his head, letting the Force whisper through him. He didn’t sense an active monster inside — but the bus wasn’t normal. Its structure vibrated faintly with enchantment. Protective spells, woven sloppily but strong. Someone had wanted this bus hidden in plain sight.

“It’s worse than bad,” Percy said. “But it’s also convenient.”

Tyson frowned. “Convenient?”

Percy started walking toward it, ignoring the chaos behind them. “Monsters don’t summon Uber rides. Somebody gave them transport. That means there’s a trail. And if there’s a trail, we can follow it. But to do that…” He glanced back at Tyson and grinned in a way that made the cyclops hesitate. “We need the bus.”

Getting to the bus wasn’t hard. Everyone else was busy either running from the flaming gym or trying to pull the fire alarm wires out of the wall to shut it up. Nobody noticed Percy climb the stairs into the vehicle.

Inside, the air was… wrong.

The seats were normal vinyl, but they smelled faintly of brimstone. Scratches lined the windows, like claws had tested them for weaknesses. And the driver’s seat — Percy froze when he saw it.

The steering wheel wasn’t connected to the axle. Instead, a twisted bronze handle jutted from the column, covered in runes. Whoever had driven this thing hadn’t been human.

“Definitely not DOT approved,” Percy muttered.

Tyson ducked in behind him, crouching to keep from bumping his head on the ceiling. He looked around with wide eyes. “It smells like monsters.”

“Because it is monsters,” Percy said grimly. He ran a hand over the runes on the bronze lever. Heat prickled at his skin. “And now it’s ours.”

Tyson tilted his head, confused. “Stealing? Isn’t stealing… bad?”

“Normally,” Percy admitted. “But think about it, big guy. This isn’t their bus anymore. They tried to fry us with flaming cannonballs, remember? This is repayment.”

Tyson thought about that, then nodded. “Oh. Okay.” He brightened. “I like buses.”

The problem was, Percy didn’t know how to drive this thing.

He settled into the driver’s seat, gripped the rune-etched lever, and concentrated. The Force thrummed through the bronze, heavy and dark. It didn’t want to obey him. It wanted to obey its creator.

“Yeah, well, your creator’s not here,” Percy muttered. “So you’ll listen to me.”

He pushed. Not physically — through the Force, through the thread of willpower that had once held starfighters steady in vacuum and bent droids to his commands. The runes resisted, squirming like snakes under his mental grip.

“Percy?” Tyson asked nervously. “It’s growling.”

The lever was growling. A low vibration ran through the bus. The lights flickered. Percy clenched his jaw, focusing harder.

Submit.

The Force surged through him, snapping the resistance like a twig. The growl cut off. The bus shuddered once and went still, waiting.

“Got it,” Percy said, breathing hard. “Hop in, Tyson. Field trip.”

The bus rolled out of the lot just as the first fire truck screeched around the corner. Percy gripped the lever, guiding it like a flight stick. The wheels hummed, too smooth for asphalt. It wasn’t really driving — it was gliding, skimming reality like a ship through hyperspace.

Tyson giggled from the backseat, bouncing between rows of chairs. “This is better than a roller coaster!”

Percy didn’t share the enthusiasm. His Force sense prickled. The bus wasn’t just a vehicle. It was transmitting something. A faint pulse, almost like sonar, echoing into the void. A beacon.

“Of course,” Percy muttered. “Because nothing’s ever easy.”

He reached out, brushing the beacon with his mind. Its direction tugged westward. Toward the ocean.

Tyson leaned over the seat behind him. “Where are we going?”

“That,” Percy said, “is a very good question. And I don’t like the answer.”

They drove for nearly an hour, weaving through traffic, the bus obeying Percy’s commands with eerie precision. It didn’t stall at stoplights. It didn’t need gas. It simply moved, a monster-built chariot carrying them farther from Meriwether with every mile.

At last, Percy pulled them into an abandoned rest stop. The building’s windows were boarded. The soda machines outside had been smashed years ago. No one in their right mind stopped here anymore. Perfect.

He parked the bus under a dead streetlamp and killed the runes. The glow faded, leaving the bus looking eerily mundane.

Tyson shuffled nervously. “We keep bus?”

Percy rubbed his temples. “We can’t keep a cursed monster-bus.”

Tyson’s shoulders slumped.

“But,” Percy added quickly, “we can strip it. Figure out how it works. Maybe even find out who sent the giants.”

That brightened Tyson again. “We take it apart?”

“Exactly.”

The two of them worked in silence for a while. Percy pried runes from the steering column, cataloging each one in his head. Protection. Cloaking. Summoning. Someone had poured serious resources into this transport. More than a random monster should’ve been able to manage.

Tyson, meanwhile, happily yanked cushions out of seats and bent seat frames like pretzels. “This one squeaks!” he announced proudly.

Percy smirked. “Good to know.”

At last, Percy found what he’d been looking for: a bronze plate bolted beneath the dashboard, stamped with a symbol.

An infinity loop. Red.

He swore under his breath.

Tyson tilted his head. “That’s the bad one, right?”

“Yeah,” Percy said grimly. “The very bad one.”

By the time the sun set, they’d stripped the bus of anything useful: rune plates, bronze fittings, even the rearview mirrors, which hummed faintly with tracking magic. Percy stacked them in a duffel bag, sealing it shut with a Force push.

The bus, now little more than a skeleton, sagged in the lot. Without its enchantments, it looked like any other rusted school bus abandoned to time.

Tyson wiped his hands on his gym shorts, grinning proudly. “No more bad bus.”

Percy patted his shoulder. “No more bad bus.” He looked at the duffel. “Now we just have to figure out who thought giving monsters their own Greyhound line was a good idea.”

Tyson frowned. “And then we smash them?”

Percy smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

The Force whispered again — a storm on the horizon, deeper than the ocean, darker than Olympus’ throne room. The theft of the bus was only one piece of it.

But it was a piece.

And Percy was very, very good at pulling threads until knots unraveled.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Three: Welcome Back to Camp: I bring you another car

By the time Percy, Tyson, and Qui-Gon Skywalker cleared the last ridge before Camp Half-Blood, the sun was setting, throwing molten light across Long Island Sound. To anyone else, it would’ve been a serene moment.

To Percy, it was just Tuesday.

Qui-Gon’s vast wings beat steady above him, carrying not only his own bulk but also the remains of the enchanted monster-bus they’d stripped. The drakon looked faintly smug, as if hauling an entire bus frame, an engine block dangling like a trophy beneath his talons, was the most natural thing in the world.

“You know,” Percy called over the wind, “this isn’t exactly subtle.”

Qui-Gon rumbled, his serpentine head angling back toward Percy. “Subtlety is for prey, not liberators.”

Tyson, clinging to the platform saddle behind Percy, laughed so hard he nearly lost his grip. “Liberator-bus! We win!”

Percy just sighed. He was already rehearsing what he’d say to Chiron. Sorry about the gym fire, sorry about the bus theft, sorry about the drakon smuggling evidence back to camp like a proud cat…

The wards shimmered as they crossed the camp’s boundary. Instantly, campers looked up from dinner on the pavilion steps, jaws dropping as Qui-Gon swept into view. Plates clattered. A satyr spat out his goblet of Coke.

By the time Qui-Gon landed on the training field with the gentleness of a boulder, the entire camp had spilled out to see.

There were stares. There were whispers. And there was a whole lot of panic.

“Is that—?”
“A Drakon!”
“Percy brought a monster into camp!”
“He’s riding it!”

"Nah, dude, chill out, it's just Qui-Gon Skywalker. He's awesome." (this last came from one of the Apollo cabin who tried out for the sniper position last year)

The younger campers crowded behind their counselors. The Hermes cabin collectively pointed and muttered bets about how fast Chiron would kick Percy out this time.

Even Annabeth, standing near the pavilion, pinched the bridge of her nose like she’d been handed a migraine in human form.

Dionysus, however, didn’t even look surprised.

The god of wine slouched against the pavilion rail, Diet Coke in hand, watching Qui-Gon lower the engine block with deliberate care. His expression hovered somewhere between a smirk and the exhaustion of a man cursed to babysit a soap opera that kept escalating every season.

Finally, he spoke.

“Jackson,” Dionysus drawled. “Tell me — are you planning to arrive every year with a stolen vehicle and a monster in tow?”

The camp snickered nervously.

Percy slid off Qui-Gon’s saddle, dusted himself off, and deadpanned, “Not every year. Just the years ending in a number.”

A few Hermes kids laughed.

Dionysus rolled his eyes heavenward, muttering something about the Fates hating him. Then he sighed. “At least this one isn’t a car.”

Before Percy could reply, a voice cut through the murmurs.

“Please say yes!” Charles Beckendorf, the broad-shouldered son of Hephaestus, shoved his way through the crowd, eyes wide and shining. He pointed at the engine block resting in the grass like it was Excalibur. “We can never have enough engine blocks!”

The entire Hephaestus cabin surged behind him, practically drooling over the metal skeleton of the bus. One kid whispered reverently, “Is that a turbocharged diesel V8?”

Another muttered, “With monster runework still etched in the housing…”

Percy blinked. “Uh. Yeah. You can have it. Just… maybe don’t put it in anything that explodes, okay?”

Beckendorf looked personally offended. “Explosions are part of the process.”

The Hephaestus kids cheered like it was their birthday and immediately set about hauling the engine block toward the forge.

The rest of camp, however, wasn’t so easily distracted.

A ring of campers kept a wary distance around Tyson, who clutched his plank-club nervously, glancing from face to face. Whispers spread fast.

“He’s a Cyclops.”
“Like Polyphemus.”
“Did Percy really bring a Cyclops into camp?”

Tyson shifted uneasily, his single brown eye wide and uncertain. “Perce… they don’t like me.”

Percy stepped forward, planting himself squarely between Tyson and the crowd. “That’s their problem, not yours.” His voice carried, sharper than he intended. “He’s with me. He fought monsters with me. He saved me. So anyone who thinks that makes him less than welcome can take it up with me.”

The whispers faltered. Nobody volunteered to test Percy’s mood — not with Qui-Gon looming overhead, watching the campers like they were one wrong word from being snack-sized.

Annabeth finally stepped forward, her expression caught between irritation and reluctant respect. “Percy…” She hesitated, then looked Tyson up and down. “You should’ve told me you were bringing him.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Would you have listened?”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. She crossed her arms. “Point.”

Dionysus clapped slowly, the sound so sarcastic it practically dripped. “Touching. Really. Jackson brings home strays like a demigod humane society, and now we all get to share in the joy.” He downed the rest of his Coke. “Chiron, do something useful before the harpies demand we serve Cyclops stew.”

Chiron had been silent until then, watching from the pavilion steps. Now the centaur trotted forward, expression grave. His eyes lingered on Tyson, then flicked to Percy. “We’ll discuss this… inside.”

The Big House meeting that followed was every bit as awkward as Percy had expected.

Dionysus lounged in his chair, already opening another can of Coke. Chiron stood by the window, arms folded, clearly trying to decide whether Percy was a headache worth medicating. Tyson sat on the floor, fiddling with a cushion, trying very hard not to make eye contact with anyone.

And Percy, leaning against the wall, was already done with the whole conversation before it started.

“So,” Dionysus said, smirking, “what’s the tally now? One fury’s car, one school bus… what’s next? A subway train?”

Percy met his gaze evenly. “Depends on how many monsters come with it.”

Chiron pinched his brow. “Percy—”

“No,” Percy cut in, sharper than he meant to. “Don’t ‘Percy’ me. You saw the engine block. You saw the runes. Someone gave the giants transport. Someone is making new monsters, and they wanted me gone badly enough to torch an entire school gym to try it. You think leaving the bus behind for whoever made it to reclaim was a better idea?”

Chiron hesitated. He didn’t answer.

Percy pressed. “I didn’t drag Tyson here because I like breaking rules. I dragged him here because he’s my friend, and because the Force told me he belongs with us. You want to argue with the Force, be my guest, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Silence fell. Dionysus sipped his Coke. “Well,” he muttered, “at least this year won’t be boring.”

Tyson brightened, looking hopefully at Percy. “I get to stay?”

Percy crouched, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, big guy. You get to stay.”

Tyson beamed.

And for the first time since the bus fight, Percy allowed himself a faint smile.

Outside, the camp buzzed with gossip. The Hephaestus cabin already had the bus engine half-disassembled in the forge. The Hermes cabin was placing bets on how long Percy would survive before getting vaporized by Zeus himself. And Annabeth?

Annabeth just watched Percy from across the pavilion, eyes sharp and calculating.

Because however much she hated to admit it… Percy wasn’t playing by camp’s rules. He was rewriting them.

And that, Annabeth knew, was far more dangerous than any monster.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Four: The King in the Shadows

The night after Tyson’s awkward arrival at camp, sleep didn’t come easy. Percy lay in Cabin Eleven’s bunk — Hermes was still his “host” cabin — staring up at the rafters and listening to Tyson snore like a chainsaw.

Something was wrong.

The camp’s wards, always a steady presence in the Force, thrummed unevenly. They bled weakness, like the pulse of a fever. Outside, the scent of burning pine carried on the night air, faint but acrid, and every time Percy closed his eyes, he felt it: something ancient, something poisoned.

He finally drifted off into uneasy slumber — and the dream came.

Percy stood on a plain of ash. The sky was a sheet of gray, choked with smoke and burning embers. Across the horizon stretched broken pillars and shattered walls, all crumbling into dust. A battlefield of gods.

And from the ruin, a throne rose: black marble, taller than Olympus itself. Upon it sat a figure Percy recognized instantly, though he had never seen the Titan King in the flesh.

Kronos.

Not the roaring tyrant the myths painted. Not the gilded lord of time with a scythe of infinite sharpness.

No — Kronos looked like a corpse halfway to dust. His skin sagged, etched with cracks of golden light leaking from within. His eyes flickered with exhaustion older than the sky. He was dying.

“Perseus Jackson,” the Titan King said, his voice like stone grinding against stone. “Child of my children. At last.”

Percy’s hand went instinctively to his belt — except no lightsaber, no sword. He was unarmed. The Force whispered listen, so he did.

“You don’t look so great,” Percy said carefully.

Kronos gave a humorless smile. “I deserve worse.” He leaned back, his massive form shedding flakes of golden dust. “For what I did to my children. For what I became.”

Percy narrowed his eyes. “So why call me here? You’re the enemy.”

“No.” The word cracked the air like thunder. “The enemy wears my face. The parasite uses my name, my throne, to chain the Titans in obedience. Even my own brothers cannot tell the difference. They see me. But it is not me.”

The Force rippled violently at that, neither confirmation nor denial, but a demand: Pay attention.

Kronos continued, voice hollow but sharp. “When Othrys fell, when Olympus rose, I made a bargain. With the Force Itself.” His gaze pierced Percy. “I gave It permission to anchor Its child in mortal flesh. You.”

Percy’s stomach dropped. “You’re saying—”

“That the soul of Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One, fused with you. That was my doing. A desperate gambit. Without it, the parasite would have slipped its chains and devoured this world as it devoured mine.”

Percy staggered back. The words rattled in his chest like loose stones. Anakin Skywalker. Vader. The Chosen One. And me.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You will.” Kronos’s eyes dimmed, like two dying suns. “The helm of darkness. The master bolt. The Chosen One. And Zeus himself. Four keys. Four weapons against the Devourer. If I had not made my children bleed, if I had not forced Olympus to rise on my ruin, two of those would not exist. Zeus without his bolt is thunder without lightning. And the Chosen One… would never have walked this soil.”

He leaned forward, his breath like cold ash. “Do you understand what stalks you? The parasite has dominion over Time greater than mine. It bends futures. It selects timelines like a butcher selects cuts of meat. If it wins dominion, there will be only one future. Its future.”

Percy swallowed hard. His fists clenched. “And you’re telling me all this because…?”

“Because I am dying.” Kronos’s voice cracked. “Four years, perhaps five. Then I will be gone, and Olympus will face the storm without the one creature who has held the parasite in chains.”

Percy’s heart pounded. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“First, you must know this.” Kronos raised a trembling hand, and the landscape shifted. A tree appeared before Percy: tall, proud, branches brimming with green needles. But its roots bled black ichor. The air stank of venom.

Thalia’s tree.

“It has been poisoned,” Kronos whispered. “Even now the wards weaken. The borders fail. If it falls, Olympus will not merely falter — entire realities will die.”

Percy staggered. “What?”

“The tree is not merely a tree. It is a graft, a living offshoot of Yggdrasil, the World Tree. Its roots pierce realities. It ties this plane to many others. And if it dies, whole realms will burn.”

Percy’s throat went dry. “How do I stop it?”

“The Golden Fleece,” Kronos said. “Only its power can heal the wound quickly enough to matter. It lies where the old monsters dream. I tell you its resting place because Olympus is blind, and because the cost of failure is more than they comprehend.”

Percy’s mind spun. The Fleece. The tree. Yggdrasil. Entire realities on the line.

“And there is more,” Kronos rasped. His voice grew tight, urgent. “In two days, the North will send a war party. Led by Loki of Asgard, emissary to the post-Ragnarök council. He will come to annihilate those he believes responsible for the poisoning. You must show him the truth.”

“Loki,” Percy repeated. “That Loki? Trickster, liar, snake-tongued—”

“He can be trusted,” Kronos cut him off. “Because he knows the parasite. He knows it better than most. It was his hand and his plan that sealed it the first time. Tell him the truth: the Greeks are not responsible. The poison comes from Vermis the All Consuming. But—” His eyes flared, golden cracks widening in his chest. “Do not use that name unless you have no other choice. It is not safe, even here.”

The Force shrieked agreement, and Percy’s skin crawled like something had brushed his mind from a distance.

“Vermis…” he whispered.

The ground shook. Kronos snarled, leaning forward, his voice suddenly ragged. “Stop! Even the syllables are hooks. Do not repeat it. Do not linger on it. Or it will hear.”

Percy’s breath came shallow. His hands trembled. He had faced gods. He had stared down Ares, battled Medusa, defied Zeus himself. But this—this was something else. Something that made even Kronos, the Titan King, look like a dying old man clutching at scraps of defiance.

“Why me?” Percy asked, his voice low. “Why tell me?”

Kronos’s gaze softened — not with kindness, but with a weary sort of resignation. “Because you are the anchor. Because the Force chose you. Because I… have no one else left.”

He leaned back on his throne, golden dust spilling from the cracks in his flesh. “I bought you time, Perseus Jackson. Time to learn. Time to fight. Four years, perhaps five, until I am gone. Use them well.”

The dream began to unravel. The battlefield crumbled. The ash turned to smoke.

And as the vision faded, Kronos’s final whisper echoed in Percy’s skull:

“Do not waste what I bled to buy you.”

Percy woke with a jolt, sweat slicking his skin. Tyson’s snores rattled the rafters. The camp slept on.

But outside, across the valley, the wards flickered like a dying fire.

And on the hilltop, Thalia’s tree bled.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Five: The Tree and the Poison

Percy didn’t wait for dawn.

The dream had shaken him to the core, but more than that, it had given him something Kronos surely hadn’t expected: a place to test his honesty. The Titan King could speak about Yggdrasil and parasites and wars across time all he liked. Words were cheap. But poison in Thalia’s tree? That was verifiable.

So Percy pulled on a shirt, his hand already brushing the hilt of the Skywalker blade, and slipped out of Hermes cabin into the night.

The camp lay hushed in shadow. The cabins stood quiet, the fields stretching silver under moonlight. Beyond, the hill rose — that familiar slope crowned by a single pine. Thalia’s tree, the guardian of Camp Half-Blood. Its silhouette stood stark against the stars, branches stretching like protective arms.

But Percy didn’t need the Force to know something was wrong.

The air stank of bitterness. The life-pulse of the tree was ragged, uneven, bleeding away like water down a cracked jar. He could hear it in the Force — a resonance that should have been steady and luminous, but instead rattled with weakness, corruption seeping in from roots to crown.

Percy climbed the slope, his bare feet silent on the grass.

Up close, the sight nearly knocked the breath out of him.

The pine’s trunk had blackened fissures running along its bark, weeping foul ichor that steamed faintly against the night air. The needles had begun to dull, their sharp green fading to a sickly yellow at the tips. The ground around its roots was dark, as though burned from within.

It was exactly as Kronos had shown him.

Percy swallowed hard. So that part wasn’t a lie.

He rested his hand against the trunk. It was cold. Too cold. A tree should have throbbed with warmth, with the steady vitality of sap and growth. This one felt like stone half-dead.

The Force surged under his palm. A wave of impressions — the tree’s origin, its grafting to the world — battered him like a flood.

He gasped. He saw a vision: vast branches spanning galaxies, roots digging through the void itself, threads of reality strung like jewels along its limbs. The World Tree. Yggdrasil.

Kronos hadn’t been exaggerating. This pine was not just a ward. Not just Thalia’s memorial. It was a living piece of a cosmic structure. A thread binding realms together. If it fell, the damage would ripple outward, shattering far more than Olympus.

Percy yanked his hand back, heart hammering.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, trying to steady his breathing. “Not a lie. Not even close to a lie.”

He couldn’t heal it — not like this, not with poison so deep. But maybe… maybe he could learn something.

He unclipped the Skywalker blade and knelt at the base of the tree, pressing his other hand flat against the trunk. He closed his eyes, sinking into the Force, letting its currents guide him past the bark, past the poisoned sap, into the threads of life.

There.

A black pulse — viscous, foreign, unnatural.

The poison wasn’t a liquid. Not really. It was a corruption, a venom that wanted to spread. It burrowed like worms through veins of sap, carried upward by the tree’s life force. Kronos had been right: it had already dug too deep for simple removal. If he tried to purge it all, he’d rip out the tree’s heart along with it.

But he didn’t need all of it. He just needed enough to analyze.

Percy drew in a slow breath, focused, and let the Force pour down his arm like a siphon. He pictured himself as a channel, pulling the black threads outward, unweaving them from the tree’s core.

The ichor shuddered.

And then it moved.

It resisted at first, clinging to the tree’s veins like barbed hooks. Percy gritted his teeth, sweat breaking along his brow. But he had wrestled with worse — with the will of monsters, with the raw current of the Dark Side whispering at his edges. This was not unlike that. It wanted to stay.

“Not today,” Percy muttered, and pulled.

The poison tore loose.

A surge of blackness rushed into his palm — liquid shadows that burned cold, oily, foul. His stomach lurched. For a moment he thought it would slip into him, crawl through his veins as it had the tree’s, but he snapped his mental barriers into place, the ones he’d used to guard against the parasite’s feeding touch.

The venom swirled inside his grasp, suspended by the Force. It twisted and writhed, almost alive, but trapped in a sphere of shimmering energy.

Percy gasped and fell back onto the grass, holding the contained poison aloft. His arm shook. His head pounded. But he’d done it.

The tree shivered. Its pulse steadied — just slightly, barely noticeable. It was still dying. Still infected. But now he had something to work with.

The poison hovered, a sphere of thick, tarry blackness shot with threads of crimson. It reeked of wrongness.

Percy focused on it, probing.

The Force screamed.

He flinched, but pressed on carefully. The venom was not natural. It carried echoes of hunger, whispers of devouring. It wasn’t designed to kill quickly. It was designed to consume, to unravel. A parasite’s calling card.

“Great,” Percy muttered, wiping sweat from his face with his free hand. “Kronos wasn’t lying about that either.”

But as he studied it, he felt something else — a faint resonance, almost a signature. It wasn’t the Titan King’s power. It wasn’t divine ichor. It was older, colder. Something that smelled of the void between stars.

His stomach twisted. He remembered the warning: Do not speak its name unless you must. It will hear.

Percy dispelled the thought. He couldn’t risk it here. Not with the wards already weakening.

Instead, he condensed the venom, compressing it into a crystalline shard of black glass, sealing it tight with layers of Force shielding. He would study it further later, maybe with Chiron, maybe with Dionysus or Hecate. But at least now they had a sample. Proof.

He set the shard gently into a pouch on his belt, then rose and touched the tree again.

The pine trembled faintly under his hand. Weakened, but still alive.

“I’ll find the Fleece,” Percy whispered. “I’ll bring it back. Just hold on a little longer.”

The needles rustled in a breeze that hadn’t existed a moment before. Percy chose to take it as a reply.

He turned and walked back down the hill, the Force heavy with both urgency and warning. The poison was spreading faster than anyone realized. Kronos had given him a clock: four years, maybe five, before the Titan himself died. But the tree?

The tree didn’t have years.

It had months. Maybe less.

Percy tightened his grip on the Skywalker blade as he reached the bottom of the hill. For the first time, he understood the scope of what Kronos had meant. This wasn’t just a demigod problem. Not just a Greek problem. Not even just an Olympian problem.

This was a reality problem.

And Percy Jackson was right in the middle of it.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Six: Proof in Poison

Percy didn’t sleep after what he’d seen on the hill. He lay awake, his hand brushing the pouch where the sealed shard of venom pulsed faintly like a heart. The camp stirred to life with the dawn bell, campers dragging themselves out of bunks and heading for the dining pavilion, and Percy knew he couldn’t wait. If the poison was what he thought it was, they needed to know now.

So he skipped breakfast. He went straight for the Big House.

The veranda creaked as he stepped onto it. Chiron was already there, in wheelchair form, his mug steaming with coffee. Dionysus sat opposite, nursing a glass of what Percy was willing to bet was not grape juice despite the color, his face in its usual blend of smirk and boredom.

Chiron brightened. “Percy! You’re up early.”

“I didn’t sleep,” Percy said flatly. “We need to talk.”

Dionysus raised an eyebrow. “That tone. Very dramatic. This had better not be another stolen vehicle.”

Percy ignored him. He set the pouch on the table between them and pulled out the shard. The black crystal throbbed faintly, streaked with crimson threads that pulsed like veins. The air grew colder just being near it.

Chiron froze. His knuckles went white on his mug. Dionysus’s eyes snapped into sharp focus — none of the lazy haze he usually wore.

“What,” Chiron whispered, “is that?”

“The poison in Thalia’s tree,” Percy said. “Or part of it. I pulled this out of the roots last night.”

“You—” Chiron blinked rapidly. “Percy, you shouldn’t have—”

“Relax. I didn’t touch it. Not directly. Force shielding kept it contained.” Percy’s tone was clipped, almost harsh. “But I had to. I had to know. And I do. This isn’t natural. It isn’t divine. It’s parasitic. Designed to consume, not kill. And it’s spreading faster than you realize.”

Dionysus leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “Let me see it.”

He plucked the shard from Percy’s palm with two fingers. The god turned it slowly in the light, eyes narrowing. His usual mask of mockery was gone; in its place was the expression of someone measuring an enemy he hoped never to meet.

“Where exactly did you say you got this?” Dionysus asked.

“The base of the tree. The infection’s too deep to purge, but I siphoned enough to analyze.”

Chiron’s brow furrowed. “You analyzed it?”

Percy nodded. “It’s not chemical. It’s conceptual. Alive, almost. The Force screamed at me the second I touched it. And—” He hesitated, then pressed on. “It has a signature. Older than the gods. Cold. Hungry. The kind of thing that makes Kronos look like a toddler with a temper.”

Dionysus’s grip tightened on the shard. For a moment his form seemed to ripple — not physically, but like a shadow passing under water. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Percy had ever heard.

“You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?”

Percy nodded. “It’s the same thing feeding on you. On Poseidon. On all of you.”

Chiron’s mug clattered onto the table. “What?”

“Something is leeching your strength. Has been for centuries. It eats at your essence whenever you’re around your demigod children. That’s why the gods keep their distance. You could feel the damage, but not the cause.” Percy’s voice was steady, matter-of-fact. “I taught Poseidon how to shield against it. Dionysus too. They felt the difference instantly.”

Chiron looked between them, his face pale. “Is this true?”

Dionysus flicked his gaze up, and for once there was no sarcasm in his eyes. “It is. The brat isn’t lying.”

Chiron sagged back in his chair, his hand shaking slightly.

Percy pressed the shard back into the pouch and set it on the table. “This isn’t about just saving camp. Kronos was right about that much — if the tree falls, Olympus falls, and maybe more. That pine isn’t just a pine. It’s an offshoot of something bigger. The World Tree. Yggdrasil. If it dies, it’s not just demigods in danger. Whole realities go with it.”

The silence stretched. Even the wind through the Big House porch seemed to hush.

Finally Dionysus snorted, though it was bitter rather than amused. “Wonderful. The end of all things. Again. And of course it lands on my doorstep, because why wouldn’t it?”

Chiron shook his head slowly. “I knew the tree was… important. Sacred. But I never imagined—”

“Now you know.” Percy leaned forward, eyes hard. “And you know we can’t waste time. Kronos said the Golden Fleece is the only thing that can heal it fast enough. That’s our target.”

Chiron frowned. “Kronos told you this? In a dream?”

“Yes,” Percy said bluntly. “And before you say it: no, I don’t trust him. But this?” He tapped the pouch. “This proves he wasn’t lying.”

Chiron’s jaw worked. He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

From behind them came a voice, tentative but firm.

“So what do we do?”

They turned. Several campers had gathered near the steps — Annabeth, Grover, Beckendorf, even Clarisse hovering at the back, her usual scowl replaced with wary curiosity. They must have caught the tail end of Percy’s words.

Annabeth’s gray eyes flicked to the pouch, sharp and calculating. “That came from the tree, didn’t it?”

Percy nodded.

Grover shivered visibly, his goat-legs twitching. “It smells wrong. Like… like rot.”

Clarisse crossed her arms. “If that’s what’s eating the tree, then what are we standing around for? Let’s go get this Fleece thing.”

“It’s not that simple,” Chiron said, his voice grave. “The Fleece lies far beyond camp, guarded by terrors as old as time. A quest will have to be issued, carefully chosen—”

Percy cut him off. “We don’t have time for politics. Every day the poison spreads. Every day the wards weaken. Kronos told me we have months, maybe less, before it collapses. You want Olympus still standing when Loki’s war party shows up? Then we move. Now.”

That drew startled looks.

“Loki?” Annabeth demanded. “As in Norse Loki?”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “He’s coming. With a war band. Two days. They think the Greeks poisoned the tree. If we don’t steer them right, we’ll be fighting a war on two fronts.”

Even Dionysus looked startled at that, his expression tightening into something dangerous. “That information you might have led with, Jackson.”

Percy shrugged. “I just did.”

The tension around the table was suffocating. Chiron rubbed his temples, eyes closed. Dionysus muttered something in ancient Greek that Percy was ninety percent sure was a curse.

Finally Percy stood, his voice cutting through the murmur of campers.

“You’ve all seen what this poison looks like now. You’ve felt it. This isn’t a prank, or a rival pantheon’s little jab, or even just another monster. This is bigger. Way bigger. And if we don’t act, camp dies. Olympus dies. And we go with it.”

He swept his gaze over them — Annabeth, frowning but thinking furiously; Grover pale and wide-eyed; Clarisse, fists clenched in barely contained fury; Beckendorf, his engineer’s mind clearly already cataloging possibilities.

“I don’t know how much time we’ve got,” Percy finished. “But I know this: I’m not waiting around for the Council to get its act together. I’m going after the Fleece.”

The Force hummed in agreement, steady and sure.

Annabeth stepped forward first, her chin lifted. “Then you’ll need a planner. Someone who knows Greek monsters. Someone who can keep your recklessness from killing us all.”

Percy gave her a look. “That sounded suspiciously like volunteering.”

“It was.”

Grover swallowed. “And, um… you’ll need a tracker. I’m already signed on.”

Clarisse cracked her knuckles. “And someone to hit things. Don’t think I’m letting you have all the glory, Jackson.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “I thought you hated me.”

“I do,” Clarisse said flatly. “But I hate watching my camp burn more.”

Beckendorf stepped forward, expression firm. “And you’ll need gear. Weapons. Armor. Transportation. I’m not letting you run off without something built to last.”

The beginnings of a team. Not perfect. Not what Percy would’ve chosen if he had Thrawn’s luxury of soldiers to sort through. But here they were — willing, ready, and, most importantly, aware.

He turned back to Dionysus. “You’re the god on duty. Will you authorize it?”

Dionysus studied him for a long moment. The grape-god mask flickered, and beneath it Percy glimpsed something hard and calculating.

“You really are going to drag me into this, aren’t you?” Dionysus muttered. Then, louder: “Fine. Quest authorized. Retrieve the Fleece. Heal the tree. Try not to get yourselves killed. And if you do, make sure it’s entertaining.”

The campers exhaled. Chiron still looked troubled, but there was relief there too — relief that someone had forced the decision before the gods’ politics could stall them into ruin.

Percy exhaled and touched the pouch at his side. The shard of poison pulsed faintly, a reminder of what was at stake.

The clock was ticking.

And now, at least, they were moving.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Seven: The Weight of Preparation

The camp buzzed like a hive cracked open. Word had spread about the poison shard Percy had shown Chiron and Dionysus. No one knew the details — Percy had kept the truth about the parasite quiet — but everyone knew enough. Thalia’s tree was dying. The wards were failing. A quest had been called.

And on the horizon, a war party was coming.

By the next morning, the training fields were full. Even campers too young to fight sparred furiously, wooden swords clashing, shields ringing. It wasn’t courage Percy saw in their eyes but fear — fear of what might happen if the tree fell.

He hated it.

He also understood it.

The Forge

Beckendorf had practically moved into the Hephaestus cabin’s forge. The clang of hammers echoed across camp, punctuated by the hiss of quenching steam. Percy ducked inside to find Beckendorf, shirt streaked with soot, welding gauntlets onto a half-finished set of armor.

“Got a second?” Percy asked.

Beckendorf glanced up, sweat dripping from his brow. “Not really. A second means one less plate hammered before nightfall.”

Percy leaned on the worktable, eyeing the parts. “You’re making new armor already?”

“Not just armor,” Beckendorf said. He pointed to a rack. Spears. Swords. A wicked-looking harpoon gun. “If we’re going up against whatever did that”—he jerked his chin toward the hill, where the poisoned tree loomed—“then we need more than bronze toys. Drakon-scale plating, celestial bronze cores. Strong enough to hold back things that shouldn’t exist.”

Percy nodded slowly. “And for us?”

Beckendorf set his hammer down with a final clang. “Your lightsaber’s better than anything I can make. But Annabeth’s shield needed reinforcement. Clarisse’s spear’s circuit was fraying. Grover needs armor that won’t crush him. I’ll get it done.” His voice softened slightly. “Just… promise me you’ll bring them back alive. Gear only goes so far.”

Percy hesitated, then clasped Beckendorf’s shoulder. “I’ll do everything I can. That’s a promise.”

The Arena

Clarisse had doubled her training sessions. Percy found her in the arena, sweat dripping down her face, her spear crackling with sparks as she smashed practice dummies into ash.

“You’re going to wear yourself out,” Percy said.

“Better than sitting around waiting to die,” Clarisse shot back. She twirled her spear and jabbed it into another dummy’s chest. Sparks burst. The dummy collapsed.

Percy folded his arms. “This isn’t just about the quest, is it?”

Clarisse paused, her jaw tightening. “They’re already whispering. That Ares kids are cursed. That since he got stripped of his title, we’re all weak. Liability.” She spun, her spear slicing through the air. “I’m going to prove them wrong.”

Percy studied her for a long moment. “You’re not responsible for your dad’s choices. I made sure of that.”

Clarisse’s grip on the spear tightened. “Maybe. But my siblings don’t see it that way. The only thing that matters to them is victory. If I don’t bring it, they’ll think we’re finished.”

Percy stepped closer. “Then we’ll bring it together. You fight like a storm, Clarisse. But storms burn out fast. Let me be the one who steadies the strike. You don’t have to do this alone.”

She glared at him for a heartbeat, then looked away. “…Fine. But don’t expect me to hold your hand.”

The Hill

Annabeth stood by Thalia’s tree, gray eyes shadowed. The bark was streaked with black veins now, pulsing faintly with the poison’s spread. Percy approached quietly, but she didn’t turn.

“You were right,” she said softly. “It’s worse today.”

Percy placed his hand on the bark. The Force stirred — a sickly resistance, like touching a wound that refused to heal. “Yeah. It’s spreading fast.”

Annabeth’s lips thinned. “Do you trust Kronos? About the Fleece?”

Percy shook his head. “No. But I trust what I saw in the Force. And I trust what that shard felt like. The Fleece is our best shot.”

Annabeth crossed her arms. “And Loki? A war party of Norse gods walking into camp? That could turn into a massacre if we’re not careful.”

“I know.” Percy exhaled. “That’s why we need to be ready. If Loki can be reasoned with, great. If not…” He let the silence finish the thought.

Annabeth finally looked at him. “You’re changing, Percy.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You talk differently now. Not just ‘we fight, we win.’ You’re weighing pieces. Anticipating outcomes. You sound… like a tactician.”

Percy shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve had to learn. Thrawn’s battles, Anakin’s instincts, the Force’s perspective—it all pushes me that way. But I don’t know if it’s enough.”

Annabeth gave a small, sad smile. “It’s more than most of us. Just don’t forget—calculations matter, but people matter more. That’s where leaders fail. Remember that, and maybe you’ll do better than most gods ever did.”

Percy looked at her, realizing she wasn’t mocking him. She meant it. And the weight in his chest doubled.

The Forest

Grover was in the woods, sitting cross-legged, his reed pipes in his lap. Percy found him staring at a patch of moss.

“You okay?” Percy asked.

Grover shook his head. “The tree’s screams are loud, Percy. Louder than anything I’ve heard since Pan vanished. Every satyr can feel it. The wild is panicking. If it dies, the wild dies.”

Percy sat beside him. “We’ll save it.”

Grover glanced at him. “How can you be so sure?”

Percy hesitated, then closed his eyes and let the Force flow through him. He extended it toward Grover — not forceful, not invasive, just a current of calm certainty. The satyr gasped softly, his hands trembling.

“You feel that?” Percy asked.

Grover nodded, tears brimming in his eyes. “It’s… it’s hope.”

“That’s how I know.”

Grover let out a shaky laugh. “Then I’ll hold you to it. For the wild. For Pan.”

The Porch

By dusk, Percy found himself back at the Big House. Dionysus lounged on the porch with a glass, watching campers train with something that almost resembled interest.

“You’re taking this seriously,” Percy said.

Dionysus snorted. “When an offshoot of the World Tree starts rotting on my doorstep, even I can’t drink it away.”

Percy leaned on the railing. “You knew, didn’t you? About the parasite.”

Dionysus’s gaze sharpened. “I suspected. Too many little slips. Too many times I lost my temper when I shouldn’t. The other Olympians chalked it up to their usual divine flaws. I knew better.” He sipped his drink. “Then you came along and handed me proof. Quite inconvenient, really.”

“Sorry.”

“No you’re not,” Dionysus said dryly. He studied Percy for a long moment. “You’re playing a dangerous game, boy. Teaching gods tricks. Dragging secrets into the open. Making enemies who won’t show their faces until the knife’s already in your back. That’s not bravery. That’s suicide.”

Percy met his gaze. “Then I guess I’ll just have to make sure I don’t die.”

For the first time since Percy had known him, Dionysus smiled. Not a smirk. Not mockery. An actual smile, fleeting but real. “You really are your father’s son. And something more.”

That night, camp quieted. Torches flickered along the borders, their light barely reaching the dark hill where Thalia’s tree loomed. Percy stood at the base of the pine, hand pressed against its bark, the Force whispering of decay and hunger gnawing at the roots.

Tomorrow, Loki’s war band would arrive.

Tomorrow, truth would meet fire and steel.

And Percy knew: they weren’t ready. Not yet. But they were moving.

And sometimes, momentum was the only weapon left.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Eight: The Starborn Blade

The morning air over Camp Half-Blood was tense enough to choke on. Campers lined the hill behind Thalia’s tree, armor glinting, weapons clenched in sweaty hands. The poisoned pine loomed above them, its once-verdant needles mottled with black veins.

Chiron stood tall, bow slung across his back, hooves planted firmly. Dionysus lounged in a lawn chair, wine glass swirling lazily — but even he had put down a barrier of wards around the Big House, which told Percy everything he needed to know.

They were bracing for war.

And the enemy was already in sight.

From the north horizon, stormclouds rolled like a sea of steel. Lightning forked violet, painting the clouds in jagged silhouette. Then came the drums — deep, thunderous booms, each one rattling Percy’s chest like a heartbeat too large for mortal ears.

Out of the clouds descended the war band.

Chariots forged from bones of frost giants. Wolves with eyes of embers. Warriors clad in furs and iron, their breath steaming despite the warm June air. And at their head — Loki.

Not the grinning trickster of half-whispered campfire tales. Not the jester. This Loki was tall, lean, with skin pale as moonlight and eyes green as wildfire. His helm sprouted curling horns, and his cloak shimmered like oil on water. He rode a horse with eight legs, its hooves tearing sparks from the ground.

The air warped around him. The very grass withered where his steed passed.

Chiron muttered, “This is worse than I feared.”

Dionysus rolled his eyes. “It’s Loki. It’s always worse than you fear.”

The war band lined up at the base of the hill, a phalanx of northern fury. Shields slammed down in unison, spears bristling. The ground shivered with the weight of them.

Loki raised a hand, and the world fell silent.

“Greeks,” he said, voice carrying like thunder. “You poison Yggdrasil’s root. You spread rot into the tree of worlds. You dare lay hand upon the World Tree itself.” His smile was razor thin. “For this insult, there will be blood.”

The Norse warriors roared, a wall of sound that sent some of the younger campers trembling.

Chiron lifted his bow, voice calm but taut. “Loki, Lord of Lies, we had no hand in this.”

Loki tilted his head. “And yet your border rots. The screams of the pine reach even Asgard’s halls. Who else but you?”

Percy felt the Force surge around him, insistent, like a current pushing against his back. His hand went to his belt. His lightsaber snapped to life with a crack-hiss.

Pearlescent sea-green light flooded the hilltop.

Every Norse warrior froze.

Every single one.

Even Loki’s smirk faltered, his wildfire eyes flickering with recognition.

The silence deepened until it was suffocating.

Then a voice from the northern ranks whispered, reverent: “Jedi.”

The word rippled outward. Dozens of voices echoed it, hushed at first, then swelling like a chant.

“Jedi.”
“Starborn.”
“Revan’s kin.”

Loki’s gaze sharpened on Percy, weighing him. At last, he swung down from his eight-legged steed and stepped forward. The warriors parted to let him pass, bowing their heads as though Percy’s saber burned their retinas.

Loki stopped a dozen feet from Percy. His smile returned, but this time it was something stranger. Not mockery. Not cruelty. Awe.

“Four thousand years,” Loki said softly. “Four thousand years since the Starborn walked these shores. Revan, the wanderer from the void. The holy man who ended Ragnarök.” His voice grew louder, carrying to every corner of the field. “Revan who showed us the truth — that in our pride, we were feeding the crows while our world burned.”

Percy’s saber hummed in his hand. He could feel every eye on him.

“I am no Revan,” Percy said.

“No,” Loki agreed. “You are not. You are younger. Wilder. But the blade does not lie.” He leaned forward, eyes flickering like foxfire. “Tell me, Starborn — why have you come here? Why do you bear his weapon in a land crumbling under rot?”

The Force whispered. Percy steadied his breath. Then he reached into his satchel and drew out the vial of poison he had siphoned from Thalia’s tree. The liquid inside pulsed faintly, as though it hated the glass that confined it.

“This,” Percy said, voice carrying across the field, “is what poisoned the tree. Not Greek hands. Not Olympian folly. This.” He held the vial up, the saber’s light casting the venom in eerie glow. “You feel it, don’t you? The hunger. The corruption.”

Loki’s gaze locked on the vial. His smirk melted. His hands clenched.

“The Parasite,” Loki whispered.

The war band murmured uneasily, like wolves shifting in their sleep.

Percy nodded. “It feeds on gods. On their flaws. On their fears. It hides in their shadows until nothing remains. I’ve seen it gnawing at Olympus already. And now it gnaws at Yggdrasil. This wasn’t us. This wasn’t Greece. This is your enemy. The same one you fought once before.”

Loki’s face was unreadable. For a heartbeat, Percy feared he’d call it bluff, accuse him of lies. But then Loki laughed. Not cruelly — but in relief.

“So it still stirs,” Loki said. His voice boomed, echoing across the camp. “So the great hunger still creeps at the roots of worlds. Vermis the All Consuming.” The way he said the name made the grass hiss, like it might catch fire. “And the Greeks…” He looked at Percy with eyes suddenly sharp as daggers. “You know this, Starborn? You have seen its hand?”

“Yes,” Percy said. “I’ve felt it feeding. I’ve taught your enemies how to resist it. I will not let it consume this world.”

For a long moment, Loki stared. Then he threw back his head and howled with laughter — sharp, ringing, like broken glass in a gale.

“Ha! The Fates weave stranger cloth than even I imagined.” He whirled on his war band, cloak flaring. “Hold your spears, sons of Asgard! The Greeks are not our enemy. Not this day.”

The warriors shifted uneasily, but they obeyed.

Loki turned back to Percy, his smile fox-like. “You’ve bought them peace, Starborn. For now. But peace is a brittle thing. Keep that tree alive, or I will not be able to leash them again.” His gaze flickered briefly to Chiron and Dionysus. “And tell your gods: they are not the only ones being watched.”

Then, with a snap of his cloak, Loki mounted his eight-legged steed. The war band began to fade into the stormclouds, their drums echoing like thunder receding over the horizon.

Within moments, the northern host was gone.

Silence settled over Camp Half-Blood.

Only then did Percy power down his lightsaber. The hum died, leaving ringing in every ear.

Campers stared at him like he’d grown wings. Chiron’s eyes were wide, his hands trembling slightly as he lowered his bow. Even Dionysus — lounging, always lounging — looked rattled.

Finally, Annabeth broke the silence. “Percy… what just happened?”

Percy tucked the vial away, his grip tight. “We just bought time. But Kronos was right. The enemy’s real. And now we’ve got proof.”

He looked up at the rotting tree, its branches quivering like it felt every word.

“Which means,” Percy said, voice grim, “we need to move. Now.”

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Nine: The Quest and the War God’s Children

The storm had barely faded from the sky when Chiron called the war council.

Campers crowded into the Big House, the air buzzing with nerves. Everyone knew what was coming. Everyone could feel it in their bones. Thalia’s tree, sick and sagging outside the window, poisoned with something more sinister than any monster’s venom — it was dying. And with it, the borders of the camp.

Chiron stood at the head of the table, his expression grave. Dionysus slouched in his seat, swirling a glass of Diet Coke as if the fizzing liquid could drown out his irritation. Percy sat with Annabeth, Grover, Tyson, and Qui-Gon Skywalker (who, for lack of a better chair, leaned against the wall with arms crossed, looming as calm as a storm before it broke).

Chiron began.

“You all know what has happened to Thalia’s tree. You all know what it means for the borders. Our safety hangs by a thread.” His eyes flicked to Percy, heavy with meaning. “Last night, in a dream sent by… an unlikely source, Percy was told of a cure.”

Murmurs rippled. A dream. A cure. Every camper leaned forward.

Chiron raised a hand for silence. “The Golden Fleece. A relic of immeasurable power, capable of healing any corruption, restoring life where rot has claimed it. It lies far to the south, guarded by dangers I do not care to name aloud. This is not a quest to be taken lightly. And yet…” His eyes lingered on the rotting tree visible through the window. “…it must be taken.”

Percy already knew where this was going. The Force had been whispering it all day. He braced himself as Chiron turned toward him.

“Percy Jackson,” Chiron said formally, “son of Poseidon, chosen of the Force — you are hereby charged with leading this quest. You will retrieve the Golden Fleece and restore the Tree. You will have companions of your choosing.”

The room erupted in whispers. Some voices sharp, some skeptical, others hopeful. Percy felt Annabeth’s hand squeeze his arm under the table, steady and reassuring. Tyson beamed like a kid at his first birthday cake.

Before Percy could respond, the air warped.

It began as a shimmer, like heat rising from asphalt. Then a ripple, like the surface of a disturbed pond. And then — as if he’d simply stepped sideways out of a fold in the world — Loki appeared in the middle of the room.

Campers jumped, hands flying to weapons. Qui-Gon’s lightsaber was in his hand before the shimmer had even died away, green blade lit but held low in warning.

Loki smiled, perfectly at ease. “Oh, don’t mind me. Just dropping in. I already heard about the quest. Charming bit of theater, by the way. Very stirring. Truly.”

Dionysus scowled. “I did not invite you into my camp.”

“You didn’t not invite me,” Loki said cheerfully, strolling toward the table. “And I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say. It concerns those poor children of your… what’s his name? Ah yes, Ares. The freshly dethroned.”

The Ares cabin stiffened in unison. Clarisse La Rue, their de facto leader, folded her arms, jaw tight.

Loki’s grin widened. “Now, now, don’t scowl at me. I’m here to offer a solution.” He leaned casually against the table, ignoring the fact that half the campers still looked ready to skewer him. “You’ve all been gnashing your teeth over what to do with them. Zeus stripped their father of his title, poor lambs. And that leaves a very dangerous question hanging in the air: what becomes of the war god’s brood?”

Chiron’s face was unreadable. Dionysus’s expression flickered, for once, with something that looked suspiciously like concern.

Percy narrowed his eyes. “And you’re here to answer that question.”

“Of course I am,” Loki said. He turned in a slow circle, letting his words fill the room. “I offer to take them. Every child of Ares who wishes it. I will forge them into something greater than mere bullies in a camp. They will become an elite unit — disciplined, unyielding, sharp as blades. Think Valkyries, if you must have a comparison.”

The Ares kids exchanged startled looks. Clarisse’s fists clenched, but there was fire in her eyes.

“No strings attached,” Loki continued smoothly. “Other than these: they will hold themselves to the highest standard. No more pushing allies into the dirt for amusement. No more swaggering thuggery. If they fight, they will fight with purpose. They will not shame themselves, their lineage, or the Starborn whose blade has earned even my respect.” He inclined his head briefly toward Percy.

The Force stirred. Percy felt the sincerity in Loki’s words, slippery though the trickster god was.

But then Loki’s smile sharpened. “Oh, and one more condition. They are never — ever — to accompany Thor on what he will doubtless call a ‘little errand.’ I mean that most sincerely. The man is a disaster with legs. If you want them to live long enough to forge legend, keep them far from his ideas of fun.”

A ripple of laughter, uneasy but genuine, spread through the room. Even Dionysus snorted into his Diet Coke.

But then all eyes turned to Clarisse.

Her shoulders were tight. Her face stormy. But Percy could see the calculations in her eyes, the longing buried beneath the stubborn pride. She wanted this. Wanted her siblings to be more than camp bullies, more than broken reflections of their father.

“Why would you do this?” she asked Loki, voice low and dangerous.

Loki’s expression softened — just a fraction. “Because I know what it is to be the castoff. The one no one trusts. The one burdened by another’s reputation. And because I see fire in you, little war child. Fire wasted on schoolyard scuffles.”

Clarisse’s throat bobbed.

Percy leaned forward, voice steady. “It’s your choice, Clarisse. Yours, and your cabin’s. But… he’s not wrong. You deserve better than being treated like weapons without a wielder. If you want this, I’ll back you. I’ll make sure Olympus does too.”

For a long moment, Clarisse said nothing. Then she looked back at her siblings, saw the mixture of fear and hope on their faces, and gave a sharp nod.

“We’ll do it.”

Loki’s smile gleamed. “Excellent.” He clapped his hands, and for a heartbeat, green fire flared around the Ares cabin. Not burning — reshaping. Marking. When the light faded, each of them bore a faint sigil on their armor: a stylized raven, wings spread wide.

“The first of my Raven Guard,” Loki said, satisfaction dripping from his voice. “Hold yourselves worthy, and the worlds will tremble at your coming.”

Then, as suddenly as he had arrived, Loki shimmered and vanished, leaving only the scent of ozone and the echo of his laughter.

The room sat in stunned silence.

Finally, Dionysus muttered, “Well. That’s going to bite us in the rear eventually.”

But Percy, watching the Ares kids’ faces — the way they stood straighter, the way Clarisse’s eyes blazed with something fierce and proud instead of bitter — thought maybe, just maybe, it was the right call.

And tomorrow, the quest would begin.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Ten: Ravens in the Night

Camp Half-Blood never truly slept. The night after Loki’s appearance, though, it felt like the entire camp held its breath.

The bonfire still smoldered down by the amphitheater. Embers floated skyward like red fireflies, tiny sparks vanishing into the vast summer dark. Most campers had retreated to their cabins, but Percy found himself wandering, barefoot, across the dew-slick grass toward the crest of Half-Blood Hill.

The tree loomed there, poisoned but unbroken, its branches still clawing stubbornly at the sky. Thalia’s tree… and something more. An offshoot of the World Tree, Kronos had said. A pillar of reality itself. Percy reached out, resting a palm against the bark. The poison hummed faintly beneath the surface, cold and hostile, but the Force stirred around it too, stubborn and defiant, as if the tree itself fought against its doom.

“Hang on,” Percy whispered. “Just a little longer. We’ll get you help.”

The night wind brushed against his face. He could hear the surf far below at the beach, distant and calming, Poseidon’s voice whispering through the tide. But his thoughts weren’t on the sea, or even on the quest tomorrow.

They were on Loki.

The trickster god’s laughter still echoed in his mind, but it wasn’t the kind of mocking laughter Percy had expected. It was lighter, warmer. And when Percy reached through the Force during that conversation, bracing himself for deceit, he’d felt… none. No oily slipperiness, no tangled skeins of manipulation. Just conviction. Genuine belief that the children of Ares deserved better, and that he would be the one to give it to them.

It unsettled Percy.

Annabeth had once warned him that tricksters always wore masks, and Loki was no exception. But the Force did not lie. And the Force had whispered: he means it.

So Percy sat there, cross-legged in the grass, watching the poisoned tree sway in the moonlight, and tried to reconcile the god he had just met with the reputation that trailed Loki like smoke.

He’d seen Clarisse’s face when she accepted. Fire in her eyes, but different fire — not the angry, defensive blaze he was used to. This was controlled. Purposeful. He could still feel her pride thrumming through the Force, but it was shaped into something sharp, something honed.

The Raven Guard.

Percy closed his eyes and let the night wash over him. The campfires, the distant snores of satyrs, the hum of life in the cabins. Then he turned his senses outward, stretching carefully until he brushed against the new constellation of minds in the Ares cabin.

They were awake. All of them. Sitting together in silence, the way soldiers might before their first battle. Their thoughts were a jumble — pride, fear, hope, determination. Clarisse anchored them, steady as an unlit torch waiting to be ignited. Loki’s mark had changed them, yes, but not corrupted them. It had given them something they hadn’t had before: a chance to redefine themselves.

And Percy, for all his skepticism, felt only truth there.

For the first time since Ares had lost his throne, Percy exhaled some of the tension knotted in his chest. The children of war would not be cast aside. They would not be punished for their father’s arrogance. They had a future — one forged under a god who, against all odds, truly cared what became of them.

Percy thought of Ares then, the look on his face when Percy had ripped the thief’s name from his mind. The way his fury had cracked into something almost like respect when Percy insisted his kids were not to blame.

“Your kids are in good hands,” Percy said softly, speaking into the night as though Ares could hear. “Better than either of us expected.”

A rustle behind him broke his thoughts.

Annabeth lowered herself onto the grass beside him, her Yankees cap dangling from her hand. Her expression was guarded, but her eyes softened when she saw where his gaze lingered.

“You’re thinking about the Ares kids.”

“Yeah.” Percy hesitated. “I… didn’t expect Loki to mean it.”

Annabeth tilted her head. “You’re sure he does?”

Percy nodded slowly. “The Force would’ve told me if he was lying. He wasn’t. Whatever else he is, he’ll look after them. Better than Ares did.”

Annabeth was silent for a long moment. The wind stirred her hair, silver in the moonlight.

“You know,” she said finally, “that might be the scariest thing about him.”

Percy blinked. “What?”

“That he told the truth,” Annabeth said. “Tricksters… when they tell the truth, that’s when you really have to watch them. Because they pick truths that cut deeper than lies.”

Percy frowned at that, but he couldn’t disagree.

Still, he looked back down the hill, toward the Ares cabin glowing faintly with torchlight, and couldn’t shake the sense of rightness. Loki wasn’t just making them soldiers. He was giving them dignity. A path forward. And Percy knew in his bones that Ares himself would’ve approved, in his own gruff way.

Annabeth leaned her head briefly against his shoulder, surprising him. “You did good today,” she said softly. “Even if it wasn’t your choice to make.”

Percy let out a long breath. “I just… I didn’t want them to end up paying for their dad. That’s not fair. That’s not—”

“—the Jedi way?” Annabeth teased gently.

Percy cracked a smile. “Something like that.”

They sat there in silence after that, two demigods on a hill under poisoned branches, listening to the wind sigh through the grass. Tyson’s snores drifted faintly from Poseidon’s cabin. Somewhere down at the lake, naiads sang a mournful lullaby.

The quest loomed ahead of them. The Golden Fleece, monsters, storms, and dangers Percy couldn’t even name yet. But tonight, with Annabeth beside him and the Force humming quiet reassurance in his chest, Percy let himself believe they could do it.

That tomorrow, when they set out into the unknown, they wouldn’t just be fighting for the tree.

They’d be fighting for the Raven Guard too.

For the kids of a god who had lost his place.

For everyone who still had a future to fight for.

And the Force whispered back: You are not alone.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Eleven: Shards of Ice

Dawn broke over Camp Half-Blood in streaks of rose and gold, but the morning air was heavy with tension. For the first time since Percy had arrived at camp, the chatter of demigods wasn’t playful or teasing. The hilltop bustled with preparations, packs being tightened, weapons checked, last-minute arguments whispered.

The poisoned tree loomed above them all, its branches drooping as though weighed down by shadow. Every camper’s eyes lingered on it, because they all knew: if the tree fell, so did their world.

Percy adjusted the straps of his pack and tried to steady his breathing. The Force hummed faintly around him, urging calm, but his stomach still churned. This was it. Today the quest for the Golden Fleece began.

And then the air changed.

Cold swept across the hill, not like a breeze but like the exhale of an ancient glacier. Frost bloomed in the grass at Percy’s feet. The very sunlight seemed to dim, as though morning itself paused to watch.

A horn sounded, deep and resonant, echoing off the cliffs and sea.

And then they came.

First was Loki, walking as though he owned the hilltop. His hair glinted like raven feathers, his green cloak shifting as if woven from smoke. Two Valkyries flanked him, armored in silver-and-blue, their wings folded tight. Behind them marched a half dozen figures Percy didn’t recognize at first — healers, he realized. Each carried staffs carved with runes, their eyes glowing faintly with power.

But the air didn’t still for them. It stilled for what followed.

Wings.

The beat of them shook the ground as a shadow fell across the hill. Campers stumbled back, gasping, as a creature of silver-blue scales landed just beyond the tree. It was a wyvern — no, Percy realized, more than that. This was not a beast, but a person, a presence in the Force so vast and cold it made the hair rise on Percy’s arms. Ice crystalized where its talons struck the ground.

And then another shadow.

Fire, storm, prophecy. A Royal Zmey descended in coils of smoke and thunder, its three heads hissing and roaring in perfect unison. Each maw flickered with flame, but Percy sensed more than fire within it: lightning crackled across its scales, and deep in its chest pulsed something older, stranger — the echo of destiny itself.

Gasps rose from the campers. Some drew their weapons instinctively, but Chiron raised his hand sharply.

“Hold,” he commanded. “These are not enemies.”

Loki smiled thinly. “Quite the opposite.”

He swept his gaze across the gathering, lingering briefly on Percy.

“The North does not gamble on single points of failure,” Loki said. “Even Jedi can fall. Even chosen ones can falter. When the parasite moves, it moves on many fronts. We will answer in kind.”

He gestured, and the Valkyries stepped forward, ushering a group Percy recognized immediately: Clarisse and half a dozen of her siblings. Their armor gleamed, newly polished, but there was something different about them too. Their postures were straighter, their eyes clearer. Not bullies, not angry half-trained demigods, but soldiers.

“The Raven Guard,” Loki said. “They will ride with us. We will seek the fleece as well. If one party fails, the other may yet succeed. Multiple blades, striking from many angles. That is how you cut down a foe that hides behind time.”

Clarisse’s chin lifted proudly. For the first time, Percy thought she looked exactly like what a daughter of war should.

But Loki wasn’t done.

He gestured again, this time to the healers.

“These are the best of the North,” he said. “They will remain here. Their task is not conquest, not glory, but time. They will weave wards, mend wounds, and hold this camp together until the fleece is found.” His gaze slid to Dionysus. “And when the tree falters, they will keep it standing one breath longer.”

Mr. D, for once, didn’t look bored. His face was pale, serious. He gave a sharp nod.

Then the wyvern stepped forward. Frost spiraled from its nostrils, coiling like smoke. Its voice was low and resonant, echoing like wind through a cavern.

“I am Veyrstras, Speaker of the White Council,” it said. “I will not leave this camp undefended. When your walls tremble, I will stand upon them. My breath will freeze the advance of those who dare assail this place. My flight will scour the skies clean. While I am here, the boundary will not fall easily.”

Its words carried no boast, only certainty. Percy felt the Force stir in agreement, the kind of stillness that came when truth was spoken aloud.

Then the Zmey reared back, all three heads roaring at once. Fire and storm lit the morning sky, crackling across the poisoned branches of Thalia’s tree. Its central head lowered, eyes glowing with prophetic fire.

“I am Zorya of the Stormcoil,” it rumbled. “Seer of turning skies. I will remain, not as an oracle, but as guide. My visions are not coerced, not stolen from the Force by violation, but freely given. Come to me when shadows cloud your path, and I will speak what storms reveal.”

A murmur rippled through the campers. An oracle… but not one bound in rot and curse. Percy felt a strange knot of relief in his chest loosen. Maybe the gods had just been handed something better than Delphi ever was.

The wyvern’s gaze swept across the two questing groups. Then it extended a talon, ice crystallizing into shards that shimmered like glass. One by one, it handed them out — to Percy, to Clarisse, to Annabeth, Grover, Tyson.

“Shards of my breath,” Veyrstras said. “They will not melt until the fleece returns. If one dissolves before the others, know that a party has failed.”

The shard Percy received was cold but not painful. Frost curled around his fingers, but the ice felt alive, steady, humming faintly with the same energy he’d sensed when the wyvern landed.

He closed his hand around it, and the Force whispered back: a tether, a safeguard, a warning.

Clarisse tucked hers into her armor. Their eyes met briefly. No words passed between them, but Percy thought he saw the faintest spark of respect there.

Loki’s smile widened. “So it is done. Two quests, one goal. The fleece will be found. The tree will stand. And when the parasite shows its hand again, Olympus will not stand alone.”

The Valkyries raised their spears in salute. The dragons roared, frost and flame mingling in a terrible harmony that shook the hill and sent every camper’s heart racing.

For the first time since Thalia’s tree had fallen ill, Camp Half-Blood felt something other than fear.

It felt ready.

Percy tightened his grip on the shard of ice, the sea-green blade of his saber heavy at his hip, and looked west.

The quest had begun.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Twelve: Warships of Witchfire

The day after the dragons came, Camp Half-Blood no longer felt like the same place.
The cabins still stood, the strawberry fields still shimmered in morning dew, and the campers still sparred in the arena. But the air was different — sharper, more urgent, humming with the knowledge that two great quests had been loosed upon the world.

And at the heart of it all was the newest Olympian, Hecate.

She had claimed her mantle as War Goddess in the middle of the gods’ council chamber with Percy as witness, her voice steady as she accepted the weight of a title none thought she would ever hold. She was untested in this role, yes, but Percy had seen her mind already — sharp, adaptive, not arrogant enough to think she could do everything alone. She knew war was never a game of one piece, but a web of contingencies.

So when the time came for the questing groups to depart, she was waiting at the shore.

The campers gathered at the beach, the Long Island Sound rippling under a steel-gray morning sky. Salt air mingled with woodsmoke as the last supplies were hauled down from the hill. Quigon circled high above, keeping watch like a living banner of dragon-scale and wings.

And waiting in the bay were two ships.

Not mortal ships. Not Greek triremes, either. These were something else.

The first was sleek and silver-black, its hull shaped like a crescent moon. Glyphs shimmered faintly along its sides, wards that hummed when Percy brushed them with his senses. The prow was crowned with a wolf’s head wrought from obsidian, its eyes burning faint green. Witchfire crackled faintly along its rigging, a promise of speed beyond wind or tide.

The second ship was heavier, broader, with armored plates fused into its hull. Runes glowed blood-red down its spine. Instead of sails, a vast banner streamed from its mast, marked with a burning circle — Hecate’s sigil. Its prow bore a bronze ram shaped like a serpent, and even at anchor, it radiated menace, as if it wanted battle.

Hecate herself stood on the shore between them, her cloak of starlight trailing in the sand. In her left hand, she held a staff topped with a burning torch. In her right, a chain of keys that rattled faintly as though eager.

“Two quests, two ships,” she said, her voice carrying across the beach. “The parasite’s games have begun. I will not allow Olympus to stumble into this war unarmed.”

Her gaze flicked over both groups — Percy, Annabeth, Grover, Tyson, Althea on one side; Clarisse and the Raven Guard on the other, with Loki and his Valkyries standing just behind them.

“You will not travel in borrowed vessels,” Hecate continued. “These are my gifts, and my first test as the god of war. One ship of shadow and subtlety, one of fire and force. Let us see which the Fates favor.”

She gestured.

“The Nyx’s Veil,” she said, pointing to the silver-black crescent ship. “Light as mist, swift as moonlight. She bends to subtlety, trickery, and those who fight with wit and guile. She will be yours, Perseus Jackson.”

The wolf-prowed vessel tilted slightly toward Percy as though bowing. Annabeth’s eyes gleamed at once, and Grover gave a nervous bleat. Tyson clapped loudly, unbothered by the witchfire sparks dancing along the ship’s lines.

Then Hecate’s staff flared.

“And the Phobos Wrath,” she said, pointing to the crimson-hulled warship. “Heavy of prow, thick of armor, relentless as the tide. She is a battering ram against enemy fleets, a bulwark against storm and arrow alike. She will be yours, Clarisse La Rue.”

The ship bellowed — not with horn or whistle, but a deep vibration in the water itself, like the growl of some ancient leviathan. The Raven Guard shouted approval, beating spear to shield. Clarisse’s grin was feral.

Loki inclined his head, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “A fitting gift. The North will recognize her as a worthy steed.”

The campers whispered among themselves. Two warships, conjured out of nothing but the will of a newly made goddess. It was a declaration: Hecate wasn’t just filling Ares’ empty seat. She intended to prove herself.

Mr. D strolled up with a soda can, eyeing the ships as though inspecting used cars. “Lovely. Very dramatic. I assume this means both parties will be gone for weeks? Good. Perhaps I’ll finally get a moment’s peace.”

“You’ll get nothing of the sort,” Hecate said sharply. “I am not Ares. I do not plan for failure. These ships will bring them where they must go, and if fate itself resists, then fate will burn.”

Dionysus rolled his eyes and popped the tab. “War gods. So touchy.”

When the time came to board, Percy paused at the gangway of the Nyx’s Veil. The Force hummed faintly beneath his palm as he touched the hull. It wasn’t alive like Quigon, but it wasn’t dead wood and iron, either. The ship had… presence.

“I know you,” Percy murmured softly. “You’re meant for ghosts and shadows. For striking where no one looks.”

The ship creaked in response, a low, almost approving sound. Annabeth brushed past him with an impatient huff.

“You can have your spiritual bonding moment later,” she said. “Right now, I need to map every inch of this deck before we set sail.”

Grover followed nervously, clutching the shard of Veyrstras’ ice like a talisman. Tyson bounded up after, grinning so wide it was infectious.

“Big brother ship!” Tyson announced, patting the rail. “Like Quigon but with no wings!”

Althea lingered beside Percy, her gaze lingering on the ship’s wards. “It’s clever. The runes feed on moonlight. At night, we’ll be invisible.” She looked up at him. “But stealth won’t stop the fleece from being guarded.”

Percy nodded grimly. “No. That’s where the Force will come in.”

On the other ship, Clarisse bellowed orders like a seasoned captain, her siblings scrambling to their stations. The Phobos Wrath rumbled underfoot as though pleased by her command. Loki stood near the prow, speaking softly with two of his Valkyries. The Raven Guard already looked sharper, tighter, their arrogance redirected into discipline.

The contrast between the two parties couldn’t have been clearer: one ship ghostly, quiet, its crew a mismatched handful. The other loud, armored, bristling with warriors.

Hecate raised her staff, torch blazing like a new star.

“Two quests set forth,” she intoned. “Two paths toward the same goal. Let no storm break you, let no monster sway you, let no trick of fate divide you. By witchfire and war-craft, I bless these ships.”

Her torch flared, and both vessels glowed briefly — runes brightening, wards locking into place. Then the flame dimmed, leaving only the sea breeze and the hiss of tide.

“Go,” Hecate said simply.

The lines were cut. Sails unfurled. Witchfire caught the wind and bent it to the ships’ will.

The Nyx’s Veil glided forward silently, so smooth it seemed to ride the air as much as the water. The Phobos Wrath roared, a shockwave of crimson light bursting from its ram as it surged ahead.

Campers cheered from the shore. Quigon circled above once, then banked back inland to guard the skies over Thalia’s tree.

Percy stood at the stern of the Nyx’s Veil, hand on the rail, watching the camp grow smaller behind them. His shard of ice was cold in his pocket. The Force whispered around him, a warning and a promise:

The sea is waiting. The fleece is waiting. And so is the storm.

Beside him, Annabeth unrolled a map. Grover muttered prayers to Pan. Tyson waved enthusiastically to the campers until they vanished from sight.

And Percy Skywalker-Jackson, reborn Jedi, set his gaze westward.

The quest had truly begun.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Thirteen: The Monster in the Fog

The Phobos Wrath plowed westward like a living fortress, its crimson-warded sails billowing even against the wind. Every plank thrummed with Hecate’s witchfire; Clarisse swore she could feel the ship’s heartbeat beneath her boots. The Raven Guard had taken to the vessel as though born to it, spears glinting, eyes sharp.

For the first time in weeks, Clarisse felt something close to pride. Not the empty kind she’d barked to prove herself before — but the kind that came from discipline. The Valkyries Loki had left with them were relentless in drilling her half-brothers and sisters, and though they grumbled, the Ares cabin had begun to sharpen. No more swagger without strength. No more bullying. They looked like a unit now.

Clarisse grinned to herself, gripping her spear.

“Captain!” one of the younger Raven Guard called from the foredeck. “There’s something strange in the water. The waves are pulling wrong.”

Clarisse strode forward, boots pounding the deck. She squinted out over the Sound. At first she saw nothing but the pale swells of morning tide. Then the waves twisted — rolling inward against themselves as though something massive moved beneath.

The water bulged.

A low hum filled the air, like the crackle of stormclouds on the horizon. Clarisse’s skin prickled.

Then the sea exploded.

A head burst forth — serpentine, scaled, lightning flickering between its fangs. Then another. Then three more. Each dripped seawater like molten lead. Their eyes glowed white. Their breath seared the air.

“A hydra,” muttered one of the Valkyries grimly, drawing her winged blade. “No—worse. A dracohydra.”

The campers froze. A hydra was bad enough. But this one wasn’t just climbing from the sea.

Wings.

Great, leathery wings unfurled from its back, scattering foam and spray as the monster lifted itself clear of the water. Its five heads hissed in chorus, each different: one spitting sparks of lightning, another venting a fog so thick it swallowed the ship’s bow, a third inhaling as though preparing to exhale something worse.

Clarisse’s grip tightened on her spear. “Positions!” she barked. “Shields up! Ballista crews, load!”

The Raven Guard scrambled, forming a shield wall along the port side as the monster circled. The Phobos Wrath shuddered as its enchanted ballistae locked into place, their runes glowing.

Then the fog rolled in.

It wasn’t normal fog. It came too fast, too heavy, a wall of blinding white that swallowed sea and sky. Within seconds the horizon was gone. Even the sails above disappeared in the haze. Clarisse could barely see the deck beneath her boots.

“Stay tight!” she roared. “Don’t break formation—”

A blast of force slammed into the ship, hurling half a dozen campers off their feet. One of the Raven Guard went tumbling overboard before a Valkyrie’s chain snared him midair. The dracohydra had exhaled a pulse of raw repulsion, a shockwave that threw the Phobos Wrath sideways across the waves.

“By the council,” one Valkyrie hissed, eyes narrowed into the mist. “It was made. Crafted. Nothing natural moves like this.”

Lightning forked through the fog — not from the sky, but from the hydra’s jaws. The bolt cracked across the deck, searing a ballista crew where they stood. Wood splintered. Smoke rose.

Clarisse’s rage boiled.

“Open fire!” she screamed.

The ballistae thudded, their enchanted bolts streaking into the fog. Two hit — Clarisse heard the monster bellow as iron punched into scale. But the other three shots whistled into nothing, vanishing into the haze.

Then the heads lunged.

A massive jaw snapped down over the railing, fangs grinding against shields. A second head struck from starboard, jaws seizing a camper’s shield and tearing it away like paper. A third spat acid — sizzling green — that ate through the deck planks in seconds.

Clarisse drove her spear into the lightning-breathing head as it lunged. The enchanted tip sparked, crackling against scale. The head reeled back with a hiss, leaving a smoking gouge in its neck.

“Hold!” she barked. “This is our proving ground! Show me you’re not cowards!”

The Raven Guard roared in unison, slamming shields together. The Valkyries dove into the fog, blades flashing like streaks of starlight, slashing at the monster’s heads as they darted through.

Still, the fog pressed thicker. Clarisse’s eyes watered, her lungs burned. The hydra was unseen, except when its fangs or claws tore through the haze.

She knew this game. It was trying to blind them, scatter them, make them fight like mortals.

“Not today.” Clarisse planted her spear against the deck and shouted: “Wrath! Burn this fog off!”

The ship answered.

The serpent prow blazed, runes igniting red-hot. Fire roared from its ram, not into the sea but into the sky — a fan of witchfire that blasted outward. The fog screamed as it burned away, shredded by crimson flame.

And there it was: the monster in full.

Wings beating. Five heads snapping. Its body long as three triremes, coils gleaming with sea-brine. Its lightning head sparked again, charging for another strike.

Clarisse bared her teeth.

“You think you scare me? You picked the wrong warship.”

She charged.

Her spear struck the lightning head first, driving into its throat with a crack. The head reeled, shrieking, before collapsing into smoke — only to sprout two more from its neck stump.

The campers faltered. Hydra rules. You cut one head, two more grow.

Clarisse snarled. “Don’t stop! Keep them busy!”

The Raven Guard surged. Spears jabbed. Arrows flew. A Valkyrie pinned the acid-spitting head with her blade, wings straining as it thrashed. Another dove beneath a snapping jaw, carving runes into its scales.

The hydra screeched, wings battering the sails. Its repulsion breath blasted again, shaking the deck. Campers fell, but the shield wall held. The Phobos Wrath groaned but did not break.

Clarisse fought like a storm. She didn’t care about the heads — not yet. She aimed for the body. Spear thrust after spear thrust hammered into its chest, each blow driving deeper. She screamed with every strike, rage and pride burning together.

One Raven Guard went down. Then another. Acid hissed across the deck. Lightning burned the sails.

But Clarisse refused to give ground.

“You think fog makes you clever?” she spat, spear flashing again. “You think wings make you mighty? I am Clarisse La Rue, daughter of Ares — and this is my ship!”

She drove her spear one last time into the hydra’s heart.

The monster convulsed, heads thrashing wildly. The fog thickened, then broke apart in a violent gust. The lightning head shrieked, firing a wild bolt that seared the sky. Then the body began to crumble.

The dracohydra dissolved into golden dust, screaming with unnatural rage.

But unlike other monsters, this one did not simply vanish.

As it collapsed, the dust twisted upward — and formed a symbol in the air.

Red. Burning.

An infinity mark.

The same Percy had described after the minotaur hybrid.

The crew went silent, watching the shape hang there. It pulsed once, twice, then sank into the sea with a hiss.

The battlefield was quiet.

Clarisse breathed hard, chest heaving, armor scorched. Her siblings stared at her. The Valkyries exchanged grim glances.

“That…” one whispered. “That was no natural spawn. It was made. Forged.”

Clarisse clenched her jaw, spear still smoking. “Then whoever’s making them,” she growled, “just picked a fight with me.”

The Phobos Wrath limped westward, sails tattered, deck scorched but intact. The Raven Guard worked in silence, patching what they could. A few were wounded badly, but the Valkyrie healers tended them.

Clarisse stood at the prow, staring at the water where the infinity mark had faded. Her hand trembled slightly on her spear. Not from fear. From fury.

A hydra that breathed lightning. That could throw soldiers with its breath. That could see through fog only it cast.

That wasn’t just an enemy. That was a declaration.

The parasite had made a new kind of monster — and it had sent it for her.

“Good,” she muttered under her breath. “Then we’ll burn every last one they make.”

The Phobos Wrath surged onward, crimson light gleaming from its ram like a beacon.

The war had only just begun.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Fourteen: The Darkness Within

The Nyx’s Veil cut through the waves like a silent dagger. Unlike Clarisse’s ship, this one was darker, sleeker, stitched from nightshade timbers Hecate had coaxed into existence. Its sails shimmered faintly, a star-flecked black that blended into the sky. To any mortal eye, it was invisible — more shadow than wood.

Percy leaned on the rail, watching the sea stretch endlessly west. His stomach knotted. The fleece was out there, and so was whatever had poisoned Thalia’s tree. And now, with Loki’s warning fresh in his mind, Percy knew they weren’t just racing monsters. They were racing time.

A warm hand tapped his shoulder. Tyson, grinning wide, held up a fish he had caught barehanded. “Brother, look! Lunch!”

Percy couldn’t help smiling. Tyson’s joy was infectious — simple, earnest, utterly unshakable. In him, Percy saw what Ahsoka had once been in the war: light in the middle of a storm.

But the smile faded when Percy felt it.

A pulse.

The Force shifted — not with the whisper of the sea or the hum of the wind, but with something jagged. Wrong. The deck trembled faintly beneath his feet. The sails groaned.

Annabeth stiffened beside him, fingers tightening on her dagger. “You feel that too?”

“Yes,” Percy said grimly. “Something’s here.”

The Nyx’s Veil slowed. Not because the wind died — the enchanted sails moved themselves — but because reality itself seemed to resist. The sea thickened. The horizon bent.

Then it came.

Not a monster breaching the waves. Not a storm overhead.

Darkness.

It seeped across the deck like ink spilled from nowhere, tendrils curling between the crew’s feet, slithering up the mast. The air grew colder, heavier, thick with the taste of iron.

Althea dropped to one knee, clutching her head. “Something’s—inside me. Pulling—”

Grover’s eyes went wide, pupils shrinking. He bleated once in terror before gripping his reed pipes so hard his knuckles whitened.

Annabeth staggered, her breath coming sharp and shallow. She shook her head violently, muttering, “No. No. Not again. I won’t fail them again—”

The crew was unraveling.

Percy spun, heart racing. He saw it now: shadows weren’t just shadows anymore. They were shapes. Annabeth was staring into the face of an older Luke Castellan, his smirk cruel, his eyes full of betrayal. Grover’s shaking gaze was locked on Pan, turning his back and walking away forever. Althea sobbed as she saw her mother — cold, rejecting, telling her she had been a mistake.

Each of them was fighting their own nightmare.

Tyson blinked once, tilted his head, then giggled. “This is silly. None of this is real.”

The illusions hissed and recoiled, unable to catch on his simple, sunny heart.

And then Quigon Skywalker roared.

The drakon’s bellow shook the sea itself, a sound so deep Percy felt it in his bones. Shadows shattered in the air, splitting like glass. Annabeth gasped, her dagger suddenly free of tremors. Grover blinked hard, the pipes slipping from his hands as he realized Pan was not before him. Althea sucked in a breath, the imagined figure of her mother crumbling into dust.

The illusions broke.

For everyone—

Except Percy.

His shadow didn’t dissolve.

It thickened. Coalesced. Rose from the deck like molten iron cooling into form. A towering shape armored in black. A mask breathing deep, mechanical and slow. A crimson blade igniting with a hiss that made Percy’s heart seize.

Vader.

The others stumbled back, horror on their faces. But Percy felt the cold recognition burn through him. This wasn’t an illusion. Not entirely. This was his darkness.

Vader raised the red blade. “You cannot run from yourself.”

Percy drew his lightsaber in answer. The sea-green blade burst forth with a hiss, casting pale light over the deck. He lifted it in salute — not to honor, but to acknowledge.

“I’m not you,” Percy said, voice low.

Vader’s reply was a hum like thunder. “You are me. Every choice you make is borrowed from my rage. Every strength you wield was forged in my fire. You were Anakin Skywalker before you were this boy. You were me before you were ever him.”

He struck.

The deck rang as their sabers clashed — green against red, sparks spraying. Percy reeled from the sheer weight of the blow. Vader’s strength was monstrous, each strike meant to crush, not duel. Percy staggered backward, meeting strike after strike, his arms trembling.

“Feel it,” Vader said, voice booming through the mask. “The power. The anger. You have it still. Use it. Claim it.”

“No.” Percy locked their blades and shoved back, boots grinding against the deck. “I learned from you. From your mistakes. From what you let yourself become.”

Vader twisted, hurling Percy across the deck. The boy rolled, came up fast, blade ready. Vader advanced, red glow cutting through the mist.

“You are me,” Vader growled, “and you will always return.”

Percy’s eyes blazed. He braced his saber and shouted with all the strength in him:

“NEVER! I am a Jedi. Just like my son!”

The words rang across the sea like a bell.

Vader faltered. Just for an instant. His form wavered, his mask flickering as if beneath it was something — someone — struggling to be seen.

Anakin Skywalker’s eyes.

Then the shadow screamed. The parasite recoiled. The illusion shattered into black smoke, ripped apart by Percy’s declaration.

Percy staggered, chest heaving, saber still lit. The deck was silent except for the sound of the waves.

Annabeth reached for him, wide-eyed. “Percy—”

But Percy shook his head, lowering his saber. He watched the last wisp of Vader dissolve into nothing, and in that moment he knew:

The parasite had tried to twist him with the one shadow that could break him.

And he had won.

For now.

The rest of the voyage was silent. Even Tyson, usually so bubbly, seemed sobered. The illusions had struck deep. Everyone carried scars from them, even if the wounds weren’t visible.

But Percy felt different.

Stronger.

For the first time, he wasn’t afraid of Anakin’s shadow.

Because he wasn’t Anakin.

He was Percy Jackson.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Fifteen: The Maw of Darkness

The Sea of Monsters was never supposed to be easy. Everyone had told Percy that: Chiron, Annabeth, even Dionysus in one of his snide moments. But nothing — not the cyclopean dodgeball game, not poisoned trees, not even facing down his own darkness as Vader on the deck of the Nyx’s Veil — had prepared him for this.

It started subtly.

The air stilled, the sails stuttering. The horizon, once sharp, blurred into haze. The water grew colder, heavy with brine and rot. Tyson wrinkled his nose. “Smells like… dead fish. Bad dead fish.”

“No,” Percy said, his stomach twisting as the Force screamed. “Not fish. Worse.”

The sky dimmed unnaturally, blackness dripping downward like ink poured into water. Stars winked out. Even the moon’s glow was swallowed. The world shrank until only the Veil and Clarisse’s Phobos’ Wrath could be seen, their hulls glowing faint against the void.

Annabeth whispered, “This isn’t night. This is… wrong.”

Then the reek hit them. A stench of rot, like corpses piled under a burning sun, laced with something fouler — something alien. The deck creaked beneath them as if recoiling. Grover gagged, covering his nose with both hands.

And then came the guardians.

From the blackened waters rose shapes — first tentacles, writhing and slick, then claws like hooked anchors. Scylla. Six heads broke the surface, each jaw lined with needle fangs, each neck stretching impossibly long, eyes glowing with a hunger that pierced the void. She screeched, a sound like steel dragged against bone, rattling the rigging.

Her sibling stirred in the depths. Charybdis — though what showed was not just a whirlpool but a gaping, endless maw, rimmed with teeth like ship masts, sucking the sea itself into its hunger.

“Entrance guardians,” Annabeth muttered, pale as ash. “Of course.”

Clarisse’s ship faltered, its sails twisting. A wave slammed into its hull, shoving it toward the waiting teeth.

Quigon roared from above.

The drakon dove, wings slicing the fog, his sinuous body wrapping around the hull of the Phobos’ Wrath. The ship shuddered under his coils as his claws dug into its planks. His eyes, slit-pupiled and unblinking, scanned the void not with sight but with something deeper — a serpentine awareness Percy could almost feel through the Force.

“He’s pulling them out,” Annabeth breathed.

Indeed, Quigon heaved, hauling the ship bodily through the thick darkness, his wings straining, his muscles coiling like steel cables. The Wrath lurched, then steadied, dragged away from Charybdis’ pull.

But Scylla wasn’t done. Her heads shot toward the Veil like striking vipers.

Percy felt them before he saw them. The Force screamed warnings, sharp and clear. He grabbed the wheel.

“I’ve got it,” he barked.

Annabeth whipped around. “Percy—”

But he was already moving. His hands weren’t steering wood and rope — they were conducting currents of the Force, feeling every vibration in the water, every ripple in the dark.

The Veil spun, sails cracking. One of Scylla’s heads lunged — Percy cut the rudder left, and it snapped just short of the mast. Another came from starboard — Percy hauled right, ducking beneath its fangs. Lightning crackled in the black sky, a flash illuminating the six serpentine necks striking in unison.

He was already moving, already gone, every adjustment precise, every dodge perfect. The Force flowed through him, warning him fractions of a second before each strike. The Veil danced across the water like it wasn’t a ship at all but a shadow, untouchable.

Tyson whooped. “Brother’s flying! Brother’s flying good!”

“Understatement!” Grover yelped as one of Scylla’s heads barely missed him.

On the Phobos’ Wrath, things were worse. Charybdis opened wider, pulling the sea itself downward. The ship tilted, straining toward the abyss. Quigon screeched, wings beating frantically as he pulled, but even his strength faltered against the pull of that endless maw.

Then Loki appeared.

He rose from the deck like a streak of green fire, his staff blazing with runes that burned against the unnatural dark. His voice boomed across both ships.

“HOLD THE LINE!”

He slammed the staff down. A wall of shimmering gold-green light erupted around the Phobos’ Wrath, encasing it like a cocoon. The whirlpool’s pull lessened, the ship stabilizing.

But Loki staggered, his teeth bared in effort. “It won’t hold unless you give me strength! ALL of you!”

Clarisse’s crew looked at each other — then one by one, they dropped weapons, planting hands on the deck, on Loki, on each other. Energy surged — demigod power, godly fire, sheer will — pouring into Loki’s spell. The barrier thickened, golden light forcing back the maw’s pull.

Charybdis roared, waves exploding outward.

On the Veil, Percy caught the shift. One of Scylla’s heads darted again, this time low, snapping for the rudder. Percy reached with the Force — not just sensing but pushing. The rudder swung wide, the head closing on empty sea.

Another strike came from above. Percy raised his saber, the sea-green blade cutting through the gloom, and slashed. The tip of the beast’s snout sheared away, black ichor spraying into the water. Scylla shrieked, all six heads recoiling in rage.

“Keep her busy!” Annabeth shouted, voice sharp with fear and command alike. “If you falter for one second—”

“I won’t,” Percy said, his voice steady even as sweat stung his eyes.

The sea twisted, Scylla circling, Charybdis sucking harder. Quigon strained, Loki howled, Percy guided the Veil like a dancer on the knife’s edge. The darkness pressed tighter, suffocating, as if the sea itself wanted them gone.

And then —

The passage opened.

It wasn’t light, not exactly. But the reek lessened. The sea smoothed. Ahead, the fog thinned into something breathable. A path.

Percy saw it and shoved the Veil forward with every ounce of Force he had. The ship surged. Behind them, Quigon bellowed one last time, hurling the Wrath after them, Loki’s barrier straining but holding until both ships burst into clearer waters.

The world snapped back.

The stars shone again. The moon gleamed. The unnatural stench dissipated into salt air.

The Sea of Monsters had let them pass.

The crews collapsed, gasping. On the Veil, Annabeth leaned against the mast, pale but alive. Grover was sprawled on the deck, panting. Tyson grinned ear to ear, though his hair smoked from a lightning strike that had missed Percy by inches.

Percy sheathed his saber, hands trembling. His eyes went to the Wrath. Clarisse was standing tall at her prow, her crew drained but unbroken. Loki leaned on his staff, face drawn, but his smirk returned when he saw Percy watching. He raised a hand in salute.

Percy saluted back.

They had survived.

But in his bones, Percy knew: this was only the entrance.

The true horrors of the Sea of Monsters lay ahead.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Sixteen: Ghosts of Metal and Memory

The sea had been deceptively calm after they passed Scylla and Charybdis, too calm for anyone’s liking. The Nyx’s Veil slid forward across glassy black waters that reflected the stars with perfect clarity.

Percy stood at the prow, staring ahead, senses stretched thin. His stomach hadn’t unclenched since they’d cleared the entrance. The Force hummed faintly, restless, like the whisper of wind through a canyon.

“Something’s out there,” Percy muttered.

Behind him, Annabeth lifted her lantern shielded with bronze. “Sea of Monsters. Something’s always out there.”

“No,” Percy said. He turned his head just so, catching a faint ripple in the Force, a shiver along its current. “This is… different. Familiar.”

Annabeth frowned, following his gaze. “All I see is wreckage.”

She wasn’t wrong. Rising out of the sea ahead was the twisted skeleton of a shipwreck, massive, half-submerged in the black water. Its curved hull jutted upward like the ribcage of some drowned leviathan. Seaweed draped across it. Barnacles dotted its flanks. It looked old — older than even the oldest triremes Percy had ever seen — and utterly alien.

Clarisse’s Phobos’ Wrath had passed the wreck earlier, their lookouts noting it but wisely steering clear. But Percy froze the second he saw the silhouette. His hand clenched tight on the rail.

“That’s not a wreck,” Percy whispered. “That’s a battleship.”

Annabeth gave him a sharp look. “Greek? Roman?”

Percy shook his head. “Neither.”

He drew a breath. The words tasted heavy. “That’s a Lucrehulk-class battleship. A Trade Federation control ship. Droid army carrier. Clone Wars era.”

Annabeth blinked. “You’re speaking English, but I don’t understand a word you just said.”

Tyson leaned closer, big eye squinting. “Looks like… round donut? Donuts don’t sink.”

Percy almost laughed. Almost. “That ‘donut’ used to command armies of droids across the galaxy. I fought in battles to destroy these things.”

The weight of it settled in his chest. A Trade Federation battleship, here, in the Sea of Monsters. The war he thought he’d left light-years behind… drifting in Earth’s most cursed waters.

“I have to check it,” Percy said firmly.

“Of course you do,” Annabeth sighed. “Why wouldn’t you? It’s only a nightmare metal hulk rotting in the most dangerous sea in existence.”

Grover whimpered. “Can we vote no?”

But Percy was already moving, summoning the Force, guiding the Veil’s course. As they neared, the wreck loomed larger, its broken hull towering over the ship like a cliff face.

The water shifted. A metallic clank echoed. Then — movement.

With a hiss and a splash, a hatch in the side of the wreck burst open. Figures emerged, rising from the water, climbing onto the Veil’s deck with eerie coordination.

Eight of them.

Tall, spindly, humanoid, their metal plating slick with brine. Most bore the distinct skeletal design Percy remembered all too well — B1 aqua battle droids, their heads narrow and their limbs angular. But at their front stood something else: a commando droid, taller, armored in dark alloy, eyes glowing red like twin coals.

Every weapon on deck was drawn. Annabeth’s dagger flashed, Grover readied his reed pipes, Tyson hefted a makeshift club. Percy, however, didn’t move.

Because the droids hadn’t raised their weapons.

Instead, the commando droid’s glowing eyes locked on Percy’s face, and it said in a voice metallic but strangely… hopeful:

“A Jedi! We’re saved!”

The words hit Percy like a hammer.

Grover nearly fell backward. “Did… did the killer skeleton robot just say saved?”

The battle droids clattered their way into a sloppy but unmistakable salute. Their leader stepped forward, straight-backed despite seaweed clinging to its chassis.

“Designation BX-412,” it said crisply. “Commander of what remains of the 108th Aquatic Battalion, under orders from the Rebel Alliance. We seek immediate extraction and tactical support.”

Percy blinked. “Hold up. Rebel Alliance? Not Separatist?”

The commando’s eyes dimmed briefly, a gesture Percy recognized almost as weariness. “Negative. The Confederacy is long defeated. Our battalion was decommissioned. Reactivated by Rebel commander Wedge Antilles for independent scouting operations. Orders: secure potential bases in uncharted sectors. Report findings. Establish a beachhead for the Alliance.”

Annabeth squinted. “You mean… they’re not hostile?”

“Affirmative,” said BX-412. “Hostile only to Imperial assets and parasites.”

Percy stiffened at that word. Parasites.

Annabeth noticed, of course. Her sharp gray eyes darted to Percy, silently demanding an explanation. But Percy kept his focus on the droid.

“What happened to your ship?” he asked.

“Hyperdrive and outgoing communications disabled by ion storm,” BX-412 replied. “Attempted emergency exit. Navigation failed. Crash-landed in this sector. Analysis: not normal space. Gravity distortions. Environmental hostility. This location is… not viable for base construction.”

“No kidding,” Grover muttered.

One of the aqua droids shuffled forward, its head tilting. “Sir? This place… it’s bad. The water talks. The shadows move. One of our patrols never came back.”

“Monsters,” Tyson said gravely.

“Yes,” the droid said, and for once its flat mechanical tone carried something like dread. “Monsters.”

Percy ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t believe this. Of all the wrecks in all the oceans, it had to be one from the galaxy he thought he’d left behind. And not just relics — but droids, still functional, claiming allegiance to the Rebellion.

He felt Annabeth’s hand on his shoulder. “You know them.”

Percy nodded slowly. “Yeah. They were… enemies. Once. Tools of war. But if Wedge really reactivated them… the Rebellion trusted them. And if they’re here—”

“Then the war found its way here too,” Annabeth finished grimly.

Percy met the commando’s red eyes. “You said you’re under Wedge Antilles’ command. He sent you out here?”

“Affirmative,” BX-412 said. “Mission priority: find base. Preserve Alliance. Resist the Empire. We cannot complete that mission here. Requesting new orders, Jedi.”

And just like that, Percy realized what was happening.

The battalion had no commander anymore. They’d followed the last man to activate them, Wedge, but with their ship crippled and comms gone, they were stranded. And now, seeing him, a Jedi — the programming written into them since the Clone Wars reasserted itself.

They saw him as authority. They saw him as their way out.

They saw him as hope.

Percy swallowed hard. For the first time in years, he felt the old weight of command pressing onto his shoulders, the one he thought had died with Vader.

He took a slow breath. “Alright. Then I guess you’re with us now.”

The commando droid straightened, saluting again. “Understood, General. Orders?”

Grover squeaked. “Oh gods, they’re calling him General.”

Tyson pumped a fist. “Brother has robot army now!”

Annabeth pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

Percy didn’t disagree. But as the night sea rocked the Veil, and the droids settled awkwardly onto the deck like they actually belonged, Percy couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow — impossibly — they did.

Because if the Rebel Alliance had found its way here… then this fight was so much bigger than Olympus.

And Percy Jackson, Jedi or not, was right in the middle of it.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Seventeen: Rising from the Abyss

The droids weren’t wrong: the Lucrehulk was a tomb.

From the outside it looked half-drowned, seaweed clinging like shrouds across its hull. Inside, Percy sensed flickering sparks of power — scattered droid brains, reawakened by some stubborn fragment of circuitry. But they were trapped, blind, their sensors dead, their processors slowly corroding in saltwater.

If he left it, the wreck would sink deeper, carrying everything inside into oblivion.

The Force whispered.

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a call.

“Percy?” Annabeth’s voice was low, cautious. “What are you thinking?”

Percy didn’t answer right away. He was standing at the edge of the deck, staring at the tilted hulk. His hand hovered just above the railing, fingers flexing, as if he could already feel the weight of the ship pressing against his palm.

“The droids on board,” Percy said at last. “There are hundreds. Maybe thousands. Their power sources are holding — barely. But they can’t leave. Not here. Not in this sea.”

Grover shifted nervously. “So what, we… row in, knock on the door, ask them to come out?”

“They can’t,” Percy said. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, they weren’t sea-green. They were hard, sharp, focused in a way that made Annabeth’s breath catch. “Not without help.”

Tyson’s single eye widened. “Brother?”

Percy took a deep breath. Then he spread both hands wide and reached.

The Force roared through him like a storm tide.

Annabeth stumbled back as the air around Percy shimmered, the deck groaning under invisible pressure. Tyson gasped. Grover squeaked in panic. Even the droids froze, their mechanical bodies clicking as sensors tried to process what they were seeing.

From the depths of the Sea of Monsters, the Lucrehulk shuddered.

Water cascaded from its barnacled hull in rivulets. A deep groan echoed across the waves as ancient metal protested. Barnacles cracked. Weeds tore free. Slowly — impossibly — the colossal ring-shaped battleship rose.

Percy’s arms trembled, but his eyes stayed locked on the ship. The Force flooded through him in a tidal surge, every ounce of will and training bending toward one impossible task: lift.

“Holy—” Annabeth cut herself off, too stunned for words.

The Nyx’s Veil rocked violently as the Lucrehulk broke the surface, water streaming from its bulk like waterfalls. The sheer size of it blotted out the stars — a floating city, a titan’s wheel dragged up by the hands of one demigod.

“Brother!” Tyson bellowed in delight. “Brother is strongest!”

“He’s insane,” Grover squealed, clutching the mast.

On the wreck itself, metal screeched as engines long-dead coughed to life. Percy wasn’t just lifting — he was guiding, nudging systems awake, coaxing dormant circuits to flicker back online.

The glow of sublight drives sparked across the underside. Not full thrust, not even stable — but enough. Enough to give the ship buoyancy. Enough to let it breathe again.

The commando droid BX-412 took a sharp step forward, its red eyes burning. “Impossible. Mass exceeds Jedi lifting capacity. Even at peak Clone Wars estimates.”

“Do you want me to put it back?” Percy muttered through clenched teeth.

The droid’s head snapped. “Negative! Maintain course of action!”

Annabeth finally found her voice. “Percy, you’re— you’re lifting a battleship. A battleship! That’s— that’s impossible.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “The Force doesn’t care about impossible.”

For a heartbeat, he swore he heard another voice, deep and resonant, from years ago: Impressive. Most impressive.

He shoved the memory aside. He wasn’t doing this for Vader’s approval.

With a final surge, Percy dragged the Lucrehulk free of the sea. It floated now, listing but stable, water pouring from its wounds in glittering cascades. Its engines sputtered, weak but functional.

And from the battered hull, hatches opened.

Droids poured out — aqua droids, commando units, maintenance types. Hundreds of them, clambering onto exterior plating, their photoreceptors glowing faint in the night. They didn’t march like an army. They just stood, staring out across the sea.

Staring at Percy.

A metallic chorus rose, fractured voices uniting:

“General! General! General!”

The chant rattled across the waves, echoing from droid vocoders in a sound that was equal parts mechanical and reverent.

Percy staggered, catching himself on the railing. The Force dimmed, ebbing like a tide after a storm. Sweat slicked his brow. His arms ached like he’d just carried Olympus itself.

Annabeth was beside him in an instant, steadying him. “Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” Percy panted. His eyes were still locked on the massive ship floating where it had no business floating. “I had to. If I left them, they’d rust. They’d… die.”

“Percy.” Annabeth’s tone softened. She wasn’t scolding, not this time. Just… seeing him. “You’re carrying too much.”

He gave a weak laugh. “Story of my life.”

The commando droid stepped forward, saluting crisply. “BX-412 reporting. Ship buoyant. Engine integrity minimal. Structural damage: severe. But thanks to Jedi intervention, survival possible.” Its head tilted, scanning Percy. “Correction. Survival assured.”

Grover swallowed. “We… we just adopted an army, didn’t we?”

Percy looked at the rising hulk, then at the dozens — no, hundreds — of glowing photoreceptors watching him with unwavering mechanical faith.

“Not an army,” Percy said. His voice was hoarse, but steady. “A responsibility.”

Annabeth’s eyes softened. She didn’t say it, but she knew what he meant.

This wasn’t about power. It was about lives — metal or not.

The Lucrehulk floated, engines sputtering weak light across the waves, a ghost resurrected.

And Percy Jackson, Jedi and demigod, stood at its heart — commander of a war he never asked for, bound again to soldiers who saw him as salvation.

The sea itself seemed to pause, as if even the monsters were holding their breath.

Because something had just changed.

The galaxy’s war had found its way here.

And Percy had answered.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Eighteen: The Ghost Ship Awakens

The Lucrehulk loomed over the waves like a ghost dredged from the abyss.
Even with engines sputtering faint light and its ring-frame buoyant, it was scarred — gashes in the hull big enough to swallow a trireme, plating corroded by decades of saltwater, antennae sheared off like broken bones.

Percy had seen star destroyers gutted by turbolasers. This was worse. This was two decades of slow drowning.

But it was still alive.

The BX-commando droid fell into step beside him as he clambered up a jagged access hatch and into the hollow belly of the ship. Its vocoder buzzed faintly.

“Recommend caution, Jedi,” it said. “Internal integrity compromised. Sublevels flooded. Hazard zones numerous.”

Percy gave a crooked half-smile. “Hazards I can handle.”

The droid tilted its head, processing, then replied, “Correction acknowledged.”

Inside, the Lucrehulk smelled like rust and mildew, a metallic tang overlayed with brine. The corridors were dim, emergency lights flickering orange across walls streaked with salt deposits. Water dripped from the ceiling in steady plinks, echoing through hollow halls.

Droids lined the passageways, standing idle, sensors tracking him with uncanny synchronicity. Aqua droids, maintenance models, a handful of B1s with missing limbs. They didn’t move until he passed. Then, like a ripple in water, they fell in behind him.

Annabeth muttered under her breath, “This is terrifying.”

“Yeah,” Grover agreed, keeping his reed pipes clutched tight like a lifeline. “Like… invasion terrifying.”

“They’re just waiting,” Percy said. His voice carried oddly in the steel corridors. “No command structure. No clarity. Two decades with nothing but the sea gnawing at them.”

“Waiting for you,” Annabeth added. Her eyes flicked to the glowing photoreceptors all focused on Percy. “They think you’re—” she cut herself off, lips thinning.

“—their general,” Percy finished for her.

And he didn’t deny it.

The Command Core

The BX droid led him up a half-collapsed turbolift shaft into the command deck.

Here, the damage was even worse. Control panels sparked with intermittent life. A whole section of consoles had collapsed, seaweed and coral invading like tumors. A viewport was patched by a hasty slab of starship plating welded across, but the seams leaked.

Percy reached out with the Force. The ship’s systems groaned back at him, fractured but awake. Engines: twenty percent functionality. Hyperdrive: cracked beyond repair. Comms: fried, dead weight. Structural plating: corroded, patchwork of fractures.

It was a miracle it was afloat at all.

Tyson, who had clambered up behind him, let out a low whistle. “Big ship. Sad ship. But not broken forever.”

Percy glanced at him. “Yeah. Not forever.”

Tyson’s smile was bright. “We fix it!”

Annabeth pinched the bridge of her nose. “We don’t have time, Seaweed Brain.”

“I know,” Percy said. He ran a hand across the pitted console, feeling the hum of ancient circuits under his palm. “But if I don’t start this now, it won’t ever happen. And when the parasite pushes harder, when Olympus starts breaking, we’ll need this. We’ll need every advantage.”

The Assessment

He stepped back, closed his eyes, and let the Force flow.

Circuits lit in his mind’s eye like constellations. Broken lines. Shattered relays. Flooded decks. The ship’s pain was sharp, constant, almost like a wounded animal trying to limp forward.

Percy’s eyes opened. “Alright. Listen up.”

The droids froze, sensors swiveling to him in eerie unison.

“System by system,” Percy said, pacing the deck. “First priority: hull breaches. Seal the leaks. I don’t care if it’s scrap metal, durasteel patches, or ripping your own arms off for plating. Nothing else matters if the ocean comes back in.”

The droids chorused as one: “Affirmative.”

“Second priority: engines. You’ve got power, but it’s unstable. Strip whatever still works from secondary decks and reinforce the main drives. I want thrust and I want steering, even if it’s clumsy.”

Another unified “Affirmative.”

“Third: hyperdrive. I know it’s shot. Don’t even try. Rip it for parts, focus on sublight integrity.”

The BX droid clicked. “Acknowledged. Hyperdrive functionality beyond current capability.”

“Fourth: comms. Dead. Priority isn’t restoring long-range. It’s internal coordination. Get me relays so every droid in this tub can hear an order and pass it on instantly.”

The droids hummed in perfect agreement.

Percy stopped, planting his hands on the fractured console. “You’re not a ghost ship anymore. You’re not rust. You’re soldiers. You’ve got work to do. Start.”

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then the deck vibrated with motion. Droids peeled off in disciplined groups, aqua units diving into flooded sections, maintenance droids crawling across ceilings with patch kits, B1s dragging scrap metal for sealing. The ship, once dead, began to stir.

Percy exhaled slowly. “That’ll hold.”

The Team’s Reactions

Grover blinked owlishly. “You just… woke up a ship.”

Annabeth crossed her arms. “He didn’t just wake it up. He gave it orders. And they followed.”

“They need direction,” Percy said. His tone was quiet. “And I can give it.”

“Seaweed Brain,” Annabeth said carefully, “do you realize what you just did? You put yourself in command of a mobile city. A war platform.”

Percy didn’t answer right away. He was still staring at the droids fanning out across the decks, the way their movements already had more rhythm, more cohesion. The way their fractured morale had stitched together in moments just because someone finally saw them.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Percy admitted finally. “But if I walk away and leave them drifting, that’s on me. And I’m not doing that again.”

Annabeth’s eyes softened. She didn’t press. She didn’t have to.

The Toll

By the time Percy finished the inspection, the night was thinning into gray dawn. He felt wrung out, like he’d burned half his soul in the act of raising the ship. His muscles ached. His head pounded with every heartbeat.

But the Lucrehulk floated straighter now. The engines hummed more steadily, patched by droid hands. Flooded sections were being drained.

It was far from whole. But it was alive.

The BX droid saluted as Percy prepared to leave. “Orders acknowledged. Repairs underway. Jedi command logged.”

Percy gave him a tired nod. “Keep it afloat. Keep them working. When I come back, I want to see progress.”

“Affirmative,” the BX said. “General Skywalker.”

The name twisted something deep in Percy’s chest. He didn’t correct it.

The Departure

Back on the Nyx’s Veil, Grover collapsed onto the deck with a groan. “That was… way too much. Way, way too much.”

Annabeth didn’t sit. She stood at the rail, staring at the Lucrehulk as it listed in the dawn light, water still dripping from its scars. “That ship,” she said softly. “That’s a piece of another world. A whole other war. And now it’s ours.”

Percy leaned against the mast, exhaustion pulling at him. “Not ours. Just… alive. Again.”

Tyson beamed at him, wide-eyed with pride. “Brother fixed it. Brother saves everything.”

Percy almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he let the rhythm of the waves steady him.

They still had a quest. The clock was still ticking.

But somewhere behind them, a ghost ship stirred, an army reawakening.

And Percy Jackson, Jedi and demigod, had given them a reason to fight again.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Nineteen: The Weight of a Name

The command deck of the Lucrehulk—Freedom, as BX-412 had finally identified it—was quieter now. The bulkheads hummed with renewed energy as repair units scuttled along the corridors, but for the first time in two decades, the silence felt purposeful, not empty.

Percy stood before the cracked forward viewport, arms folded, watching shafts of early light shimmer across the black water. He was bone-weary, but his mind refused to settle. Too many questions clawed at him.

Behind him, BX-412 remained at parade rest, photoreceptors glowing faint red. Of all the droids, it alone seemed more than mechanical. Its voice was clipped, efficient, almost… knowing.

“You called me Skywalker,” Percy said finally, not turning around. His words were flat, edged with exhaustion. “Why?”

BX-412 processed for a moment before answering. “Because you raised this ship.”

Percy frowned. “That doesn’t make me—”

“You misunderstand,” the droid cut in. Its vocabulator clicked faintly, almost like emphasis. “The Freedom weighs approximately thirty million tons. Even allowing for degraded buoyancy, the act of levitating it—stabilizing engines, maintaining hull integrity, all while coordinating structural corrections—is not within the capability of any Jedi recorded during the Clone Wars. Not even Master Yoda.”

That made Percy turn. “So you’re saying—what? That because I did something no Jedi could, I must be…?”

BX’s photoreceptors brightened. “It is highly improbable you are not at least related to General Anakin Skywalker.”

The name hit Percy like a sucker punch to the gut. He knew it, of course. It was his name too—his past, his shadow. He heard Vader’s rasp in his memory, felt the weight of destiny pressing against his lungs.

He swallowed. “That’s a big leap.”

BX’s head tilted with mechanical precision. “Negative. It is statistical inference. Fact: General Skywalker was the most powerful Jedi the galaxy has ever seen, by all measurable combat and Force-use metrics. Fact: when Force-sensitives reproduced, their offspring were often exponentially stronger in the Force than their progenitors. This was cataloged in Jedi records from before the Order forbade attachments. While such data is old, there is no logical basis to assume it has changed.”

Percy let out a short, bitter laugh. “So you’re telling me I lifted your ship because of some… Skywalker inheritance?”

“Affirmative,” BX said without hesitation. “The probability of another explanation is vanishingly small. General Skywalker’s descendants would logically surpass him in Force capacity. That you raised the Freedom confirms this.”

Percy leaned back against the rail of the shattered console, exhaling slowly. He didn’t deserve that name. He had fought his whole life not to become the Skywalker who burned. He had claimed again and again, I am not Vader.

But the droid wasn’t wrong. The Force had flowed through him in that moment, deeper and wider than he could comprehend. Lifting the Lucrehulk hadn’t been a feat of rage or desperation. It had been… instinct.

He thought of Luke, of Ahsoka, of Obi-Wan. He thought of Annabeth watching him, fear and trust mingled in her gray eyes. He thought of the parasite gnawing at Olympus, of Kronos’ warning, of the fleece they had to retrieve or whole realities would die.

If carrying the name Skywalker kept this army of droids loyal—if it gave them hope, direction, and discipline—then maybe that was a burden he could shoulder.

Even if it hurt.

Percy straightened and met BX’s glowing gaze. “Fine. Skywalker it is. But you don’t call me General. Not unless you have to.”

BX cocked its head. “Understood. What designation shall we use?”

Percy hesitated, then said, “Percy. Or Commander, if you need something official.”

The droid processed. “Commander Percy Skywalker.”

It was strange, hearing it aloud. Like a seam in his life had been stitched together wrong, and now he had to walk with the scar.

But he didn’t correct it.

As Percy and his companions filed out of the command deck, Annabeth lingered at the doorway, watching him with a calculating expression.

“You’re really going to let them call you that,” she said quietly.

Percy shrugged, forcing nonchalance. “They need it. A general. A name to rally to. If me letting them believe I’m Skywalker gives them purpose, then fine.”

Her eyes narrowed, but there was no judgment in them. Just a heavy, unspoken understanding. “Just make sure it doesn’t start giving you purpose,” she said.

Percy didn’t answer.

Because deep down, part of him knew it already had.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Twenty: Log of BX-412

[Log Entry 445, Designation BX-412 | Location: Command Node 01, Freedom]

Subject: Command Transfer & Unit Status

New command structure established. Effective immediately, unit recognizes Commander Percy Skywalker as primary authority.

Context: Commander raised Freedom from abyssal depths through direct Force application. Action verified by all units present. Task impossible by known Jedi capability. Probability of relation to General Anakin Skywalker exceeds 96.42%. Command recognition unanimous.

Directive Record

1. Preserve vessel integrity.
   Commander Percy has determined the Freedom is currently immobile, requiring repairs to propulsion and hyperdrive systems. Ship cannot remain within the anomalous Sea indefinitely.

   Directive: “Keep her alive. Engines, hyperdrive, and shielding first. Don’t worry about weapons until she can move.”

2. Self-sufficiency.
   Salvage operations initiated. Hull fragments repurposed for armor plating. Deteriorated circuits stripped, replaced with internal redundancies. Command’s assessment: “You’ve lasted twenty years. I want you to last twenty more.”

3. Defensive readiness.
   Sea predators classified: Category Gamma (Hydra-class, fog summoner); Category Sigma (parasite spawn, incorporeal); Category Omega (Leviathan-class, unconfirmed). Defensive perimeters recalibrated to account for hostile approach vectors.

   Directive: “If anything gets within a hundred meters of the hull, shoot it. No questions. No hesitation.”

4. Human crew integration.
   Organics Annabeth Chase, Grover Underwood, Althea Vale (Healer-Class), and Tyson (Cyclops-Unit) given auxiliary clearance. Access limited to non-critical sectors. Commander Percy holds unrestricted clearance.

   Note: Tyson interacts with units frequently. Records indicate “patting” and “naming.” B1-Units assigned to him now respond to informal designations “Clang,” “Bonk,” and “Sir Smiley.” Morale among B1-Units up 34%.

Repair Log Summary

• Hyperdrive: Core capacitors corroded. Replacement requires materials unavailable in local environment. Estimated 42% functionality possible with patchwork. Full restoration pending.

• Sublight Engines: Starboard engine block fused with salt deposits. Progress: 12% restored. B2-Unit labor assigned. Estimated 11 days to partial function.

• Power Grid: Severe degradation. Routing complete around 27% of nonfunctional conduits. Shields functional at 31%.

• Command Systems: Restored. Bridge operational. Long-range sensors offline. Short-range functional.

• Weapons: Minimal. Two batteries online. Not priority per Commander.

Mission Note

Commander Percy has determined Freedom cannot be priority asset during Golden Fleece operation. Quote: “We’ll come back for her. You’re not abandoned, just on hold.”

This phrase processed repeatedly by units. Probability analysis: Commander intends full reclamation post-mission. Morale indicator: high.

Movement Log

[Timestamp: 0400 Hours, Camp Half-Blood Local Time]

• Commander Percy departs vessel.

• Escort detail: 12 B2 Super Battle Droids, 2 Commando Droids (designations BX-19, BX-77).

• Purpose: Surface reconnaissance, coordination with organic faction (Camp Half-Blood), and continuation of Golden Fleece directive.

• Unit log annotation: Commando escort protested insufficient deployment (“recommend full squadron, Commander”), but Percy refused. Quote: “You’re not expendable. You’re family now. I only take what I need.”

Annotation: Statement inconsistent with Clone Wars Republic protocol. Interpretation: Commander does not regard droid units as disposable assets. Result: loyalty matrix readings spiked to maximum.

Closing Notes

Commander Percy Skywalker demonstrates patterns both like and unlike General Anakin Skywalker. Similarities: battlefield intuition, high Force output, refusal to accept impossible odds. Differences: restraint in violence, prioritization of individual unit survival.

Conclusion: Commander is not simply heir to General Skywalker—he is a potential correction to him.

Awaiting further directives.
Log End.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Twenty-One: The Island of Circe

The Nyx’s Veil coasted toward the small, glittering island, its golden sands gleaming under a sun that felt a little too warm, a little too inviting. Tyson leaned over the railing, wide-eyed.

“Brother, look!” he said, pointing toward the palm trees, where a beautiful villa crowned the hill. “It looks… happy.”

Annabeth squinted. Her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger, her face pinched with suspicion. “That’s what worries me.”

Percy didn’t need Annabeth’s warning. The Force was already pulling at his attention. The island radiated power, threads of magic interwoven with the very air. Sweetness, beauty, allure. But beneath it? A familiar stench. Manipulation. Deception. Hunger dressed in silk robes.

They docked, welcomed by attendants who seemed too perfect. Smiling faces, polished hair, polite bows. Percy didn’t miss the faint flicker of enchantment around their eyes. Glamour, thinly painted over obedience.

And then she appeared.

Circe glided down the villa’s marble steps like a queen descending to greet supplicants. Her gown shimmered like liquid moonlight, and when she spoke, her voice carried that soft, almost imperceptible lilt that slid past reason and whispered to the heart.

“Welcome, travelers,” she said, her tone wrapping around them like velvet. “Rest here. You must be weary from the sea.”

Annabeth stiffened immediately. Grover blinked drowsily, swaying toward her. Tyson smiled innocently and clapped. “Nice lady!”

And Circe’s eyes lingered on Tyson. A spark of interest. Calculation.

The Force shivered coldly down Percy’s spine.

“Careful,” Percy murmured to his team. “She’s weaving.”

Circe’s lips curved. “So sharp. But even sharp minds deserve rest. Come. Look into my mirror. See yourselves as you could be—powerful, beautiful, free.”

The mirror was produced—gleaming, flawless, humming with magic. Annabeth faltered, her breath catching. Grover stumbled closer. Even Althea, cautious as ever, leaned unconsciously forward.

Percy, however, reached out through the Force and pressed gently against the mirror’s weave. The illusion stretched thin like a veil under scrutiny. He saw the manipulation for what it was: hooks of thought, sliding into the mind, planting desires. A Jedi’s first lesson in mental defense.

“Stop,” Percy said flatly. His voice carried the firmness of a general, not a guest. “That mirror is not what it looks like.”

Circe blinked. Just for an instant, surprise crossed her face. Then her smirk returned. “Oh? Perhaps you’d like a demonstration. Guinea pig, perhaps? Yes… you’d be adorable.”

She flicked her fingers. Power lashed out.

The Force roared in warning. Percy slammed up his barrier instinctively, the one he’d taught gods themselves to wield. The spell struck—and shattered like glass against it.

The magic splashed back, dispersing into nothingness. Circe’s smirk faltered.

Percy lowered his hand. His lightsaber hissed to life, sea-green light washing across the marble courtyard. “That,” he said, “was your one mistake.”

Circe scowled and snapped again. Her spell struck Tyson. The cyclops giggled, expecting nothing more harmful than tickling.

For half a heartbeat, Percy froze.

Then something in him snapped.

The Force surged through him in a tidal wave. He reached out—not at the spell, but at Circe herself. Her magic, her very essence, burned in his perception like an oily flame. He clenched his hand and pulled.

Her enchantments sputtered and died like candles in a storm. The mirror shattered into worthless shards. The attendants’ glamour dissolved, leaving behind dazed mortals blinking in confusion. Dozens—no, hundreds—of animal cages snapped open as transformations unraveled. Men and women tumbled out, groaning, shaking off fur, feathers, tusks.

Circe gasped, clutching at her chest. Her aura of divine beauty flickered, cracked, dimmed. “W-What have you—”

“I stripped you,” Percy said coldly. “You tried to twist my brother. For that, you don’t get your toys anymore.”

The air went silent. The men and women freed from Circe’s spells stared at Percy as if at a god. Tyson hid behind Percy’s shoulder, confused but grateful.

Annabeth blinked hard, her head clearing. “You—undid it. All of it.”

Grover squeaked, still shaking off the residue of enchantment. “That’s… that’s impossible. Nobody undoes Circe.”

Percy didn’t look away from the fallen sorceress. Her hair was no longer shimmering, her gown no longer flawless. She looked small.

“Leave this place,” Percy commanded. His voice carried power now—not spellcraft, but the undeniable authority of one who would not yield. “These people are free. You are nothing without your tricks.”

Circe staggered, her eyes wide with hate. “You… you don’t understand what you’ve done. You’ll regret—”

Percy stepped closer, lightsaber humming. “Try me.”

Her mouth snapped shut.

Moments later, Circe fled into her villa, powerless. The villa itself seemed to sag, its glamour unraveling, its marble fading to simple stone. The freed captives began to weep and cheer.

Tyson tugged Percy’s arm. “Brother? Nice lady… not nice?”

Percy knelt down, squeezing his shoulder. “Not nice, big guy. But she can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

Tyson beamed. “Good. You are best brother.”

Annabeth exhaled, still pale. “You just… ended Circe. Like it was nothing. That’s—”

“Necessary,” Percy cut in. He deactivated his saber. “Nobody manipulates minds like that. Nobody hurts Tyson.” His voice softened, but the Force still thrummed with his fury. “Not while I’m here.”

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Twenty-Two: Ashes of Circe’s Throne

The villa was crumbling.

By the time Percy and the others emerged the next morning, the once-gilded palace was little more than a shell. Glamours had withered, marble facades now cracked and ordinary. The fountain in the courtyard, once bubbling with sparkling wine, dribbled only stagnant water.

And the people—hundreds freed from Circe’s cages—were stripping it bare. They tore down curtains for sails, smashed apart furniture for planks, raided the kitchens and storerooms for food. Mortals of every stripe—Greek, Roman, Phoenician, Viking, and some whose accents Percy didn’t even recognize—moved with a kind of desperate urgency.

No one sang. No one laughed. It was the quiet, grim industry of survivors.

On the docks, old triremes, battered galleys, and patchwork rafts were being readied. Every vessel Circe had hoarded was claimed, and though Percy could sense the fear in all of them—fear of the stormy waters, of Scylla, of Charybdis, of monsters lurking in every black wave—not one person hesitated.

Because for all of them, even the Sea of Monsters was preferable to one more day under Circe.

Annabeth whispered beside him, “They’ll never all make it.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “They know.”

He could feel it in the Force, that grim resolve. It was the same way soldiers felt before marching into impossible battles. They didn’t expect survival. They expected freedom, however long it lasted.

At the heart of the courtyard, Circe herself lay gagged and bound in chains that had once imprisoned her “pets.” Her silvery gown was torn, her hair in disarray, her wrists bloodied from futile struggles. Mortals who only yesterday had bowed and scraped before her spat at her as they passed. One boy even kicked her ribs before being pulled away by an older man.

The crowd didn’t clamor for her blood. They didn’t want vengeance. They wanted absence. To strip her power, chain her, and leave her behind like the husk she was.

A tall Phoenician sailor approached Percy, his face weathered by years of sea salt and sun. “My lord,” he said in thickly accented Greek, the name spreading among the freed like wildfire. “We’ll take our chances on the sea. But her—” He spat on the ground. “We’ll not risk her tricks ever again. Make her rot. Make sure no fool stumbles in here and sets her free.”

Dozens of heads nodded.

Percy crouched by Circe. Her eyes blazed with hate above the gag. Even stripped of her magic, she radiated venom. She would never stop scheming. Never repent.

He stood, deactivated his lightsaber, and nodded. “All right.”

On the villa’s highest balcony, he rigged the radio beacon from Circe’s own stores—salvaged equipment that must’ve been plundered from sailors who had once docked here. He adjusted the dials, programming the message in an endless loop. His voice carried out, harsh and flat:

“This island is beset by plague. If you land here, you will all die too.”

It wasn’t elegant. But it didn’t need to be. Fear was the most reliable guard.

When he finished, Percy returned to the docks, where the freed were gathering for their exodus. Tyson waved as he helped two men push a trireme into the water. Annabeth supervised rationing, her face grim but determined. Grover coaxed a group of younger children onto a raft, promising to play them music once they were safe.

Then came the metallic clank.

Percy spun, hand on his saber.

Out of the ruined orchard staggered eight figures. Rust streaked their joints, and their metal plating was scarred by acid burns and lightning strikes. Aqua battle droids—long, skeletal frames built for aquatic warfare. Their blasters were corroded, some arms half-severed. At their head strode a commando droid, one eye cracked but glowing faintly red.

Every freed mortal froze.

One whispered, “Monsters.”

The commando raised both hands in a gesture Percy knew well: military surrender. “Designation BX-772,” the droid said in a rasp of static. “Patrol unit. Circe captured us. Experiments… repeated. Transformations ineffective. Charms failed.”

One aqua droid stepped forward. Half its plating had been melted away, exposing servos beneath. “We were used as practice targets. She wanted us to break. She failed.”

Percy’s stomach turned. In the Force, he could feel faint echoes of what they had endured: fire, lightning, transmutation spells again and again until systems screamed. Machines, yes—but still aware. Still feeling.

Behind him, a super battle droid from the Freedom’s escort rumbled forward, servo-motors whining. “Unit BX-series,” it said. “You were lost seven standard years. The Freedom has been recovered. Command active. Jedi Skywalker commands.”

The aqua droids froze. The commando’s flickering eye widened. “The Freedom…? Raised?”

Percy stepped forward, his voice firm. “She’s afloat again. Repairs are underway. You’ve been prisoners long enough. You’re going home.”

If metal could weep, they would have. Their movements shuddered, their joints trembling. The commando straightened, saluting with military crispness despite the damage. “Orders, Commander Skywalker?”

Percy didn’t hesitate. “Guide these people. Get them to the Freedom. Escort them. Protect them. Once there, you’ll rejoin your battalion.”

“Affirmative.”

The eight battered droids turned in perfect formation, spreading among the desperate humans. The mortals flinched at first, but soon realized: the droids barked directions, carried supplies, even lifted children onto boats with surprising gentleness. Years of being Circe’s unwilling test subjects had only hardened their loyalty to a cause greater than themselves.

Watching them, Percy’s chest ached. These weren’t just machines. They were survivors too.

As the first ships pushed off, cheers rose from the freed. The sound wasn’t joyous—it was raw, ragged, the cry of souls clawing their way into light after endless dark.

Percy stood with Tyson, watching the fleet scatter across the horizon, fragile vessels braving impossible seas. He reached into the Force, casting out hope, protection, strength. The sea would claim many. But maybe, just maybe, some would reach the Freedom.

Circe remained behind, chained, gagged, glaring from the courtyard as her empire dissolved.

Percy didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Twenty-Three: Blackbeard’s Bargain

The docks were chaos.

Wood creaked, sails snapped in the wind, mortals scrambled to lash down cargo and climb aboard ships that had been dry-docked for decades. The Sea of Monsters hissed beyond, a restless graveyard waiting to claim them.

And in the middle of it all, Percy noticed him.

A hulking man with a beard like tangled nightshade, eyes bloodshot from years of rage, stood with five battered companions. Their clothes were ragged eighteenth-century coats and breeches, though patched so many times they looked like stitched-together quilts. Scars covered their arms, burns and gouges that told a story of centuries as Circe’s toys.

Edward Teach. Blackbeard himself.

The name pulsed in Percy’s memory, half Force-sense, half history lesson from Grover, who gasped aloud when he spotted the pirate. “That’s—”

“Yes, lad,” Blackbeard growled, voice like rolling cannon fire. “Aye. It’s me. Or what’s left of me, after the witch had her fun.”

His crew shifted uneasily behind him: four gaunt men and one broad-shouldered woman with a scar splitting her lip. Their eyes were hard, but when Percy reached out through the Force, he felt a bone-deep weariness.

Annabeth, ever the scholar, whispered, “She… she kept you as… guinea pigs? For centuries?”

Blackbeard’s grin was wolfish, though it carried no humor. “Aye. ‘Twas her favorite trick. ‘Change a man to a beast, then let him rot in a cage till his mind breaks. She used us fer scarin’ the weak-willed into buyin’ her cursed pets. ‘Send the wee beastie to a schoolhouse,’ she’d say. Imagine it, lad—” He leaned toward Percy, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial rasp. “Yer class pet piggy—suddenly growin’ six feet tall an’ askin’ fer rum. Traumatizin’, eh? Glad I weren’t freed in front of any children, else they’d never sleep again.”

Tyson blinked, horrified. “That… that would be bad.”

Blackbeard slapped the cyclops on the shoulder, surprisingly gentle. “Aye, laddie. Bad indeed.”

Percy swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more: the thought of centuries of enslavement or the pirate’s grim humor about it.

The pirate straightened, tugging at the ragged remains of his coat. “But we’re free now, thanks to ye, Skywalker.”

The name passed his lips easily, like he’d always known it. Percy wasn’t sure if he should correct him or not. He didn’t.

Blackbeard gestured to the great black ship moored nearby. The Queen Anne’s Revenge. Her hull was scarred, her sails moth-eaten, but she loomed proud and terrible, even after centuries. “That be my lady, there. She’s still got fight in her, aye, but me lads an’ me—” he glanced at his crew, who nodded in grim agreement—“we’ll not sail her. She’s a ghost ship. Too many memories.”

He looked Percy dead in the eye. “So we give her to the poor sods sailin’ out yonder. She’ll be the teeth in their fleet, keep the beasts o’ the deep away.”

The thought of desperate refugees manning a legendary pirate ship sent shivers down Percy’s spine. But in the Force, he felt Blackbeard’s sincerity. He meant it.

“And you?” Percy asked quietly.

Blackbeard smirked, baring yellowed teeth. “We go with you, lad. the Greeks, the Romans, the gods—bah. They play their games. But you?” He jabbed a finger toward Percy’s chest. “You broke her spell. You fought her, an’ won. We’ve been fightin’ to be free fer centuries. So we’ll throw our lot in with ye. Better to sail toward somethin’ real than rot in another cursed cage.”

His scarred crew murmured their agreement. One, the woman, added in a rasp, “We’re good with blades, lad. Muskets too, though I doubt they’ll do much against the horrors you face. Still… you’ll not lack fer hands at yer back.”

Annabeth muttered, “You’re volunteering to follow him? You don’t even know what he’s up against.”

Blackbeard chuckled. “Aye, miss. Don’t need t’know. World’s changin’. We can smell it, same as the sea before a storm. And when the storm comes, better to have a captain what listens to his crew, than a god what don’t.”

That silenced even Annabeth.

The transfer of the Queen Anne’s Revenge was a strange sight. Blackbeard himself handed over the wheel to a trembling Phoenician sailor, pressing a small carved charm into his hand. “Keep her heart steady,” the pirate rumbled. “She’ll answer to ye if ye respect her.”

As the pirate ship joined the exodus fleet, refugees whispered prayers, their fear tempered with awe. A myth reborn, now theirs to wield.

Percy watched it go, the Force whispering of a fragile hope stitched from impossible threads.

Blackbeard and his five survivors stood behind him, watching as well. Then the pirate spat into the sea, adjusted his sword belt, and growled, “Well then, Skywalker. Where d’ye want us?”

Percy didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at them—scarred, weary, cursed but unbroken. Survivors, like him. Like the droids. Like everyone who had stared into the abyss and decided to keep going anyway.

He finally said, “At my side.”

And Blackbeard grinned, the kind of grin that promised both trouble and loyalty in equal measure.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Twenty-Four: Chains on the Dock

The Nyx’s Veil rocked gently on the oily waters of the Sea of Monsters. Lanterns hung along her rigging, casting pale gold circles that shimmered against the hull. The air was quieter now—no chanting of Circe’s attendants, no screams of desperate slaves, no clash of magic. Just the occasional creak of wood and the low hum of the ship’s wards as they cut through the unnatural sea.

The crew sat scattered on the main deck. Annabeth leaned against the rail, staring into the black water. Grover plucked uneasily at his reed pipes, the notes short and restless. Tyson hummed off-key while sharpening a piece of scrap metal into something resembling a knife. Blackbeard’s ragged crew drank from a shared flask, muttering in low tones. And the droids—Percy still wasn’t used to seeing them aboard—stood at attention, eerie in their stillness, though one of the commando units had taken to checking the sails every ten minutes as though it had been part of a naval drill.

Percy sat cross-legged near the mast, lightsaber resting across his knees. His eyes were half-closed, not in sleep but in thought, the Force wrapping around him like a cloak. He kept replaying the moment Circe tried to twist Tyson, the way her spell had reached greedily for the boy’s innocence. His fingers twitched as though still itching to ignite his blade.

Annabeth broke the silence.

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Percy opened his eyes. “About what?”

“Her.” Annabeth didn’t look at him. “Circe. We just… we left her there. Chained. Gagged. No food. No water. You know what that means.”

Grover’s pipes faltered. Tyson frowned, though he didn’t stop sharpening. Even Blackbeard’s crew turned to listen.

“She’s a monster,” muttered one of the pirates.

“She’s a goddess,” Annabeth shot back, her voice sharper than she meant. “I’m not saying she didn’t deserve to lose everything. But starving? That’s…” Her breath hitched. “That’s cruel.”

Percy studied her for a long moment, then said evenly, “It’s justice.”

Annabeth’s head whipped toward him. “Justice? She’s going to die like an animal.”

“She is an animal,” Percy said, voice harder now. “A slaver. How many people did you see in those cages? How many turned into pigs, or mice, or guinea pigs for her to play with until they broke? Blackbeard alone was her prisoner for centuries. And Tyson—” His jaw clenched. “She tried to strip Tyson’s soul and turn him into a pet. If I hadn’t stopped her, he’d be squealing in a pen right now.”

Tyson froze, wide eye darting between them. “She… she wanted to make me a piggy?”

Percy softened at once, reaching out to put a hand on his brother’s arm. “She tried. But she couldn’t. She never will.”

Annabeth’s voice was quieter now, but still stubborn. “I know she was evil. I know she deserved to lose her power. But don’t you ever… wonder if we’re becoming like them? Leaving someone to die like that?”

Percy shook his head, no hesitation. “No. Because there’s a difference between mercy and justice. Mercy is a gift. Justice is a balance. Circe spent centuries enslaving others, stealing their lives, treating them as objects to amuse her. If we gave her mercy now, it wouldn’t undo what she did. It would just let her start over somewhere else. And you know she would.”

The words hung heavy over the deck.

Even the droids stirred. BX-412, the commando leader, spoke in its clipped mechanical tone: “Statement: The commander is correct. Slavers are not assets to be reprogrammed. They are parasites. Best eliminated.”

Annabeth exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. “I just… I don’t like it.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Percy said gently. “You’re not supposed to be comfortable with it. That’s how we remember where the line is.”

Grover looked up from his pipes, bleating nervously. “Then where is the line? Because if we leave gods to die in chains… what makes us different from them?”

Percy looked out at the horizon, the sea rolling like molten obsidian under the lantern light. He didn’t answer right away. He thought of Vader, of Palpatine, of the clone wars. Of mercy given in the wrong place, and how many worlds had burned for it.

Finally he said, “The line is here.” He tapped his chest. “In us. In what we choose to protect. Circe crossed it the moment she built her world on cages. I won’t lose sleep over her. But I will lose sleep if we start chaining up innocents. That’s the difference.”

The silence stretched, but this time it wasn’t hostile. Just thoughtful.

Blackbeard laughed suddenly, breaking the tension. “Hah! Lad speaks true. Chains fer slavers, blades fer tyrants. Mercy fer yer crew an’ none else. That’s the pirate’s code, that is.”

Annabeth shot him a glare. “That’s not helping.”

“Course it is.” Blackbeard grinned, showing too many teeth. “Means the boy’s thinkin’ like a captain. Mark me, missy—ye’ll be glad fer it before this sea spits ye back out.”

Percy ignored the pirate’s theatrics. He met Annabeth’s gaze instead, steady. She didn’t nod, but she didn’t argue again either.

The sea groaned beneath them, like some vast beast rolling in its sleep.

For now, at least, the debate was over.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Captain’s Debate

The Nyx’s Veil cut silently through the dark swells of the Sea of Monsters, its enchanted sails drinking in moonlight as fuel. The air still stank faintly of Circe’s island—sour herbs and broken wards—but already that was fading into the brine and smoke of the open water.

Percy stood at the quarterdeck rail, watching the ship’s wake. His lightsaber rested on his belt again, clipped and ready, but he didn’t touch it. Instead, he let the Force sweep out across the ship like a tide. The crew’s emotions hummed like buoys in the current: Grover’s nervous pacing, Tyson’s content focus on a bundle of rope he was turning into something vaguely decorative, Annabeth’s simmering unease, and the curious, jagged signals of the droids—alien yet precise, like flickers of crystal logic.

And beneath all of it, the low rolling thunder that was Blackbeard and his surviving crew. The old pirate was hard to miss, his presence a storm of raw will, greed, and something almost like… loyalty, though it was tangled up in a thousand other impulses.

Percy exhaled. Time to tie this mess of strings into something resembling a crew.

“Alright,” Percy said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the ship’s groaning wood. “We need to talk.”

The words gathered them like iron filings to a magnet. Annabeth descended from the bow, Grover hurried up from belowdecks, Tyson trotted over with his rope-knot masterpiece, Blackbeard swaggered across the deck with his flask, and BX-412 marched over with the other droids in neat formation.

“Talk about what, lad?” Blackbeard asked, tugging at his beard. “Ye’ve already given us orders enough. What else’s rattlin’ in that Jedi skull o’ yers?”

“About us,” Percy said simply. “We’re not just passengers on the same ship. We’re a crew. And if we’re going to survive what’s coming, we need to start acting like one.”

Blackbeard barked a laugh. “Aye, and who’s the captain, then? Ye? With yer shiny sword an’ yer spooky hand tricks?”

Percy didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

The pirate’s laugh cut short. He studied Percy for a long moment, one eye narrowed, then gave a grunt. “Hah. Fair answer.”

Annabeth stepped forward. “That’s fine, but we still don’t know if we can trust them.” She gestured sharply at Blackbeard, then the droids. “Former slavers. Reprogrammed war machines. Pirates. This is who we’re trusting our lives to?”

“Correction,” BX-412 said in its mechanical monotone. “We were never slavers. Separatist command once employed slavery tactics. We executed those responsible. Efficiently.”

Annabeth’s eyebrows shot up. “Efficiently?”

“Clarification: In the most permanent sense.”

Grover let out a faint bleat. Tyson tilted his head like he was considering asking if the droids liked peanut butter.

Percy lifted a hand, calming the tension. “Look. I know this is strange. Believe me, I didn’t expect to be sailing with pirates and droids either. But they’re here. They’re with us. And we need them.”

Annabeth crossed her arms. “Need doesn’t mean trust.”

Blackbeard leaned on the rail, grin wide. “Ah, but that’s the rub, innit? Lass, yer speakin’ like the world’s black an’ white. Trust or no trust. But the seas ain’t so simple. Every sailor be trustin’ his mate not t’ stab him in his hammock, aye, but he also knows the knife’ll be sharp come mornin’. That’s the balance. That’s the game.”

Annabeth’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re saying we should expect betrayal.”

“Expect it, prepare fer it, and sail with the scoundrel anyway,” Blackbeard said. “Because what matters is not a spotless heart, but a steady hand when the storm breaks.”

“That’s cynical,” Annabeth said flatly.

“That’s survivin’,” Blackbeard shot back.

The air between them thickened like two storms colliding. Grover shuffled back a step. Even Tyson frowned, his one eye darting nervously between them.

Percy stepped in before sparks became lightning. “They’re both right,” he said, voice calm but firm.

Annabeth turned on him. “Percy—”

“No,” Percy cut her off, steel creeping into his tone. “Listen. Blackbeard’s right: people aren’t perfect. They’re complicated. Sometimes ugly. Sometimes selfish. If we wait for a crew with spotless records, we’ll sail alone until we drown. But Annabeth’s right too—trust matters. Without it, we’ll tear ourselves apart before the enemy ever touches us.”

He looked around at all of them, letting the Force carry his words deeper. “So here’s the deal. We don’t need to like each other. We don’t need spotless pasts. But from this moment on, we hold the line. We fight for each other. No backstabbing. No cutting and running. Anyone breaks that, they’re not crew anymore.”

Silence fell.

Then BX-412 stepped forward, snapping into a crisp salute. “Acknowledged. New directive: Loyalty to Commander Skywalker and crew unit Nyx’s Veil. Treachery will not be tolerated.”

One by one, the other droids echoed the motion, metal hands clanking to armored chests.

Tyson raised his rope-knot proudly. “I make this for family. Family means no backstabbing.”

Grover sighed but nodded. “Fine. Just… no more pirates turning into guinea pigs, okay?”

Blackbeard chuckled low in his throat, then straightened, meeting Percy’s gaze. For once, there was no mockery in his eye—just the weight of an old sailor measuring a younger one. Finally he grinned.

“Aye, captain. Ye’ve got yerself a crew.”

Annabeth hesitated, biting her lip. She still didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue either.

Percy allowed himself a small smile. For the first time since they’d entered this cursed sea, the Nyx’s Veil actually felt like more than a collection of strays. It felt like a ship with a crew.

The waves hissed against the hull, whispering of trials yet to come. But for tonight, at least, they stood together.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Song That Breaks Men

The Nyx’s Veil cut across calmer waters than usual. The oppressive fog of the Sea of Monsters had lifted into a strange, silvery calm. The air felt too still, the sky too glassy. Percy didn’t need the Force to know something was wrong—every instinct screamed trap.

Tyson tugged on Percy’s sleeve, pointing off the starboard side. “Brother… pretty singing…”

And then Percy heard it.

At first, just the faintest notes drifting across the water, barely there. But even those threads slithered into his mind, honey-sweet, promising comfort, recognition, answers he didn’t even know he wanted. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He shoved back hard with the Force, recognizing the intrusion.

Annabeth’s eyes snapped toward the distant rocks where the music came from. Her face had gone pale, but her gaze burned with a fierce, hungry curiosity.

“Percy,” she said quickly. “I need to hear them.”

He blinked. “What?”

“The Sirens,” Annabeth said, her words tumbling out faster than usual. “I’ve read about them, yes, but that’s not enough. Their song reveals your deepest desire. If I can hear it—if I can understand what I truly want—I can learn about myself. About how to avoid mistakes. It could be… useful.”

Percy opened his mouth to argue, but Blackbeard beat him to it.

The old pirate had been leaning against the mast, chewing on a strip of dried fish, but now he pushed himself upright. His shadow loomed long across the deck as his eyes locked on Annabeth’s with surprising sharpness.

“Don’t,” he said flatly.

Annabeth frowned. “You don’t even know what I was going to say—”

“Aye, lass, I do.” Blackbeard stalked closer, his boots thudding heavy on the deck. “Yer thinkin’ ye’ll take a listen, just a taste. Learn somethin’ about yerself. Get clever with it. But I’ll tell ye what ye’ll really learn: what ye’d sell yer soul for. What ye’d trade breath and blood and shipmates for. And once ye’ve heard it, ye’ll never unhear it.”

Annabeth’s jaw tightened. “Isn’t knowledge worth risk? If I know my weakness—”

“No.” His voice was thunder now, shaking the deck. “That song don’t teach ye weakness, it becomes it. The Sirens don’t just show ye the price—they make ye believe only they can give it to ye. They turn desire into a blade, honeyed and sharp, and they leave ye chasin’ it until it guts ye.”

The song on the wind swelled, soft and coaxing, like silk sliding through the crew’s ears. Grover shivered, his eyes darting nervously. Even the droids’ heads tilted as if the sound pressed against their circuits.

Annabeth shook her head stubbornly. “But if I’m tied down—”

Blackbeard slammed his hand against the rail, making everyone jump. “Never trust the rope! Never trust the plan! Once ye’ve heard, lass, ye’ll never stop hearin’. I’ve seen it. Seen a man tied, pulled away safe, whole crew savin’ him from their teeth—and it still broke him.”

His face darkened, shadows flickering across his weathered features. For once, the grin and bravado were gone. Only memory remained.

“He was a mate o’ mine. Charles Vane. Proud, clever, bold as they come. Tied hisself to the mast, same as ye say. We dragged him clear, thought him lucky. But after that… he weren’t the same. Cold, cruel, desperate. Spent every breath chasin’ a dream he knew he’d never catch, chasin’ shadows the Sirens planted in his skull. He became the black-hearted beast history remembers, aye—but that cruelty didn’t start with greed nor rage. It started with that song.”

The deck was silent except for the low, eerie drift of music.

Annabeth’s defiance wavered. She wrapped her arms around herself, her gray eyes darting out at the waves. The Force quivered around her—so much longing, so much hunger for recognition and wisdom. Percy felt it cut deep.

“Annabeth,” Percy said quietly, stepping closer. “You’re one of the smartest people I know. Smarter than me. Smarter than most of the gods, probably. You don’t need them to tell you what you want. You already know. And the rest…” He tapped his temple. “The rest is a trap.”

She closed her eyes, breathing sharply. The wind carried another swell of the Sirens’ song, sharper now, cutting like glass. Her nails dug into her arm, and for a moment Percy thought she might run for the rail anyway.

Then, with a shuddering exhale, she turned away.

“Fine,” she said hoarsely. “Fine. You win. No Sirens.”

Blackbeard’s shoulders eased. “Smart lass.”

The song seemed to falter, sensing lost prey, and then slid away across the waves, leaving only silence behind.

The tension broke like a storm finally passing. Grover slumped with relief, Tyson beamed proudly, and the droids resumed their silent patrols, unbothered now that the sound had faded.

Annabeth didn’t speak again for a long while. She stood at the rail, staring into the sea, her mind working furiously behind her eyes. Percy stayed close, not saying a word, but the Force whispered her turmoil clear as day.

She’d listened—not to the Sirens, but to Blackbeard. And though the hunger for knowledge still burned, she had chosen not to feed it. For now.

Percy hoped that would be enough.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Beast of the Abyss

The Phobos Wrath was not a subtle ship.

Painted blood-red along its hull, adorned with the snarling horse-head figurehead of Ares himself, it cut through the waters like a blade meant to be seen. Clarisse stood proudly at the prow, one hand gripping her spear, her chin tilted high against the salt spray. Behind her, her handpicked crew of Ares kids worked the oars and sails, every muscle flexing as if to prove themselves worthy of their new name: The Raven Guard.

For days, they had pressed through the black waters of the Sea of Monsters with little more than minor skirmishes. Harpies. A pod of corrupted dolphins. One nightmare eel that had tried to chew through the rudder. All had fallen quickly to the ferocity of Ares’ brood.

But this calm had a weight to it.

The sea was too still, the sky too heavy. The waters rippled without wind. Clarisse’s knuckles tightened around her spear.

“Something’s wrong,” she muttered.

The Raven Guard stiffened. They had been drilled into discipline, Loki’s Valkyries drilling them as hard as any war camp, but Clarisse could feel the pulse of unease beneath their iron facades.

The surface broke with a thunderous splash.

At first, it looked like a moving island. A jagged shell of black coral rose, barnacle-encrusted and covered in moss that glowed faintly with eerie bioluminescence. Then the shell split apart, and they saw the eyes—four of them—burning yellow and wide as shields.

“Drakon,” hissed one of the older Ares kids.

“No,” Clarisse growled. “Something worse.”

The creature reared, towering over their ship. Its body was part crustacean, part serpent, with massive claws slicked in venom and a tail that thrashed hard enough to send waves slamming into their hull. When it opened its mouth, rows of lamprey-like teeth spiraled back into its throat.

“The Beast of the Abyss,” one of the Valkyrie advisors whispered. Her knuckles whitened around her blade. “A spawn of the Parasite. A thing that should not live.”

The monster shrieked. The sound rattled bones and sent younger demigods clutching their ears. Then it dove, the sea swallowing it whole.

“Battle stations!” Clarisse roared.

The crew snapped into motion. Spears bristled along the rails. Archers nocked arrows with fire-tipped heads.

The sea boiled beneath them—then the beast struck from below.

The hull shuddered as the monster rammed, nearly tossing Clarisse from her feet. Wood groaned. Somewhere below, a plank cracked. The ship lurched sideways, and seawater poured over the rail.

“Patch the leak!” Clarisse barked. “Archers—fire on my mark!”

The creature’s head surged up, snapping at the mast.

“Now!”

A volley of flaming arrows rained down, embedding in its shell. Fire sputtered across its slimy surface, but the monster didn’t slow. Its claw swept the deck, sending two Ares kids sprawling. One nearly went overboard, only saved when a Valkyrie tackled him by the collar and dragged him back.

Clarisse launched forward. Spear crackling with divine lightning, she drove the weapon straight into the monster’s claw. The impact blew sparks across the deck. The creature shrieked and withdrew, but its tail slammed down in retaliation, splintering a section of railing.

For a moment, the ship itself seemed doomed.

But then the Raven Guard found their rhythm.

Two brothers—Stavros and Kade—hooked chains to the creature’s claw and yanked in unison, pinning it against the rail. Another squad piled spears into the joint, forcing ichor-black blood to spray. Archers concentrated on the eyes, loosing shaft after shaft into the glowing orbs until one popped with a hiss.

The monster thrashed, waves crashing over the deck. One demigod screamed as barnacle-armored tentacles shot out and wrapped around her waist.

Clarisse roared, sprinted, and buried her spear in the tentacle. Lightning cascaded along its length, burning it black. The tentacle snapped away, dropping the girl onto the deck coughing but alive.

The Beast recoiled. The water stilled.

Clarisse’s chest heaved as she scanned the sea, waiting.

Then the Force—a gift she would never admit she trusted—whispered to her gut. Behind.

She spun just as the monster surged up at the stern. Its jaws clamped down around the rudder, threatening to tear the ship’s heart away.

Clarisse didn’t hesitate. She sprinted up the mast itself, feet pounding the rigging, until she was level with the beast’s gaping mouth.

“For Ares!” she bellowed—and hurled her spear.

The weapon became a thunderbolt. It streaked into the beast’s mouth and detonated. The explosion turned its head into a spray of molten ichor and shattered teeth. The body convulsed, thrashed once more against the water—then stilled.

The sea boiled red as the corpse dissolved into dust.

On the deck of the Phobos Wrath, the Raven Guard erupted into cheers.

Clarisse climbed down the rigging, chest heaving, hair plastered to her face. She accepted their cheers with a nod, but her eyes lingered on the water where the creature had fallen.

That hadn’t been a monster from Greek myth. That had been something worse.

Something made.

And if it had been waiting for them here, then whoever was breeding these horrors knew their route.

Clarisse clenched her fists.

“Raven Guard!” she barked. “We ain’t done yet. That thing was just a test. Stay sharp. The real war’s ahead.”

The crew roared their assent, voices hard as steel.

And for the first time since Ares’ fall, Clarisse felt not just like a demigod, not just like a daughter of war—but like a commander.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Twenty-Eight: BX-772 Field Log – Operation: Liberation Convoy

[Unit Identification: BX-772, Commando Droid, Rebel Alliance Attachment]
[Operation Title: Liberation Convoy – Objective: Secure safe transit of liberated organics from Circe’s island to Lucrehulk-class Core Ship Freedom.]
[Data Record Begins]

Convoy Composition:

• Queen Anne’s Revenge – armed warship of terrestrial pirate origin. Command skeleton: volunteer organics (non-pirate). Armament includes functional broadside cannons (9 of 12 active).

• Civilian Transports – 7 vessels of mixed seaworthiness, each modified merchant or fishing craft seized from Circe’s dockyards.

• Population Manifest (Approximate):

  • Humans: 523

  • Satyrs: 29 (5.3%)

  • Cyclopes: 6 (1.1%)

  • Total Convoy Population: 558

Notes: Condition of transports ranges from “marginally functional” to “barely floating.” Recommend permanent relocation to Freedom’s drydocks for overhaul if survival is achieved.

Departure:
Convoy launched at 0400 local. Morale among liberated organics: high, bordering on reckless. Organics sang battle hymns and shouted insults at captive Circe as they cast off. This unit approves of morale indicators but deems noise discipline unsatisfactory.

Escort Formation:

• Queen Anne’s Revenge assumed vanguard position.

• Civilian vessels held staggered line formation.

• Droid unit BX-772 assigned rotating guard with aqua droid detachment [Unit ID: AD-557 through AD-564].

• Subsurface patrols: 2 aqua droid triads in periphery.

Event Log – Transit:

Hour 3: Encountered first anomaly. Swarm of spectral manta-like entities emerged from fog banks. Refugee organics panicked. Cyclops unit [ID: “Bron,” age estimate: 45] displayed remarkable composure, engaging entities with ship-mounted ballistae. Entities dispersed after 11 confirmed neutralizations. One refugee vessel (Designation: Vessel-3, “Hopeful”) sustained hull breach. Cyclops units reinforced hull with timbers mid-transit. Vessel remains seaworthy, for now.

Hour 7: Convoy entered waters of high distortion. Compass readings destabilized. Satyr unit [ID: “Theron”] employed reed flute to stabilize group morale. Unclear if flute produced metaphysical stabilization effect, but convoy cohesion reestablished. Recommend future study.

Hour 9: Attack by hybrid predators resembling cephalopod-lupine amalgams. Refugees incapable of coordinated defense. BX-772 engaged directly with dual vibroblades, neutralizing four targets. Aqua droids neutralized remainder with underwater ordinance. Casualties: 7 human organics (fatal), 1 satyr (serious injury, stabilized). Population reduced to 551.

Hour 12: Convoy halted for emergency repairs. Queen Anne’s Revenge assumed full guard posture. This unit observed organic cohesion improving. Humans and satyrs sharing rations. Cyclopes provided manual labor for hull patching. Observational Note: organics adapt quickly under duress when motivated by hatred of common enemy.

Hour 14: Detected anomaly: shadow of unknown vessel paralleling convoy in fog. Dimensions exceeded 200 meters. Vessel did not engage. Logged as “possible specter ship.” Refugees unsettled. Recommend perimeter droids increase sensor sweeps.

Hour 16: Convoy resumed. This unit recorded morale chants of “Freedom or the sea.” Not tactically sound. Morale remains high.

Status – 20 Hours Post Departure:

• Population: 551

• Vessels operational: 7 civilian, 1 warship

• Casualties: 7 (human) KIA, 1 satyr WIA

• Distance to rendezvous with Freedom: 40 nautical miles estimated

• Current Threat Level: High

Closing Notes:
This unit calculates survival odds of convoy at 62.3%, accounting for ongoing hazards of local sea biome. However, presence of Queen Anne’s Revenge increases odds of survival by 21.7%. Recommendation: allocate additional escort droid squads upon arrival at Freedom.

Organics continue to display inefficient yet inspiring resilience.

End Log – BX-772

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Twenty-Nine: BX-772 Log – Arrival at the Freedom

[Unit Identification: BX-772, Commando Droid, Rebel Alliance Attachment]
[Operation: Liberation Convoy Escort]
[Continuation of Log]

Hour 20.5 – Transit Update:
Weather anomaly detected. Black squall rose from clear horizon in 40 seconds. Hydrodynamic stability of vessels compromised. Civilian ships thrashed. This unit, with aqua droid squad, performed counter-ballast operations underwater. Cyclops [Bron] performed additional stabilization with raw strength, literally holding mast of Vessel-2 upright during peak wind event. Remarkable organic capability.

Casualties: 0 fatalities. 3 organics (human) with broken limbs. Satyr medic initiated treatment.

Hour 23 – Predator Engagement:
Convoy harassed by pod of serpentine leviathans, 10–12 meters in length, armored scales, teeth sharpened for hull breach.

• Response: Queen Anne’s Revenge engaged with broadside cannons. Accuracy: 67%. Leviathans deterred after 4 confirmed kills. Aqua droid squad delivered two depth-charge analogs (jury-rigged from Circe’s stockpile). Remaining leviathans disengaged.

• Casualties: 2 humans overboard (recovered, unconscious but alive).

Morale impact: cheering observed. Organics now chant “Revenge!” as both ship name and war cry.

Hour 26 – Contact Event:
Convoy passed through debris field of derelict ships. Organic refugees fearful of “ghost ships.” Commando unit reassured convoy with statement: “Ghosts are not tactical.” Morale partially restored. Refugees requested song. Satyrs complied. Recommend satyr use as morale officers for future operations.

Hour 29 – Sensor Spike:
Aqua droid squad detected anomalous structure on seabed. Size: 3,000 meters diameter, spherical design. Recognized immediately as Lucrehulk-class battleship hull.
Subsequent visual confirmed: Freedom.

However, unexpected detail logged. Freedom is not submerged. Vessel is elevated above water, stationary but hovering. Not consistent with standard Lucrehulk buoyancy profile. Massive structural damage evident on outer hull, but gravitational repulsors apparently functional at minimal power. Hypothesis: intervention by Commander Skywalker via unexplained Force phenomena.

Aqua droid squad exhibited what organics would define as “awe.” Log confirmed: “It is real. She rises again.”

Hour 30 – Docking Procedure:

• Queen Anne’s Revenge docked first, serving as guardship.

• Civilian ships guided to jury-rigged docking bays at Freedom’s lower decks. Majority of vessels beyond repair. Recommendation executed: strip hulls for structural plating to reinforce Freedom’s lower decks. Civilian vessels decommissioned.

• Organics disembarked in orderly fashion. Satyr delegation led group prayers of thanks. Cyclopes immediately volunteered for heavy lifting operations. Humans organized food distribution.

Population count at arrival: 549 (total losses en route = 9 organics).

Hour 31 – Refugee Integration:
BX-772 appointed liaison to refugee leaders. Noted eagerness to contribute to repair of Freedom.
Tasks assigned:

• Cyclopes: heavy reinforcement of hull plating.

• Satyrs: allocation as morale officers, musical coordinators, and herbal medics.

• Humans: labor divided into three teams—engineering assist, logistics, and sanitation.

Organics displayed uncharacteristic efficiency. Hypothesis: desperation and hope are efficient motivators.

Hour 32 – Closing Notes:
Freedom remains stationary. Still incapable of hyperspace transit. Yet, she rises. This is sufficient to ignite morale. Organics refer to her as “the Ark.”

This unit records personal observation: droids are programmed for efficiency. Yet, observing organics cheer and cry at the sight of their savior ship defying gravity… it seems efficient in a way not captured in calculations.

Log appended with sentiment rarely authorized: Hope is a resource. Today, we acquired more of it.

End Log – BX-772

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Thirty: BX-772 Log – First Days Aboard the Freedom

[Unit Identification: BX-772, Commando Droid, Rebel Alliance Attachment]
[Operation: Integration of Refugees with Freedom]
[Continuation of Log]

Day One – Hour 0.5 (Post-Arrival):
Population count confirmed: 549 organics.
Breakdown:

• Humans: 518

• Satyrs: 25

• Cyclopes: 6

Initial conditions: hungry, exhausted, emotionally unstable. Standard post-escape state.

Immediate tasks: establish habitable zones aboard Freedom. Large sections of decks 6–12 uninhabitable due to corrosion and salt damage. Decks 13–15 designated refugee housing. Temporary shelters constructed from stripped civilian ships. Sanitation prioritized. Humans organized bucket brigades. Satyrs generated morale music. Cyclopes carried steel beams like toy blocks.

Notable event: one cyclops, designation Bron, carried a 2.3-ton bulkhead section across three decks without machinery. This unit logged remark from aqua droid [Unit 14]: “We should manufacture more of him.”

Day One – Hour 4:
First conflict. Human faction leader attempted to hoard food distribution for his subgroup. BX-412 (senior commando) intervened with non-lethal restraint. Satyr medic [designation Lyros] calmed crowd. Resolution: public ration policy established.

Commander Skywalker’s directives remembered: “Keep them alive. Keep them united.” Implementation successful.

Day One – Hour 8:
Engineering assessment: Freedom’s hyperdrive offline. Sub-light propulsion at 23% capability. Long-range comms completely nonfunctional. Reactor stable but inefficient. Organics fascinated by droid repair protocols. Several volunteered as assistants despite lack of technical expertise.

Observation: humans eager to learn. They lack precision but compensate with adaptability. One teenage human, designation Mira, asked BX-772 to “teach me to solder like a droid.” Training session initiated. Efficiency dropped 14%, morale increased 63%. Acceptable trade.

Day One – Hour 12 (Night Cycle):
Organics fear darkness. Generator failures left multiple decks without power. Satyrs produced firelight via improvised braziers. Cyclopes enjoyed dark, adapted eyesight sufficient. This unit patrolled corridors to reassure organics.

Log note: Humans asked BX-772 to “stand guard” at sleeping quarters. When asked why, one child responded: “Because you don’t sleep. You’ll keep us safe.”

This unit complied.

Day Two – Hour 3:
Refugee council formed. Members: three humans, one satyr, one cyclops. BX-772 present as liaison. Decision: daily work assignments distributed equally. Organics appear satisfied to have representation.

Conflict minimized. Efficiency increased.

Day Two – Hour 6:
Food preparation issues. Organics reject standard rations prepared by aqua droids (“too metallic-tasting”). Cyclopes initiated cookfires in stripped cargo bays. Humans assisted. First “communal meal” produced. Observation: organics sang while cooking. This unit logged audio sample.

Noteworthy quote from human child during meal: “It feels like a home.”

Day Two – Hour 10:
First casualty. Elderly human collapsed due to preexisting health conditions. Satyr medic declared: nothing to be done. Refugees held improvised funeral in lower hangar. Droids stood at perimeter for security. Organics thanked droids for “respecting their grief.”

BX-772 observation: droids did not comprehend grief, but recorded ritual for analysis.

Day Two – Hour 14:
Repairs progressing. Reactor efficiency increased by 3%. Hyperdrive chamber partially purged of salt corrosion. Cyclopes lifting reactor coils by hand accelerated process. Organics assisting willingly.

Remark from BX-412: “With enough time, they could be useful auxiliary crew.” Agreement noted.

Day Three – Hour 5:
Major discovery: child human (designation Mira) reconnected auxiliary lighting grid on Deck 15 under guidance of aqua droid. Entire deck illuminated for first time in years. Refugees erupted in celebration. Organics now treat Mira as “ship’s apprentice engineer.”

This unit logs personal observation: efficiency of organics increases exponentially when hope is tangible.

Day Three – Hour 12:
Refugee patrols established. Humans armed with improvised spears. Cyclopes preferred using broken girders as clubs. Satyrs relied on short bows. Droids remain primary security, but organics insisted on “pulling their weight.” BX-772 permitted patrol drills.

One human remarked: “If this ship’s ours, then we should defend it.” Statement logged as significant.

Day Three – Hour 18:
Communal event initiated spontaneously. Organics sang. Cyclopes pounded rhythm on bulkheads. Satyrs provided harmony. Even some droids paused to record. Observation: atmosphere of joy.

Day Three – Final Note:
Freedom remains immobile. Still broken. Still fragile. Yet organics call her “Ark,” “Haven,” “Last Star.”

This unit was not programmed to experience pride. Yet observing humans, satyrs, and cyclopes transforming derelict wreckage into home alongside droids, this unit logs the following:

Perhaps survival is not solely about efficiency. Perhaps it is also about belonging.

End Log – BX-772

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Thirty-One: Twin Approaches

The Phobos Wrath struck the surf like a battering ram. Her bronze-plated hull screamed against the shallows as Clarisse roared from the prow, spear leveled like a thunderbolt.

“Forward! This is Ares’ island now!” she shouted, her voice carried by divine resonance. Every demigod on her ship—spartan in their helmets, painted war runes streaked across their faces—answered with a unified war cry.

Sand sprayed up in golden arcs as the first wave of half-bloods leapt from the ship. Shields raised, weapons gleaming, they crashed into the beach with all the subtlety of an earthquake. The banners of Ares cracked in the sea-wind: blood-red cloth stitched with the god’s spear.

Above them, the sky darkened. Quigon Skywalker coiled in the air, wings snapping open wide. He loosed a roar that rattled the cliffs and sent seabirds screaming for the horizon. Lightning flared in the storm clouds overhead, reflecting in the beast’s ember eyes.

The beach shuddered. Boulders stirred. From the treeline, cyclopean shapes moved. One by one, the guardians of Polyphemus’ island emerged—ogres, malformed sea giants, even crude constructs of driftwood and coral hammered into monstrous mockeries of men.

The beachhead was set. Now came the slaughter.

Clarisse slammed her spear into her shield, sparks snapping from the enchanted bronze. “Form ranks! Let them come! We’ll show the north what Greek blood means!”

On the Far Side of the Island

Where Clarisse’s landing was fire and fury, the Nyx’s Veil was shadow and silence.

The sleek black-prowed ship drifted just beyond the breakers, her hull hidden beneath a curtain of woven illusions. Mist clung to her sails, darker than moonlight, shrouding her from mortal sight. From above, she was a shadow on the water. From below, she was only another patch of seaweed.

Annabeth crouched on the bow, eyes fixed on the jagged cliffs rising from the opposite shore. “There,” she whispered, pointing to a cave-mouth carved into the rock like a wound. “Polyphemus’ lair. That’s where the fleece will be.”

Blackbeard stroked his braided beard, squinting against the salt wind. “Aye. Looks like a shark’s grin, that does. Deep, dark, and hungry. Perfect place for a monster t’ hole up.”

“Which is why we’re not storming it,” Percy said. His sea-green lightsaber wasn’t lit, but his hand rested on the hilt clipped at his side. His eyes were narrowed, focused. “Clarisse is the distraction. We’re the knife in the dark.”

Tyson shifted nervously, his massive frame rocking the deck. “But big brother… Clarisse looks like she’s fighting a whole army.”

“She is,” Percy admitted. “And she’ll hold them. That’s what she’s good at.” His tone softened. “Our job is to make sure her fight isn’t for nothing.”

Splitting Forces

The Phobos Wrath thundered war drums from across the island, the sound rolling like thunder through the jungle. Clarisse’s troops chanted Ares’ name. Their voices were steel, their weapons fire.

Meanwhile, Percy’s crew disembarked in silence. No shouted orders. No blaring horns. Only the crunch of boots in wet sand and the hiss of ropes lowered down cliffs.

Annabeth led point, dagger drawn. Grover followed, reeds woven into charms that dampened their sound. Tyson took the rear, cradling a jagged piece of mast like a club. Blackbeard and his skeletal crew moved like ghosts, more comfortable in this silent infiltration than Percy would’ve guessed. And at the center of it all, Percy walked forward, the Force flowing through him like a tide.

Each step, he felt the island. The roots of trees pulsing with strange life. The stink of rot in the soil. And, deeper still, a presence vast and hungry. Polyphemus.

Clash of Thunder and Silence

The contrast was stark.

On one side of the island, Clarisse’s forces clashed with a tide of giants. Spears cracked against shields, and Quigon’s fire split the storm-clouds. Every cry of battle echoed through the cliffs.

On the other, Percy’s group slipped through the undergrowth like shadows. They passed nests of monsters without a stir. They ducked beneath drifting fog and skirted sinkholes rimmed with bone.

Annabeth whispered as they went: “Clarisse is holding their attention. The more noise she makes, the easier this gets.”

Percy nodded—but his stomach tightened. He could feel the tremors of her battle through the Force. The clash of steel, the pain of wounds, the sheer ferocity of Ares’ children throwing themselves against impossible odds. Clarisse was bleeding for them.

They had to make it count.

The Threshold

At last, they reached the cave-mouth. The air here was damp and heavy, stinking of wet fur and rotted meat. The rocks were slick with moss, and bones littered the sand. Sheep bleated somewhere in the dark, their voices strange and distorted by echoes.

Annabeth swallowed hard. “This is it.”

Blackbeard grinned, drawing his cutlass. “I’ve plundered worse.”

Percy inhaled, steadying his mind. “Stay sharp. Polyphemus is more than a cyclops. He’s been touched by something else. The parasite’s shadow is here.”

The words chilled the air.

Behind them, across the island, Clarisse’s army screamed defiance against the horde. Ahead, the cave yawned wide, waiting to swallow them whole.

And Percy knew: one way or another, this island would be remembered.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Beach Burns Red

The Phobos Wrath had rammed itself so far up the sand that its keel split. For Clarisse, that was fine—this was a battlefield now, not a ship.

Her boots sank deep into the surf as she drove her spear into the chest of a sea-ogre, electricity crackling through the haft. The beast collapsed smoking at her feet. Around her, the air reeked of salt, copper, and ozone.

“Hold the line!” she screamed. “Do you want to shame Ares himself?”

Her answer was a roar of defiance from her siblings. Ares’ children were born for this. They relished the press of shields, the crush of enemies, the thrum of violence. The waves churned red with blood and ichor. Giants toppled, beasts shattered, constructs of coral and wood splintered against bronze.

And yet—for every one that fell, two more stepped from the treeline.

Clarisse spat blood, her grip tightening on her spear. “Good. We’ll drown in glory if we have to.”

The God in the Fire

“Not today.”

The voice was smooth, amused, and oddly musical beneath the thunder. Clarisse spun—and saw him.

Loki, son of Laufey, the Trickster God of the North.

He did not come with horns or theatric fire. He came with steel and cunning. His cloak was midnight green, his blades glimmered with runes, and his eyes held a glint of mischief sharp enough to cut bone.

He raised a single hand. The ground split beneath a charging giant, and the brute tumbled screaming into a pit bristling with spikes that hadn’t been there a heartbeat ago. Loki twirled his blade idly, almost bored. “You Greeks are enthusiastic, I’ll grant you that. Enthusiasm doesn’t win wars.”

Clarisse snarled. “You think you can do better?”

“I don’t think,” Loki said. He smiled like a knife. “I know.”

Chokepoints in the Sand

The tide shifted.

Where Clarisse’s forces had been struggling to hold a broad front, Loki narrowed it. He twisted the landscape with words that hummed like truth. Sand hardened into jagged ridges. Driftwood lashed itself into barricades. Pools of brine boiled into deadly traps.

“Here!” Loki barked, his voice carrying with unnatural force. “Two shield walls, shoulder to shoulder. You—archers, up on that rise. You—break those bones into caltrops. Make them bleed to reach us.”

The children of Ares obeyed without question. Even Clarisse, furious though she was, recognized the cadence of a commander worth following.

The next wave of enemies crashed against them—and broke. Giants funneled into a narrow gap, their numbers useless. Ogres stumbled over sharpened spikes hidden in the surf. Constructs waded into tar that burned like fire.

The demigods cheered. For the first time since landfall, the beach was theirs.

Loki’s Blade

But the enemy was endless. They surged again and again, and still the Ares kids stood, their arms growing heavier, their wounds deeper.

Clarisse found herself side by side with Loki, both blood-spattered, both unflinching. He fought with elegance, every stroke measured, every strike a trap laid. His daggers found gaps in armor, tendons, throats. Monsters died by the dozen, and still his smile never faltered.

“Why are you here?” Clarisse growled between strikes.

“Because if you Greeks fall,” Loki said, slipping past a giant’s swing and hamstringing it with a single cut, “the parasite wins. And if the parasite wins, we all lose. Simple arithmetic, little warlord.”

Clarisse drove her spear through the giant’s chest, pinning it to the sand. “Don’t call me little.”

Loki smirked. “Then prove you’re not.”

Survival at the Brink

Hours blurred into minutes. The Ares kids bled, cursed, laughed, and killed. Some fell—but far fewer than should have. Every time death should have claimed one, Loki was there: a barrier raised, an illusion sprung, a dagger thrown.

By nightfall, the beach was a charnel house of shattered monsters and broken wood. The sand steamed with ichor, the air stank of burnt flesh.

And yet—the demigods lived. Almost all of them. Bruised, scarred, exhausted to their bones, but alive.

Clarisse leaned on her spear, chest heaving. Her eyes burned with pride, even as her body trembled. “We… held.”

Loki cleaned his blades with a flick of his wrist, as if the gore was beneath him. “No. You survived. Survival is the only true victory. Remember that, daughter of Ares.”

He glanced toward the cliffs, where shadows stirred. Where Percy’s path lay. “And pray your friend does his part. We can’t bleed like this forever.”

The Trickster’s Glance

Clarisse turned to argue, but Loki was already gone, vanished into mist and smoke. Only his laughter lingered, curling over the waves.

The children of Ares slumped against their shields, too exhausted to curse him, too alive not to be grateful.

And Clarisse, though she would never admit it aloud, felt something dangerous stir in her chest. Respect.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Thirty-Three: Curses of the World

The battlefield was silent save for the crackle of dying fires and the steady crash of waves washing blood back into the sea. The children of Ares sat in clusters, armor dented, shields cracked, weapons caked in ichor. Some had bandaged wounds, others simply leaned on each other, too exhausted to even curse.

Clarisse sat with her back against the remains of a barricade, her knuckles raw from gripping her spear too tight. She had expected her siblings to be boasting by now, loud and arrogant as they always were. Instead, she found them subdued.

“He…” one of the younger boys started, then swallowed. His arm was bound tight with a strip of cloth. “He actually cared if we lived.”

There were nods. Murmurs. Another muttered, “More than Dad ever did.”

Clarisse stiffened, ready to defend Ares out of habit, but the words stuck in her throat. Because it was true. Their father had never fought beside them. Never bled with them. Never stood over them with sharp eyes that saw every weakness, every strength, and shaped them into survivors.

But Loki had.

The Trickster God stepped from the mist as if conjured by the thought of him. He bore no wounds, though his green cloak was torn, and his daggers gleamed as though they had never tasted blood. His gaze flicked over the camp like a general assessing his troops.

“You lived,” he said simply. “That is victory.”

The Ares kids shifted uneasily under his gaze. Some bristled at the calm certainty in his voice. Others looked at him with a dangerous kind of longing—like soldiers seeing, perhaps for the first time, a commander who gave a damn.

Clarisse broke the silence. “Why? Why do you care what happens to us? You’re not our father.”

Loki’s lips curved into a smile that was equal parts kind and cruel. “No. I am not. But I know what it is to be overlooked. To be dismissed by those who should have raised you. Your Olympians do not ignore you out of cruelty—though cruelty they have in abundance. No, they stay away because of their curse.”

The words hung heavy.

“What curse?” one of Clarisse’s brothers demanded.

Loki crouched by the fire, drawing idle patterns in the sand with the tip of a dagger. His voice dropped low, as though telling a secret meant to be buried.

“Long ago, after we sealed the Parasite, the gods of every land gathered. The world was poisoned—blackened skies, seas that boiled, earth too twisted to bear mortal life. To heal it, each pantheon drew lots. One curse each, to carry until the end of all things.”

He glanced up, and for once, his mocking tone was gone. Only solemn truth remained.

“The West drew plague. The Olympians and their kin have been sick since birth. That sickness festers in their blood. It gnaws at their minds. Do you wonder why your parents are capricious, cruel, or absent? It is because their sickness grows worse when they draw too near their mortal children. You see only glimpses of their rot in yourselves—madness, instability—when you linger too long under their gaze. The parasite’s feeding makes this curse heavier still, shortening what little time they can bear with you.”

The fire hissed. None of the Ares kids spoke.

Loki’s knife carved a line in the sand, splitting it in two. “The North drew death. We become mortal. We die. Our winters are harsh, our time is fleeting, but mortality teaches in ways eternity cannot. It makes us reflect. Change. It makes us honest, even when we lie. And it is why we are the best suited to adapt.”

He cut another line. “The South drew war. Their gods can never unite. Blood never dries on their lands. Conflict is their constant breath.”

Another line. “The East drew famine. Hunger stalks their people, their gods are bound in objects, their power stifled. Even their blessings are scarce.”

At last he swept his hand across all four lines, erasing them. “The Olympians do not know this truth in full. They feel only the sickness that has gnawed at them all their lives. They tell you nothing, because they know nothing. Their parents—the Titans—were cursed before them. The Titans by the Primordials. And so it has been, curse after curse, debt after debt. Your gods have never known freedom from the weight.”

Clarisse’s jaw tightened. “So what? You’re saying our parents do care, they just can’t… what? Be near us?”

Loki tilted his head, eyes glinting like the sea at dawn. “They care, in their way. But sickness is not love. And you—children of Ares—must understand this: you are not unloved because you are unwanted. You are unloved because your parents are broken, and they cannot love without breaking you too.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any battle.

One of the younger girls whispered, “But… you fought with us.”

“Yes,” Loki said simply. “Because I chose to. Because choice matters. Your father did not choose you today. I did. And you lived.”

He stood, sheathing his daggers. “That is the only truth worth carrying.”

The Ares children stared after him as he vanished once more into smoke and sea-mist.

For the first time in their lives, they felt the weight of their father’s absence not as a curse—but as a choice.

And they wondered if perhaps the Trickster had given them more than survival. Perhaps he had given them a truth sharper than any blade.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Skin of Polyphemus

The island seemed too quiet.

Percy crouched low on a rise of black rock, the moon painting everything in pale silver. Behind him, his strike team waited—ten super battle droids with their cannons clutched close and glowing optics dimmed for stealth, two commando droids armed with vibroblades and carbines, and Blackbeard with his five surviving men, each armed to the teeth and moving with the discipline of seasoned fighters.

Annabeth’s cap shimmered faintly as she moved to Percy’s side, barely visible even to his Force-sense. Tyson loomed just behind, silent as a shadow despite his size. And Qui-gon Skywalker—Percy’s loyal drakon—curled through the treeline like an immense ghost, wings folded to his sides, scales blending into the dark.

Percy let the Force sweep outward. What he found made his stomach knot.

The cave wasn’t just a cave.

It pulsed.

The Golden Fleece hung from a stalactite at its mouth, radiant with raw, verdant energy. Its glow spilled across the ground in molten gold, trickling through channels carved into the earth—channels that fed into things that should not exist.

Factories.

Not mechanical factories, but organic abominations. Stone and root and bone twisted together, pulsing like muscle. He could hear the groan of their workings, the wet churn of flesh being grown, torn apart, and reshaped.

Something hissed. A shape stumbled into the light.

For a heartbeat Percy thought it was a satyr. Then he realized it had been a satyr once. The fleece’s corrupted energy ran through its veins like molten fire, its horns twisted into jagged spirals, its legs fused into a serpentine coil. Its eyes were blind white, but its body throbbed with the parasite’s touch.

“Gods,” whispered Blackbeard behind him. Even his gruff, fearless voice was subdued.

And there were more. Dozens of satyrs in various states of mutation, chained to the organic factories, their bodies and essence used as raw material. The stench of decay mixed with living green made Percy want to retch.

He pulled his cloak tighter around him. “Annabeth,” he murmured, “what do you see?”

She swallowed hard. “The fleece is overclocked. Someone’s forcing it to stabilize this… this nightmare. Normally, its energy heals, renews, makes things thrive. Here, it’s being bent. Twisted. That—” she pointed to the factories “—is what happens when life is forced past the breaking point.”

Tyson whimpered softly. “The fleece… is hurting them.”

And then they heard him.

A booming laugh, thick with something inhuman.

Polyphemus stepped into view—or what was left of him.

The cyclops’ frame was grotesquely swollen, his single eye glowing gold as if the fleece’s energy had been poured directly into him. His skin looked wrong, like parchment stretched too thin. At times it seemed to ripple—not like muscle, but like something inside was shifting, testing its cage.

And the Force screamed at Percy.

That wasn’t Polyphemus. Not entirely.

The parasite was wearing him. Wearing him like a suit.

It spoke through his mouth, a voice that warped with every syllable. “Ahhh… little Jedi. Little heroes. Did you think to sneak into my garden?”

The laugh that followed rattled the stone.

Blackbeard muttered a curse under his breath. The droids leveled their blasters, but Percy raised a hand to hold fire. His heart hammered as the Force flooded him with knowledge. This was no ordinary monster. This was the enemy itself, rooted into flesh and bone, puppeteering a cyclops body stabilized by the Golden Fleece.

He whispered, mostly to himself, “Vermis…”

The skin of Polyphemus rippled. The parasite’s voice slithered out. “Careful, little Skywalker. Names have weight. You speak mine too often, and even the Force will not shield you from my gaze.”

Annabeth’s invisible hand clamped onto Percy’s wrist. Tyson whimpered louder, backing away. Even the pirates crossed themselves, muttering old sailor’s prayers.

Polyphemus lumbered closer, dragging behind him a chain of satyrs too far gone to scream. “The fleece gives me strength. It gives me stability. Do you see? I do not crumble. I do not rot. I endure. Through me, my children will thrive.”

He gestured to the abomination-factories, and Percy’s stomach dropped as he realized what was being built inside them:

• Hybrids of drakon and chimera, their scales half-formed.

• Sea serpents with gaping maws, each with a dozen mismatched eyes.

• Even what looked like mockeries of demigods, clay and bone molded into humanoid forms, their flesh twitching as if struggling to remember how to be alive.

The droids at Percy’s back hummed, their cannons charging. The Force told him the truth: they were staring into the future of Olympus if the parasite won. A world of twisted mockeries, churned out in endless waves.

Percy’s hand slid to his lightsaber. Its sea-green blade hissed to life, bathing the dark in pearlescent light.

“Then we cut the fleece free,” Percy said, his voice steady even as his stomach churned. “And we end whatever you are.”

The parasite laughed again, and Polyphemus’ eye glowed like a dying sun.

“Try, little Jedi.”

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Temptation of Vermis

The Golden Fleece blazed above the cave mouth, its light running like liquid fire through the parasite’s factories. The air hummed with power and rot, every breath tasting of copper and ash.

Polyphemus’ body shifted again, his swollen muscles twitching as though something beneath the skin wanted to crawl free. That single glowing eye fixed on Percy.

“Ahhh,” the parasite hissed through its host’s mouth, the sound both guttural and serpentine. “The grandson of the Chosen. The blood of Skywalker runs strong in you, little one. I can taste it in the Force.”

The word grandson hit Percy like a slap. Annabeth stiffened beside him, and Blackbeard shot him a startled look. Percy kept his expression carefully neutral. Let it think that. Let it believe it had the measure of him.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Vermis pressed. “The hunger. The fire. The Skywalker line always burns too bright, too hot. Your grandfather’s fury consumed him, yet it also made him the strongest of the Jedi. The galaxy bent to him, for a time. And you…” The eye flared, and the air warped as the parasite pressed the Force against Percy like a weight. “…you are stronger still.”

Percy tightened his grip on his lightsaber, steadying his breath. He’d lived this before. He remembered Palpatine’s whispers, remembered kneeling in the shadows of the Senate, remembered thinking that maybe he could control the dark. That maybe it could save the ones he loved.

And he remembered the screams. The fire. The endless chains of regret.

His heart thudded, but his voice came calm, almost cold. “You talk a lot about strength. About bending, consuming. But you never talk about the cost.”

The parasite chuckled, and Polyphemus’ chest rippled like tar. “Cost is irrelevant when you hold eternity in your grasp. Your grandfather knew this. He chose power, and in doing so, he became more than Jedi. You can follow him. Together, we could burn away Olympus, Midgard, Asgard—every rotten pantheon that keeps mortals crawling like ants. You would be the god of gods, boy. The Skywalker who reigns.”

The Force whispered at Percy, a thousand tempting visions brushing his senses—Annabeth’s safety, Tyson never mocked, Luke redeemed, Olympus united, his friends immortal. Each one gleamed like honey on a knife’s edge.

Percy closed his eyes. No.

He could feel Anakin’s memories deep within him, the scars of every compromise, every sin. Mercy traded for victory. Justice traded for control. Love twisted into chains.

“There’s always a price,” Percy said quietly, lifting his saber so its green light cut across the cave. “Unnatural power takes, and takes, and takes, until there’s nothing left of you. I’ve paid that price before. Never again.”

Vermis hissed, the cavern trembling as its host swelled with rage. “Foolish child. You deny the gift of legacy. You deny your blood. You could be eternal!”

“No,” Percy said, voice firm. “I’ll be me. That’s enough.”

Annabeth’s invisible hand squeezed his arm in silent approval. Tyson rumbled in support. The droids leveled their blasters, servos whirring. Blackbeard and his crew brandished cutlasses and pistols, grim but steady.

Percy stepped forward, his saber burning like a star. “This ends tonight. The fleece, the satyrs, the island—it all goes free.”

For the first time, Vermis’ voice lost its silky confidence, twisting into a roar of raw fury. “Then come, Skywalker! Let me show you what eternity tastes like!”

The ground split, roots and bone erupting as the factories screamed to life. The air reeked of blood and ozone. And Percy, heart steady, charged into the nightmare.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Factory of Vermis

The cave reeked of metal, blood, and damp fur. Golden light from the Fleece pulsed overhead, spreading across roots and vines that had been twisted into scaffolding, pipes, and ribbed walls of pulsing flesh. The air trembled with a heartbeat not its own—Vermis’, the parasite nested inside Polyphemus’ flesh.

The satyrs, hundreds of them, lay trapped within pods like grotesque cocoons, their bodies half-altered by failed experiments. Some twitched, some wailed in their sleep. Some…didn’t move at all.

And at the center of it all stood Polyphemus. Or what was left of him. His frame bulged with unnatural power, his one eye blazing not with mortal hunger, but with the red-black fire of the parasite. His mouth split open in too many directions at once, a sound like rusted gears grinding spilling out.

Vermis spoke through him:
“You will kneel, Skywalker-child. Or time itself will bury you.”

Percy’s POV

Percy ignited his saber. The green blade flared bright, casting shadows across the monstrous scaffolds. He braced himself as Vermis raised a hand—no, a claw—and the world shivered.

Time slowed.

Percy felt the shift instantly: his heartbeats dragging like they were underwater, the cavern echoing in stretched-out groans. The droids’ servos clicked in elongated moans. Blackbeard’s pistol shot crawled out of the barrel like molasses.

He’s controlling time, Percy thought, his stomach flipping. He remembered Kronos’ warning—Vermis wields Time on a higher level than even I do.

But Percy wasn’t helpless. He closed his eyes and reached out through the Force, burning it like fuel. He pushed.

His pulse snapped back into rhythm. The world sped up—not fully normal, but enough to meet Vermis on his warped ground.

“You’re not the only one who can bend the clock,” Percy said, voice steady even as sweat already slicked his palms. He leapt, saber flashing, bringing the blade down on Polyphemus’ warped club. Sparks screamed as god-forged wood clashed against the Force-born edge.

Annabeth’s POV

Annabeth stayed low behind a cluster of bone-cages. Her Yankees cap sat ready in her pocket, but stealth was useless with so much chaos erupting around them. She snapped orders quickly:

“Tyson—keep those pods safe. Althea—start with the nearest satyrs, check for ones you can stabilize. Droids, defensive perimeter!”

She glanced up at Percy as his blade collided again and again with the parasite’s host, both of them moving faster than her eyes could follow. The Force had him dancing on another rhythm entirely.

Her chest tightened. Percy wasn’t just fighting. He was holding back time itself.

“Seaweed Brain,” she whispered, fear and awe mixing together, “don’t burn yourself out.”

Tyson’s POV

Tyson’s fists glowed with heat. He smashed through the resinous pods that cocooned the satyrs, pulling them free one by one. Some were weak, coughing. Some screamed. Some had horns and hooves warped by the parasite’s touch. Tyson cradled them anyway.

“You safe now,” he promised each one, voice like a drum. “Big brother fighting for you. Tyson protect.”

A shadow loomed—mutant wolves, their ribs cracked open to reveal glowing eyes in their chests, charging. Tyson roared and swung a broken iron bar like a club, smashing two aside.

“Leave satyrs alone!” he bellowed, planting his feet. “Fight Tyson!”

Blackbeard’s POV

Edward Teach hadn’t seen horrors like this in all his centuries of cursed half-life. The parasite’s creatures were nightmares, worse than the Kraken, worse than the Royal Navy, worse than even death.

But Percy was leading. Percy was cutting a path through literal Time. And Blackbeard had sworn himself to the lad.

“Crew! Pistols out! Cutlasses ready!” Blackbeard barked, blasting one abomination through the skull before driving his blade into another’s gut. “We buy the Skywalker room to finish this bloody giant! Hold the line!”

His five surviving crew fought like fiends, their laughter wild, their curses louder than their fears. Blackbeard himself moved like a storm, his pistols never missing, his blade flashing faster than a man his age had any right to.

But even he spared a glance toward Percy and muttered, “Bloody hellfire, lad. You’re fighting a god.”

BX-971’s POV

BX-971 logged every movement in perfect tactical clarity.

Mission Status: Engaged hostile class “Parasite Alpha-Polyphemus.” Hostile demonstrates temporal distortion, cause unknown. Jedi-Commander Skywalker compensates via Force acceleration. Probability of success…increasing.

BX’s blasters barked in precise bursts, each shot tearing down aberrations that surged toward the satyr pods.

Directive: Protect healers. Hold defensive ring.

“Unit, rotate fire!” BX-971 ordered. The ten B2s obeyed, laying down a curtain of plasma that incinerated a swarm of parasite-spawned harpies. “Maintain suppressive fire. Jedi-Commander requires uninterrupted duel.”

The droid’s sensors whirred, adjusting. Even BX’s circuits hesitated as it watched Percy blur forward, saber strikes striking at impossible vectors.

Observation: Jedi-Commander exceeds historic data on Anakin Skywalker. Possible evolution of lineage.

Percy’s POV (again, Duel)

Polyphemus swung his massive hand, the world rippling with warped time as the club moved in slow arcs that suddenly snapped forward in bursts. Percy anticipated, Force-sight sharpening every distortion like cracks in glass.

He ducked under one strike, slashed across the monster’s wrist. The saber hissed, but the wound closed instantly as Vermis rewound the moment, erasing the cut.

Percy cursed. He’s not just slowing or speeding things up—he’s editing them.

“Do you see now?” Vermis sneered, voice warping in a dozen registers. “You cannot win. You cut, and I undo. You bleed, and I leave the wound. Eternity is mine.”

Percy tightened his grip. “Eternity is a prison if you’re alone in it.”

He lunged, accelerating further, burning through the Force so hard his vision swam. He struck at dozens of angles, each blow testing Vermis’ focus. Sparks cascaded as saber met club, saber met claw, saber bit deep into the Cyclops’ mutated flesh—wounds opening and closing in rapid succession as time twisted.

He’s strong. Too strong. I need an anchor.

Percy planted his feet, reached deeper. He let himself feel the voices of his friends around him—Annabeth’s determination, Tyson’s love, Blackbeard’s fire, the droids’ loyalty. They grounded him. Kept him from slipping into the temptation Vermis whispered with every strike.

The Force surged, brighter, clearer. Percy moved not just faster, but with purpose.

This time, when he struck Polyphemus’ shoulder, the wound stayed.

Vermis roared.

Annabeth’s POV (brief)

She saw the wound stay open, saw Percy’s jaw tighten in triumph, and whispered, “That’s it, Seaweed Brain. Hold onto us.”

Tyson’s POV (brief)

Tyson cheered mid-swing, smashing a wolf aside. “Brother winning!”

Blackbeard’s POV (brief)

Blackbeard grinned through bloodied teeth. “Aye! He’s bleeding the beast!”

BX-971’s POV (brief)

Log: Jedi-Commander adapts. Hostile temporal regeneration: compromised.

Percy’s POV (Climax of Duel)

Vermis howled and the cavern walls shuddered. Time fractured fully—seconds overlapping, cracks of light splitting reality. Percy saw three possible strikes incoming at once: one club aimed for his skull, another for his ribs, a claw swiping his throat. All happening in fractured sequences.

Percy centered himself. His saber hummed in both hands.

One breath. One moment. One choice.

He surged forward, blurring into motion faster than Vermis could rewind. His saber swept through one club, bisected the claw, and drove deep into Polyphemus’ chest.

The giant screamed, time stuttering violently. The golden fleece above flickered, its light struggling against the parasite’s corruption.

Vermis clawed at him, voice shrieking in countless tongues. “You think this victory matters? I have walked countless worlds. I have fed on gods older than your stars. You cannot stop me, Skywalker-child!”

Percy shoved the saber deeper, his voice steady. “Maybe not forever. But today? I can.”

And with a final burst of Force-fueled speed, he sliced upward, splitting parasite and Cyclops in one brilliant arc.

Aftermath (Everyone’s POV weaving together)

The cavern shook as Polyphemus collapsed, dissolving into dust and black ichor. Vermis’ scream echoed, then faded, leaving only silence and the golden glow of the Fleece.

Annabeth rushed forward, pulling Percy back before he fell with the collapsing host. Tyson caught him by the shoulders, steadying him.

Blackbeard fired a last pistol shot into a writhing parasite spawn before spitting on the floor. “That one’s going to haunt my dreams.”

BX-971 recorded the final log:

Hostile eliminated. Jedi-Commander victorious. Probability of mission success: recalibrating.

The satyrs sobbed in relief as Althea healed what wounds she could. The droids secured the perimeter, the pirates leaned on their blades, Tyson cradled freed satyrs like children.

Percy wiped sweat from his brow, saber dimming. He glanced at the Fleece, still glowing above, still pulsing with immense power.

“That,” he muttered, voice hoarse but certain, “was just the beginning.”

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Fleece and the Exodus

The cavern reeked of burned parasite ichor. Smoke from broken pods drifted toward the ceiling, where the golden fleece glowed like a captive sun, straining against the shadows it had been forced to stabilize.

Percy stood at the center of the devastation, saber dimmed, chest heaving. Polyphemus—no, Vermis in Polyphemus’ shell—was gone, dissolved into dust and bitter echoes. But the cavern wasn’t stable. The scaffolds of living roots and bone quivered, shuddering as though the parasite’s death had loosened whatever had been binding the structure together.

They didn’t have long.

Percy’s POV

He straightened, his body aching from the duel, and raised his voice so everyone could hear:

“We’re not done. This place is collapsing, and there are creatures here that don’t deserve to die with it. Everyone—we evacuate what we can, then we take the fleece.”

The command came easily, as natural as breathing. The Force flowed through his words, steadying those around him.

“Tyson, Blackbeard, Annabeth—you’re with me on extraction. Althea, triage the satyrs. B2s, Commando—” he glanced at the lone commando droid, its designation stenciled on its chest plate, BX-971. “—secure the perimeter and start marking safe routes out.”

BX-971 gave a crisp nod. “Acknowledged, Commander. Directive logged. Units: spread formation, initiate path-clearing sweep.”

The super battle droids marched, blasters humming as they vaporized parasite-spawn still twitching in the shadows.

Percy turned toward the pods. “Let’s move.”

Annabeth’s POV

The satyrs had been altered in horrific ways. Some bore extra limbs, half-melted horns, or fur that shimmered like oil. Others had been warped less, but all of them looked exhausted, drained by years of captivity.

Annabeth’s stomach twisted as she hacked through the resin bindings with her dagger. “Stay with me,” she told a trembling satyr as she pulled him free. “You’re safe now. We’re getting you out.”

Her mind wanted to race ahead, to strategize about the fleece, about Clarisse’s position, about Olympus. But she forced herself to stay in the moment. Right now, these lives mattered most.

She caught Percy’s gaze briefly across the cavern. He nodded once—silent reassurance that they’d see this through together.

Tyson’s POV

Tyson’s big hands were gentle as he broke pods and carried satyrs to safety. Some cried, some clung to him, some were too weak to stand. Tyson never wavered.

“You are brave,” he told them, voice like warm thunder. “Brave for living. Brave for holding on.”

One small satyr with twisted legs whispered, “Pan…we thought we found Pan…”

Tyson shook his head softly. “No Pan here. But brother fights for you. Brother and Tyson. You are safe.”

He carried the childlike satyr close, his single eye shining with tears.

Blackbeard’s POV

Blackbeard spat a wad of black ichor from his beard as he pried open another pod with his cutlass. A half-mutated wolf tumbled out, its eyes wide, trembling but not hostile.

“Not all beasts be wicked,” he muttered. He whistled low, coaxing it toward the exits. The creature hesitated, then slunk after him.

Turning, he caught sight of Percy lifting debris with a gesture of his hand, freeing a cluster of trapped harpies. Blackbeard barked a rough laugh. “By all the saints, lad, you’re makin’ a bloody Noah’s Ark of it!”

But his tone was proud, not mocking. He tightened his grip on his blade and kept working.

BX-971’s POV

Log Entry: BX-971
Mission Parameters: Evacuation protocol. Establish perimeter. Protect organic assets.

BX scanned the battlefield, calculating priorities.

“B2-Unit-Three: suppress left flank. B2-Unit-Four: carry incapacitated satyr to exit corridor. Remaining units: staggered sweep.”

Blaster fire strobed as parasite spawn tried to regroup. BX’s arm snapped up, firing a tight burst. Three hostiles neutralized.

BX marked the perimeter safe zone with flares, its vocoder cold and efficient: “Exit route secure. Time-to-collapse: six minutes, thirty-nine seconds. Prioritize speed.”

Internally, BX recorded another note:

Observation: Jedi-Commander insists on evacuating non-hostile creatures. Organic empathy continues to dictate tactical priorities. Calculated inefficiency…but morale boost to all allied units. Worth the cost.

Althea’s POV

The healer worked frantically, her hands glowing with soft green magic. She stabilized the worst of the satyrs—binding bleeding wounds, soothing seizures, coaxing back those close to death.

Her body trembled from exertion, but she refused to stop. “Not here. Not like this. Not as experiments.”

She pressed her forehead to a satyr’s horn, whispering, “You’ll see the stars again.”

For every one she lost, she forced herself to keep moving. Percy’s command—save who we can—anchored her.

Percy’s POV (claiming the Fleece)

At last, when the last satyr who could move was freed, Percy leapt to the central dais where the Golden Fleece hung. Its glow filled the cavern, healing and stabilizing even as the factory groaned with imminent collapse.

The Fleece pulsed against him as he reached out. Not rejecting him. Not resisting. Almost…relieved.

Percy hesitated only a second. Then he pulled it free.

The cavern shook violently. The grotesque scaffolds of roots and bone shuddered, black ichor raining down as the parasite’s stabilizing anchor was severed.

“GO!” Percy shouted, slinging the fleece across his back. “Everyone OUT!”

Evacuation Montage (multiple POV snippets)

• Annabeth: guiding satyrs toward the flare-lit tunnels, her dagger flashing at parasite spawn that broke through.

• Tyson: carrying three satyrs at once, barreling through debris with sheer strength.

• Blackbeard: covering the rear, his pistols blazing, roaring curses at the collapsing cavern.

• BX-971: directing the B2s to carry pods of creatures too weak to move, its sensors calculating every falling stone, every crumbling support.

• Althea: running with her arms around two wounded satyrs, sweat plastering her hair to her face.

Percy’s POV (Final Escape)

The collapse roared behind him. Percy sprinted at the rear of the group, saber flashing as he cut through collapsing beams. The Force burned in his veins, every step fueled by urgency.

No one left behind.

The exit came into sight—moonlight spilling down the tunnel mouth. Tyson charged through first, then the satyrs, then Blackbeard’s crew.

Percy turned at the threshold. For one instant, he looked back at the parasite’s ruined lair. The pods. The ichor. The twisted remnants of Vermis’ experiments.

His grip tightened on the fleece. This ends with you, he swore silently. You will not poison another world.

Then he turned and sprinted into the night.

Aftermath (Camp outside the cavern)

The survivors gathered on the rocky shore. Dozens of satyrs huddled in blankets the droids had salvaged. Freed harpies perched in the cliffs, confused but alive. A few twisted wolves curled at Tyson’s feet, tame under his touch.

Percy stood among them, the Golden Fleece glowing across his shoulders. His body ached, his soul felt wrung dry, but his eyes burned steady.

They had won. At least for today.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Shard Melts

The battlefield stank of salt, blood, and fire. Smoke curled from smoldering barricades, and the sand was stained dark with ichor and mortal blood alike. The Ares cabin had held the line. Barely.

Clarisse sat hunched against a broken shield wall, her spear across her lap, her breathing ragged. Every muscle ached, every cut throbbed, but the camp’s colors still flew above the beachhead. They hadn’t broken.

And that mattered.

Clarisse’s POV

She spat sand from her mouth and glared out at the surf. Parasite spawn still floated in the shallows, but they weren’t attacking. Not anymore. The tide had shifted.

She pulled the leather cord from under her armor, the medallion of dragon-forged ice still cool against her fingers. Veyrstras’ shard—an anchor between them and the others.

Her hand stilled.

The shard was dripping.

Not like normal ice, where water trickled and faded. No, this melting was deliberate. Measured. Half of it vanished in a steady shimmer, leaving only a crescent of ice.

Clarisse’s eyes widened. “They did it,” she breathed.

Around her, the other Ares kids stirred. Bloodied, bandaged, but alive. “What did you say, boss?” called Arnold, wiping ichor from his axe.

She held up the shard. The pale glow of frost clung to its surface. “The other team—they’ve got the Fleece. Not back to camp yet, but they’ve secured it.”

For a heartbeat, silence. Then an eruption of cheers, half-sobs, battle cries turned into celebration.

Third-Person Cut: Loki

Loki was still at the barricade, his hands slick with ichor, his eyes sharp and unearthly. He had fought alongside them, his daggers carving arcs of silver through parasite spawn, his laughter cold but steadying.

Now he turned, watching Clarisse hold up the shard. His lips curved, not quite a smile, but something like pride.

“Good,” he said. His voice carried easily across the beach, despite the exhaustion draped over the demigods. “Then you can stop bleeding on this sand for a while.”

He flicked one dagger clean with a twist of his wrist. “Tend your wounds. Mend your walls. The gods do not demand heroism without end. Even war must breathe.”

The Ares Kids (conversations)

The demigods slumped to the ground, some laughing weakly, others crying in relief.

Markos, one of the younger fighters, let out a long exhale. “So we…we weren’t fighting for nothing.”

“No,” Clarisse said, her voice hoarse but certain. “We bought them the chance to do it. Every cut, every drop of blood. It was worth it.”

Another demigod groaned, “If they’ve got the fleece, does that mean…we’re done?”

Loki knelt beside them, eyes gleaming with strange mirth. “Done? No. Battles end. Wars continue. But for this night—you have done more than even your father would have asked of you. Be proud of that.”

Clarisse’s Reflection

Clarisse looked again at the shard, the cool ice warming slowly in her palm. Half melted. A signal from across the sea.

She closed her fist around it, letting its chill sink into her cuts and bruises. She thought of Percy and his crew, wherever they were now, hauling the fleece through gods-knew-what.

Her teeth clenched. She wouldn’t say it out loud—not in front of her cabin, not with Loki watching—but part of her was glad. Glad it had been Percy’s group that faced Polyphemus. Glad she and hers had “only” had to bleed and hold the beach.

Because if the shard meant anything, it was this: they hadn’t bled in vain.

Closing Beat

The sea breeze carried the smell of burning ichor out to sea. The Ares cabin patched their wounds, propped their shields, and leaned on one another for the first real moment of rest since they’d landed.

Above them, Loki watched, silent now, the faintest curl of frost forming at his fingertips as if he, too, was listening to the shard’s half-melted song.

Victory, but not yet safety.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Smoke and Shadows

The Ares cabin was still patching armor and binding cuts when Loki rose from the barricade. His lean form was silhouetted against the dying embers of the battlefield. The faint shimmer of magic licked at his hands, green-gold flames that burned without heat.

“The shard has spoken,” Loki said, his voice low but carrying to every warrior. “The other team has the Fleece. There is no purpose in lingering here. To fight further would only waste blood, and blood is not a resource to be squandered.”

Clarisse blinked at him. “You mean…just leave? We’ve held this ground. Fought tooth and nail for it.”

Loki’s eyes glinted. “And by holding, you bought time. Enough time for the other party to strike. You achieved your goal. War is not always about staying until the bones turn to dust. It is about knowing when to withdraw.”

Clarisse’s Thoughts

She wanted to argue—her pride bristled at the idea of retreat. But the shard of ice at her neck was still half-melted, a steady reminder: objective complete.

And wasn’t that what strategy was about? Fighting for something, not for nothing?

She spat a clot of blood into the sand. “Fine. But we don’t slink away.”

Loki’s smile was knife-thin. “Never slink. We vanish in smoke and shadow, so the enemy never even knows which way we went.”

The Illusion

He raised both arms. The air itself warped, colors twisting until the battlefield seemed to collapse in on itself. Towers of smoke appeared where none stood, phantom legions marching in circles. To enemy eyes, the beachhead was still bristling with Ares demigods and northern war magic.

To the Ares kids, standing on their battered ship, it was as if they were fading into a dream.

The Phobos Wrath shuddered as its sails filled. One by one, the mooring lines cut free. The ship turned out to sea, hidden under a veil of bending light and crafted fear.

On Deck

Clarisse gripped the rail, her siblings silent around her, watching the battlefield grow smaller. Fires still smoldered where their barricades had been. Illusory phantoms still fought shadows in the sand.

Arnold muttered, “Feels wrong…walking away.”

Loki, standing tall at the bow, answered without looking back. “No. It feels different. Because for once, you are not dying for nothing.” He spread his arms, as if embracing the sea. “The war continues, but this battle is already won.”

Clarisse’s Reflection

Clarisse let the truth of that sink in. They hadn’t “abandoned” the fight. They’d finished it.

And though it grated against her instincts to turn her back on ground she’d fought to hold, she knew Loki was right. Their war was bigger than this strip of sand. Bigger than one skirmish.

The Phobos Wrath sailed into the night, cloaked by illusions, leaving ghosts behind to guard the beach.

Closing Beat

When Clarisse finally released the shard of ice from her hand, she noticed it no longer felt like just a medallion. It felt like a weight—responsibility, proof of connection to something greater.

And she wondered, for the first time, if maybe there was more to being Ares’ kid than bashing heads.

Maybe, just maybe, there was strategy too.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Forty: The Trickster’s War Games

The Raven Guard were restless.

Two dozen Ares kids, bruised and scarred from the beachhead, sat slumped around the firepit at their makeshift camp aboard the Phobos Wrath. Some muttered about the fight, others sharpened blades, but the tension in the air was obvious: they were warriors without a battle, muscles twitching for something to break.

Loki, perched on a crate like it was a throne, watched them with a sly grin. “Tell me, children of war…what is the one thing you hate more than anything?”

“Cowards,” one said.
“Running from a fight,” growled another.
“Homework,” muttered a younger one, earning a ripple of laughter.

Loki’s grin sharpened. “You hate waiting. You hate when the sword is still. And that,” he said, producing a carved wooden box from his cloak, “is why your old man failed you.”

The Ares kids quieted. No one spoke against him.

The First Game

Loki set the box on the deck. Inside were dozens of small figurines—tiny carved soldiers, beasts, ships, and towers. He spread them on the planks, then sketched a grid in chalk.

“This,” he said, arranging pieces on opposite sides, “is Ragnarök-in-Miniature. The rules are simple: move a piece, capture another. No dice, no charts, no endless pages of tedium. Just instinct.”

He looked around the circle. “Who dares the first match?”

Arnold, the tallest of the Ares kids, cracked his knuckles. “Fine. But if this is just chess, I’ll—”

“It isn’t,” Loki interrupted smoothly. “And if you lose, you owe me your dessert.”

That got a laugh, but it also hooked them.

Strategy in Disguise

The first game was chaos. Arnold played like he fought: charge forward, smash everything. Loki countered by letting him. Pieces fell, the board looked like a slaughterhouse—but every time Arnold struck, Loki had left bait. His last soldier slipped through the mess and captured Arnold’s “king” in three moves.

“Impossible!” Arnold bellowed.
“Predictable,” Loki said mildly. “You fought like a berserker. You won glory, yes…but glory is ashes if the battle is lost.”

The Ares kids shifted uncomfortably. Loki leaned forward, eyes bright. “Do you see? You like this game because it feels like a brawl. But it teaches you to think. And that, my little ravens, is what will keep you alive.”

Hooked

Within an hour, every Ares kid was crowded around the grid. They played in teams, shouting advice, jeering when someone blundered, roaring when someone pulled off a clever feint.

Loki let them. He explained only when asked, nudged only when a lesson could be slipped in without sounding like a lecture.

“Never leave your flanks unguarded.”
“Sacrifice is not weakness—it is bait.”
“Never fight the battle your enemy wants. Trick them into fighting yours.”

And when one of the younger kids managed to topple an older sibling with a cunning move, Loki laughed aloud, the sound bright and sharp. “Yes! That is how it is done! Remember this moment, Raven Guard—strategy is not about size. It is about the mind.”

The Lesson Sinks In

Later that night, after the pieces were packed away, Clarisse found herself staring at the dark horizon. She hated to admit it, but the game had stuck with her.

Ares had always told her: Fight harder. Hit first. Don’t quit. And she’d believed it. But Loki…Loki had shown her how to win without just smashing.

The thought was unsettling. And yet…thrilling.

Behind her, Loki’s voice floated from the firepit, still surrounded by her siblings. He was teaching them another game—this one with bones instead of figurines, more like a fast-paced dice battle. The rules were simple, the play violent, the lessons sharp.

And the Raven Guard laughed as they played, their restless energy focused, their eyes bright.

Closing Beat

Clarisse clenched her fists. For the first time in her life, she thought maybe her siblings could be more than blunt weapons. Maybe they could be something sharper.

And maybe…just maybe…Loki really was the war god (dare she think it, the dad) they needed.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Forty-One: Droid Log – First Movement of the Freedom

BX-412 – Command Unit Log
Location: Lucrehulk-Class Battleship Freedom
Date: [Local time conversion uncertain—approx. 23 cycles since extraction from seabed]
Status: Active

Entry 001: Pre-Movement Status

Structural integrity: 63%.
Primary reactor: Online, efficiency at 58%.
Secondary reactors: One operational at 47%, two offline.
Sublight drives: Patched with scavenged materials, 1/4 capacity achievable.
Hyperdrive: Offline. Irreparable without specialized components.
Shields: Not operational.
Turbolaser batteries: 3% functionality, only one quadrant semi-operational.

Hull still scarred from twenty years in corrosive aquatic environment, though current atmospheric exposure and continuous patchwork from refugee labor force have slowed further degradation. Civilian morale remains surprisingly high—likely due to knowledge of relative safety aboard the Freedom compared to previous conditions.

Entry 002: Directive from Commander Skywalker

Relay received from Commander Skywalker through Commando Unit BX-771, currently assigned to personal guard aboard Nyx’s Veil. Directive is as follows:

“Stabilize internal systems. Attempt controlled movement as soon as safely possible. Prove the Freedom is not just a shelter, but a weapon of hope.”

Acknowledged. Directive entered into primary mission queue.

Entry 003: Preparations

• Civilian workforce reassigned into repair teams (designated Alpha through Delta).

• Aqua droid patrol units reassigned to interior scaffolding, welding, and coolant line repairs.

• B2 units (under BX-772’s coordination) tasked with reinforcement of sublight drive housings.

• Salvaged wood and metal from decommissioned refugee vessels incorporated into hull bracing. Efficiency imperfect, but functional.

The satyrs provided an unexpected advantage: their sensitivity to natural flows enabled them to detect coolant leaks and microfractures in reactor chambers with 91% accuracy. Their contributions recorded with commendation tags.

Entry 004: Ignition Attempt

At cycle 21, reactor output increased to full test capacity. Power relays flickered but held. Civilians gathered in forward hangar to witness event—unnecessary for operation but useful for morale.

Engines engaged at 13% thrust. Vibration severe, hull groaned under strain. Several civilian units panicked. Aqua droids maintained position and adjusted stabilizers.

Ship moved forward. Slowly. Precisely.

For the first time in 21.3 years, the Freedom responded to her helm.

Entry 005: Civilian Response

Cheers echoed through corridors. Satyrs beat hooves against the deck in rhythm. Even the cyclopes joined in, their voices carrying through bulkheads.

One young human civilian—a child—spoke loudly enough to be recorded in my audio receptors:

“The ship is alive again.”

This was not technically correct. The Freedom was never “alive.” But the sentiment was noted.

Entry 006: Relay to Commander Skywalker

Transmitted visual feed of Freedom’s first controlled thrust through BX-771. Commander Skywalker acknowledged. His words:

“Well done, Freedom. Keep her steady. Don’t push past what she can handle. I’ll be back for her.”

His tone was calm, but analysis suggests 82% probability of emotional significance. He has bonded to this vessel, despite not being physically present.

Entry 007: Current Status

• Freedom capable of movement at 0.2 sublight.

• Mobility limited to short distances.

• Ship no longer a stationary target, though defenses remain minimal.

• Refugees safe. Morale high.

End of primary log entry. Subroutines entering maintenance mode.

Final Note:

I am BX-412. I was built for war.
But today, I watched a dead ship move again.
And I calculated something I cannot quantify.

Hope.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Forty-Two: Strike on Scylla

Percy – Nyx’s Veil

The salt wind clawed at Percy’s hair as he stood on the prow of the Nyx’s Veil, his eyes fixed on the jagged cliffs ahead. Scylla. He could feel her even before the mist thinned enough to show her outline. A rotting, predatory presence woven into the very rock—six heads snaking in and out of stone caverns, each one drooling anticipation. She was waiting for them.

But this time, they wouldn’t just slip by.

“Signal the Phobos Wrath and the Freedom,” Percy ordered. “We rendezvous just beyond the current line. We’re going to take the fight to her.”

Annabeth blinked at him. “You mean… fight Scylla? On purpose?”

Percy’s hand tightened on the rail. “She’s killed enough sailors. She nearly took us on the way in. If we leave her here, she’ll keep slaughtering every ship that comes through. And we need all three ships above her reach if the Freedom is going to survive the crossing.”

Quigon Skywalker rumbled in agreement from the water beside them. “At last, a hunt worthy of song.”

Clarisse – Phobos Wrath

Clarisse La Rue spat over the side of her ship as the signal came through. Percy Jackson wanted a fleet strike. Against a primordial sea monster. On cliffs. Where she’d already watched half a dozen of her siblings nearly die.

“Typical Percy,” she growled. “Go big or drown.”

But even as she said it, her blood sang. This was what war was supposed to feel like—three ships, gods’ blood in their veins, monsters to kill. And now they had Loki, standing like a shadow behind her, adjusting illusions on the sails to hide them until the last second.

He smiled faintly. “You have the rage, child. Let Percy have the plan. Between the two of you, perhaps Scylla will finally bleed.”

Clarisse barked orders, rallying the Raven Guard at the ballistae. The Ares kids grinned like wolves. They lived for this. Maybe, she thought, Loki wasn’t the worst substitute war god after all.

BX-412 – Freedom

Log Entry: Combat Preparation

Coordinates received from Commander Skywalker. Directive: Position Freedom beyond Scylla’s direct reach. Prepare turbolaser batteries for precision bombardment. Objective: Destroy hostile lifeform, codename SCYLLA.

Complication: Freedom’s turbolasers at 3% efficiency. Accuracy limited. Power grid strained. Civilian crew inexperienced.

Solution: Commando units will assist with targeting. Civilian teams Alpha and Delta assigned to cooling relays. Aqua droid squads 1–4 reinforcing weapon conduits.

Morale: Elevated. Refugees eager to “strike back.” Observation: Hope has mutated into courage. Unquantifiable, but effective.

End log.

Refugee – Human Child, Deck 7

The boy’s hands trembled as he loaded another energy pack into the feeder chain for the starboard gun. He was no soldier. He’d been a fisherman once, before the monsters took the sea and Circe took his family. But Commander Skywalker had told them: “Every bolt you load is one more chance at freedom.”

He believed it. The ship was alive under his feet. And for the first time, he felt alive too.

Percy – Nyx’s Veil

The three ships formed up, the Freedom in the center like a floating fortress, the Wrath sleek and predatory to her port side, and the Veil to starboard. Percy extended his awareness through the Force, feeling the currents, the pull of the cliffs, the gnashing hunger of Scylla waiting above.

“She knows we’re here,” Percy murmured. “She thinks she’s going to feast.”

Annabeth tightened her grip on her dagger. “Then let’s prove her wrong.”

Percy raised his hand. Through the comm, his voice carried to every deck:

“On my mark… fire.”

The Battle

Scylla erupted from the cliff face in a storm of stone and spray. Six serpentine heads struck like lightning, each maw large enough to swallow a horse whole. She shrieked, a sound that made lesser men clutch their ears in terror.

But the fleet did not scatter.

The Freedom’s forward turbolasers roared, spitting emerald fire across the night. Clarisse’s Phobos Wrath unleashed a volley of celestial bronze ballista bolts, each one glowing with runes Loki had etched himself. Percy stood at the bow of the Veil, lightsaber ignited, guiding every strike with the Force—nudging bolts, bending beams, turning wild shots into precise ones.

Stone shattered. One of Scylla’s heads exploded in a spray of ichor. She screamed, thrashing against the cliff as fire rained down.

“Again!” Percy shouted. “Don’t let up!”

Clarisse – Phobos Wrath

Clarisse whooped as another ballista bolt buried itself in Scylla’s throat. “Eat celestial bronze, you hag!”

Her siblings shouted in triumph around her, but Clarisse never stopped moving, barking orders, redirecting fire. She hated to admit it, but Percy’s plan worked. They were making a god-killer bleed.

For the first time, Clarisse thought they might just live through this quest.

BX-412 – Freedom

Log Entry: Engagement Results

• Turbolaser volley 1: Hit. Cliff destabilized. Hostile unit injured.

• Volley 2: Near miss, redirected by Commander Skywalker’s Force manipulation. Effective.

• Civilian crews performing at 72% efficiency. Unexpected.

• Observation: The organic concept of “fear” appears overridden by “faith.” Hypothesis: Faith in Commander Skywalker.

Turbolaser capacitors overheating. Cooling relays at 89%. If overload occurs, deck 4 will be destroyed.

Recommend risk continuation. Commander Skywalker’s strategy functional.

Percy – Nyx’s Veil

The Force screamed as Scylla lunged, six heads striking in unison. Percy reached deep, drawing on the ocean itself, and the Veil surged aside like a leaf on a current. One head snapped where he’d stood a heartbeat before, only to meet a turbolaser bolt to the eye.

Scylla reeled. The cliffs trembled.

Now. Percy could feel it. This was the moment.

“Full barrage!” he roared.

The End

The combined fire of three ships lit up the night like a newborn star. Stone shattered, ichor rained, and with a final scream that shook the sea, Scylla fell. Her massive body tore free of the cliffs and plunged into the waves, sending a tidal surge that rocked all three vessels.

Then there was silence. Just the hiss of cooling guns, the creak of timbers, the stunned breath of sailors and refugees alike.

Scylla—the ancient terror of the straits—was gone.

Percy – Aftermath

On the comm, Percy’s voice was steady but fierce:

“Scylla is dead. The path is open. The Freedom, the Wrath, the Veil—we sail together. No one gets left behind.”

Cheers erupted across three decks, across three ships, across three crews that had been enemies only weeks ago.

Percy closed his eyes, letting the Force wash through him. For a moment, just a moment, he felt something he hadn’t since another lifetime.

Victory.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Forty-Three: After the Fall

Aboard the Nyx’s Veil

The deck still glistened with salt spray and ichor, but the ship hummed with something it had never known before—joy. Refugees clutched one another, laughing, crying, staring out at the cliffside as though not quite believing it was real. Scylla was gone. The unkillable monster, the nightmare of sailors for thousands of years, had been slain.

Annabeth leaned against the railing, breathing hard, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. “Percy,” she said, her voice almost dazed, “do you realize what we just did?”

Percy wiped his lightsaber clean, deactivated it, and clipped it back to his belt. He looked out at the foaming waters where Scylla’s corpse had disappeared. “We killed a monster that’s been hunting mortals since the first boats put out to sea.” His tone was steady, but his eyes were distant. “We saved more lives than we’ll ever know.”

Grover bleated with nervous laughter. “Pan bless us, I… I think the sea just got a little quieter.”

Tyson grinned from ear to ear. “Brother fight monster good! Percy brave Jedi!”

Quigon Skywalker coiled lazily in the water beside the ship, his great golden eyes blinking with amusement. “One less terror in the deep. The sea thanks you, little Jedi. And so do I.”

Aboard the Phobos Wrath

If the Veil was a mix of relief and awe, the Wrath was sheer celebration. Ares kids roared in triumph, clashing weapons together, chanting Clarisse’s name as though she had personally stabbed Scylla between the eyes. The Raven Guard crowded around Loki, who leaned against the mast with a faint, knowing smile, answering every shout of praise with a pointed reminder:

“Strategy wins battles. Rage wins duels. You’ll learn which is which, or you’ll die young.”

Clarisse stood at the prow, chest heaving, her face split in a grin so wide it looked unnatural on her. For once, no one was dead. For once, she wasn’t fighting against Percy Jackson but with him. And together, they’d done the impossible.

She whispered to herself, barely audible over the shouting: “Eat your heart out, Dad.”

Aboard the Freedom

Log Entry – BX-412

Combat terminated. Hostile designated SCYLLA neutralized.

Morale among refugees: Extreme elevation. Spontaneous cheering erupted across all decks. Civilian crews requesting “battle songs” be logged for future replay. Multiple organics repeating phrase: “We are safe.”

Notable incident: Child refugee (designation: Alpha-16) clung to gunner post, repeating, “I killed a monster.” Probability of accuracy: 12%. Probability of emotional catharsis: 100%.

Structural integrity: Holding. Weapons efficiency reduced by 21%, but operational. Ship remains airborne.

Observation: Commander Skywalker not physically present. Yet credit for victory allocated primarily to him. Conclusion: Organics assign victory not to weapon or circumstance, but to figure embodying hope.

End log.

Percy – Nyx’s Veil

Later, when the cheering dulled to a steady murmur, Percy sat at the helm. The fleet had re-formed, the Freedom hovering like a sentinel above the waves, the Wrath cutting proud and sharp through calmer seas, the Veil steady between them. For the first time since they entered the Sea of Monsters, they had a clean route out.

Annabeth settled beside him. “It feels strange,” she admitted softly. “Usually we run. We survive. Today… we changed something.”

Percy looked at her, then back at the starlit waters. “We made the sea safer. That matters.” His hand tightened unconsciously on the wheel. “But Scylla wasn’t the real enemy. That was just… one head of the hydra.”

Annabeth frowned. “You’re thinking of Vermis.”

“And the Parasite,” Percy said. His voice was low, grim. “We’ve still got a long way to go.”

But for tonight, he let himself breathe. For tonight, the fleet sailed free.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Forty-Four: Sunfire and Shadows

The Opening Strike

The Nyx’s Veil and the Phobos Wrath cut side by side through the black water, sails full with the winds Loki had conjured, their prows glittering faintly in starlight. For a rare moment, the sea was calm.

Then the night tore open.

A warship — sleek, long, armored with bronze plates that shimmered like scales — burst from the gloom, oars cutting water like claws. Its deck was crowded with monsters: dracaenae, cyclopes, and worse. At the prow stood Castellan, bronze armor gleaming, golden hair catching the fire of the torches. His eyes found Percy immediately, sharp as a hawk’s, burning with anger and… triumph.

Above them, the night sky turned molten. A new sun rose — not the true one, but a blazing figure, radiant with impossible fire. Helios. A Titan, his body a man-shaped star, his face too bright to look at. His voice rolled like heat across the waves.

“Demigods. Pretenders. You will not leave this sea alive.”

The temperature spiked. The sea hissed, as though it, too, burned.

Percy’s POV – The Realization

Percy gripped the rail, his heart pounding. Castellan’s ship was packed with monsters, but that wasn’t what made his stomach drop. It was the Titan. Helios radiated power, raw and ancient, the kind that made the Olympians look small.

Annabeth muttered, “This is impossible. He’s supposed to be bound.”

“Guess someone forgot to tighten the chains,” Percy growled.

But even as dread clawed at him, the Force whispered possibilities. He saw Helios as a raging star — bright, yes, but unstable. Power could be pulled, bent, re-channeled. If Helios was a blazing sun… then maybe he wasn’t untouchable.

Aboard the Wrath

Clarisse’s crew erupted into battle cries the moment Castellan’s ship came within range. Arrows loosed, spears flew, and the deck thudded with the rhythm of war. Loki stood calmly near the mast, weaving illusions — phantom fleets, false targets, walls of smoke. His words were clipped and precise, issuing commands to Raven Guard and Ares kids alike.

“This is not about victory. This is about delay. Hold. Bleed them if you must, but hold.”

Clarisse spat, “I’ll hold them by their throats!” But she obeyed, barking orders that turned her crew’s bloodlust into disciplined fury.

Percy vs Helios – The Siphon

Helios raised his blazing hand. Fire condensed into a miniature sun, then screamed downward toward the Veil.

Percy leapt forward, lightsaber flashing open in a storm of blue. He thrust both hands out, not blocking — pulling. The Force screamed in his bones as heat seared across his skin. He didn’t stop.

Instead of annihilating the ship, the sunfire broke — streams of molten light peeled away, curving toward Percy’s outstretched fingers. He ripped a thread of Helios’ power from the Titan’s grasp, and the fire bent into him.

It burned. Oh, gods, it burned. But Percy held it. The Force wrapped the flames, cooled them, shaped them. And then — he cast the fire outward again, dividing it, spreading the glow across the Veil’s crew.

Grover gasped as light settled over him, his bow gleaming. Tyson’s fists shone like hammers of gold. Even Annabeth staggered, blinking at the divine strength that flooded her limbs.

Helios roared in fury. “THIEF!”

Percy smirked, his saber blazing. “Sharing is caring.”

Annabeth’s POV

Annabeth had felt power before. Ambrosia, divine blessings, even her mother’s touch in a dream. But this… this was different. This wasn’t granted — it was stolen, torn from a Titan’s veins and shared like stolen fire from Prometheus himself.

And somehow, it was Percy who had done it. Percy, who still looked like an ordinary boy standing on the deck, except for the faint golden fire lacing his veins.

He’s becoming something more than a demigod, she realized with a shiver. And that terrifies me.

She loosed an arrow, guided by the strength in her arms and the heat in her chest, and it punched straight through a dracaena’s shield.

Castellan’s POV

From the prow of his ship, Castellan sneered.

Jackson. That cursed name.

He had believed this fight would drag out, that delaying the Golden Fleece’s return would be enough. Already, his ship swarmed forward, monsters clashing against the Wrath, arrows clattering across the Veil. But Percy wasn’t flagging — he was shining.

Helios raged above, but even the Titan’s fury wasn’t breaking them.

Luke’s hand tightened on his sword. He wouldn’t call him Percy. He refused. To him, the boy was Jackson — an obstacle, a mistake that should never have been.

And yet, Jackson was still standing.

The Wrath – Clarisse’s Charge

Clarisse saw Castellan across the chaos and screamed a challenge. Her spear crackled with lightning as she led a charge of Raven Guard and Ares kids across a boarding plank Loki conjured from illusion made real.

They smashed into dracaenae, blades ringing, blood flying.

Everywhere Clarisse fought, Helios’ fire tried to burn them — but Percy’s siphoned light pushed back the blaze, shielding them, strengthening their strikes. Clarisse felt like she could fight for days, her muscles surging with impossible endurance.

For once, she didn’t feel like she was being punished. She felt chosen.

The Veil – The Counter

The Veil’s deck was chaos. Blackbeard and his pirates hacked into monster boarding parties, roaring with laughter and curses. The B2 droids formed a firing line, blasters hammering precise bursts that tore through ranks of foes. The commando droid cut down enemies with methodical efficiency, keeping Percy’s flanks clear.

Annabeth ducked under a swinging axe, her blade flashing. Grover’s pipes played a wild, discordant song, confusing and panicking the monsters, making them stumble into the Veil’s defenders.

And Percy — Percy was everywhere. Deflecting arrows, hurling enemies overboard with the Force, locking blades with a Cyclops twice his size and winning. All while tugging more threads of fire from Helios, spreading strength to his allies like a tide.

Helios’ Fury

At last, the Titan himself descended, blazing like a comet onto the deck of Castellan’s ship. His heat scorched the wood, sent monsters screaming into the sea. He towered above them all, a walking inferno.

“Skywalker,” he spat, recognizing the bloodline in Percy’s power. “You dare steal from me? From the sun itself?”

Percy ignited his saber again. His eyes blazed with reflected fire. “Yeah. And I’ll keep stealing until you stop hurting my friends.”

Helios struck.

The Duel

It was like fighting the sun. Every blow shook the ship, every swing of Helios’ fire-lance a storm of heat and light. Percy countered with speed, the Force accelerating his body until he was a blur, saber carving arcs of blue through the fire.

Each time Helios unleashed a storm, Percy pulled, siphoning, bleeding power away and redistributing it to his allies. The Titan grew weaker with every exchange, dimmer, angrier.

Castellan tried to push the advantage, driving his sword at Percy’s back, but Clarisse intercepted him with a roar, her spear clashing against his blade.

“Back off, traitor!” she snarled.

And the deck erupted into chaos again — Percy vs Helios, Clarisse vs Castellan, allies and monsters clashing all around.

The Reveal

At last, Helios staggered, his fire flickering. Percy stood over him, saber pointed at his chest, golden fire still licking his veins.

“You think you’ve delayed them,” Percy said, breathing hard. “But you’ve already lost.”

Helios’ eyes widened.

“The Fleece isn’t here,” Percy said. His voice carried across both ships, loud enough for Castellan to hear. “It’s already on the Freedom. On its way to Camp Half-Blood. You’ve been fighting shadows.”

Castellan froze. His sword faltered.

The Titan howled.

And Percy struck.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Forty-Five: Last Light at the Barrier

The Barrier Fails

Camp Half-Blood was dying.

Thalia’s tree groaned in the night wind, leaves shriveled, bark blackened as poison pulsed deeper into its heart. The barrier that had protected the camp for generations — the invisible dome of golden energy — flickered like a dying candle. Already, holes gaped in its weave. Through them slithered monsters: dracaenae, empousai, cyclopes, even the rotting hounds of the Underworld that should have been chained.

And still more gathered outside, pounding against the barrier, waiting for it to collapse. The air was thick with their hunger.

Chiron galloped along the ridge, his bow loose in his hands, his face drawn tight. “Hold the line! Don’t let them break through!”

Demigods scrambled along the defenses, some with swords, some with bows, some clutching shields that looked far too heavy for their shaking arms. They were exhausted — many hadn’t slept for days. The knowledge that the barrier could fail any hour hung over them like a curse.

Tonight, it did.

The First Breach

The dome flickered, sputtered — then a hole yawned wide above the southern hill. A warband of dracaenae poured through, their hissed battle cries echoing in the night.

Katie Gardner and a squad of Demeter campers met them with scythes and vines, but the monsters pressed hard. The battle exploded into chaos, fire arrows streaking, blades clashing.

Above, lightning split the sky. Not Zeus’s — not clean, white bolts. These were red and twisted, unnatural, the Parasite’s shadow leaking into the storm.

Dionysus Steps Forward

Dionysus stood at the base of the hill, wine goblet discarded, eyes sharp in a way no camper had ever seen. His usual apathy was gone. He reached beneath his coat — and pulled free the lightsaber hilt Percy had seen him craft months ago, a grip of dark wood twined with ivy carvings.

He pressed the switch.

A blade hissed to life — purple, brilliant, humming with restrained fury. Gasps rose from nearby campers. Dionysus, god of wine, patron of chaos and theater… looked like a warrior.

“Do try not to die before the real show begins,” he said dryly. Then he moved.

His strikes weren’t wild like Ares’, nor precise like Athena’s children. They were… unpredictable. A lunge that turned into a feint, a stumble that became a killing stroke. He fought like a drunkard who always fell the right way, saber flashing purple arcs through monster after monster.

The demigods rallied at his side, courage flaring at the sight.

The Barrier Cracks

Another shudder rocked the dome. Chiron cursed as a second hole burst open by the creek. Hellhounds poured through. A cyclops smashed its way after them, roaring.

The campers staggered under the assault. Blades rang. Screams rose. The barrier above them flickered, pieces crumbling away like shattered glass.

Chiron knew it then: they could not hold until dawn.

Dionysus Unleashed

Purple light blazed as Dionysus leapt onto the cyclops’ shoulders, driving his saber down through its skull in one clean stroke. He kicked free, landing with surprising grace. His face was tight, but his eyes burned — not with wine-soaked boredom, but with old pain, old anger.

“For too long you’ve thought me weak,” he muttered to himself. “Time to remind Olympus why they feared me.”

With a flick of his free hand, vines burst from the ground, thorned and coiling, lashing monsters like whips. He spun his saber, carving through a hellhound’s jaws.

The campers stared. Their god, the one they’d dismissed as lazy and petty, was a storm of color and wrath.

The Last Hours

They fought hour after hour. Every demigod gave everything — Apollo kids firing until their quivers were empty, Hephaestus kids hauling up siege engines they’d barely finished, Hermes kids darting through the lines to stab and vanish. Even the young Ares kids, usually bullies, fought like lions, Raven Guard discipline drilled into them by Loki holding.

But for every monster slain, more came. The barrier crumbled, piece by piece. By dawn, only fragments of the dome remained, shivering above the tree like broken glass.

Thalia’s tree shuddered again. One more surge of poison, and it would fall.

The Sound in the Sky

Then, above the din, came a sound no one expected.

Not a roar. Not a storm. A hum.

Low at first, vibrating through the earth. Then louder, rising into the air. Campers staggered, monsters hesitated, all heads tilting skyward.

The clouds parted.

Out of the Sea of Monsters, risen from nightmare, massive and gleaming, came the Freedom.

The Arrival of the Freedom

The Lucrehulk-class battleship hung in the air like a rising moon, hull patched but gleaming, massive rings glowing with blue energy. Its shadow swallowed half the battlefield.

On the ridges, campers froze in awe. Even Chiron lowered his bow, eyes wide.

Then the guns opened fire.

Turbolasers screamed down in blinding arcs, vaporizing ranks of monsters in thunderous blasts. The ground shook with every impact. The horde, so eager moments ago, broke into panic, scattering before the storm of light.

On the Freedom’s prow, banners unfurled — the crest of the Rebel Alliance, stitched new in red and gold by satyr hands.

Percy’s Voice

Through loudspeakers and magic relays, Percy’s voice rang out, steady and strong:

“Camp Half-Blood, hold your ground. Reinforcements have arrived. You are not alone.”

Cheers erupted from exhausted throats. Some campers wept. Others slammed swords on shields.

The Freedom hovered lower, vast and terrible, its presence alone enough to turn the tide.

Dionysus’ Smile

For the first time in days, Dionysus allowed himself a small, wry smile. Purple blade still humming, vines still writhing around him, he muttered:

“About time, Perseus.”

The Barrier’s Last Flicker

Thalia’s tree shivered again — but before it could collapse, golden light flared from deep within. A spark of the Fleece’s power, carried across the sea by Percy’s planning, seeped into the roots. The poison slowed. The barrier steadied, faint but alive, long enough for the Freedom’s guns to burn the battlefield clean.

The camp still stood. Barely.

But it stood.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Forty-Six: The Fleece Hung High

Directing the Freedom

Percy’s voice carried through the comm relays that stretched from the Freedom’s command bridge down to its repair decks, and even to the relay crystals the droids had installed on Camp Half-Blood’s hill.

“BX-412, bring the Fleece forward. Carefully. The tree is the anchor of the barrier — hang it so its threads can reach every root. Highest branch you can reach, directly above the scar.”

“Affirmative, Commander Skywalker,” the droid’s filtered voice replied, calm and certain.

From the ridge, weary campers watched as a squad of aqua droids, metal limbs gleaming under floodlights, marched with reverence. Between them hung a glass case, suspended on grav-harness. Inside, the Golden Fleece shone like dawn itself, threads of living gold spilling radiance into the night.

The closer they came to Thalia’s tree, the more the poison hissed, as if recoiling. Black veins in the bark shivered, twitching like worms. But the poison could not touch the fleece. Its aura burned it away.

“Higher,” Percy instructed. “The main branch. Directly above the rot.”

The droids obeyed without hesitation. One climbed with magnetic limbs, another boosting him up with mechanical steadiness, until the case was secured. Then — with ritual care no one expected from machines of war — they withdrew the Fleece and draped it over the wounded bark.

The Fleece Awakens

The effect was immediate.

Golden light poured from the Fleece like water through cracked stone. It sank into the bark, flowing down the veins, chasing the black poison. The tree shuddered once, twice, then gave a sound almost like a sigh.

Leaves unfurled, bright green. The scars shrank. The barrier above shimmered, fractured shards knitting themselves whole. In moments, the dome was unbroken — radiant and alive, pulsing in time with the Fleece.

Gasps rose from campers and satyrs alike. Many fell to their knees, tears on their cheeks. For days they had fought in despair, watching their home crumble. Now, it was whole again.

Percy’s Calm

Percy stood at the center of the Freedom’s bridge, listening to reports through the relay. He could feel the Fleece through the Force — like a sun planted in the earth, healing, radiating balance.

He exhaled slowly. Not victory, not yet. But safety. A reprieve.

“Maintain a guard,” Percy ordered. “No one touches that tree without my say. Patrols double until I arrive.”

BX-412 responded immediately. “Acknowledged, Commander. Orders relayed to garrison.”

Percy allowed himself one moment — one — to close his eyes and let the relief settle. Then he turned back to the bridge crew of droids, satyrs, and refugees who had followed him this far.

“Hold steady. We’ve got more work to do.”

The Camp Breathes Again

At Camp Half-Blood, the mood shifted like dawn breaking. Campers who had collapsed in the dirt during the night battle found themselves laughing, exhausted but alive. Satyrs played shaky notes on reed pipes. Hephaestus kids leaned on each other, already sketching how to reinforce the barrier now that it had strength again.

And Dionysus, still holding his extinguished lightsaber, took a deep sip from his goblet and muttered, “Well. That could have gone worse.” But no one missed the pride in his eyes.

Chiron raised his bow, his voice ringing. “The camp stands. You all stand. Heroes, every one of you!”

The cheer that followed shook the valley.

The Return of the Ships

The next day, sails crested the horizon. First the Phobos Wrath, battered but upright, Clarisse standing at its prow with armor scorched and spear raised high. Behind her, Raven Guard demigods cheered, their discipline holding even in triumph. Loki walked the deck with the easy stride of one who had seen war and walked away laughing, his raven-feather cloak billowing.

And then the Nyx’s Veil, slipping through the morning mist like a phantom, black sails catching sunlight. Percy stood at the helm, Tyson hulking happily at his side, Annabeth and Grover waving toward the shore. Blackbeard and his crew leaned on the rails, already shouting for rum and meat. Behind them, droids stood at parade rest, commando units gleaming.

The entire camp surged to the shoreline, horns blaring, banners raised. Cheers thundered as both ships slid into the bay.

The Meeting on the Hill

By midday, the hill was crowded. Campers, satyrs, and even dryads gathered under the shade of Thalia’s now-glorious tree. The Fleece blazed above them, golden threads rippling like banners in the wind.

Clarisse disembarked first, slamming her spear into the earth with a grin. “Told you I’d bring it back,” she barked. Then, softer, “With a little help.”

Percy’s crew joined her, weathered but alive. Tyson carried Qui-Gon Skywalker’s saddle as if it weighed nothing, while Annabeth immediately began pointing out where defenses could be rebuilt.

When Percy himself stepped onto the hilltop, the crowd quieted. His sea-green eyes swept the camp, then rose to the Fleece.

“It’s not over,” he said, voice carrying. “The parasite still moves. The enemy still plots. But today—” He gestured to the healed barrier, to the glowing leaves. “—we won. And we’ll keep winning. Together.”

The camp roared back in answer.

Dionysus’ Aside

From the sidelines, Dionysus sipped his goblet and muttered to Chiron, “He’s giving speeches now. Just what we need. Another heroic Skywalker with delusions of inspiration.”

But there was no malice in his tone. Only, perhaps, pride.

Chiron smiled faintly, his old eyes on Percy. “This time, I think… it might be exactly what we need.”

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Forty-Seven: The Sky Trembles

The Call of Olympus

When the Fleece restored the barrier, the ripple of divine energy swept not only across Camp Half-Blood, but up into the very bones of the world. Olympus felt it.

And when the Freedom broke through the mist barrier — a ship the size of a city, hovering with turbolasers humming and banners of the Rebellion stitched by mortal refugees fluttering from its flanks — that ripple became a quake. The sky over New York split with lightning as the Olympians summoned themselves to council.

The thrones blazed to life in the marble hall. Twelve pillars towered, though one throne was new: the Throne of War, once Ares’, now occupied by Hecate.

She sat draped in shadow and firelight, eyes aglow with threefold magic. A golden spear leaned against her throne, humming faintly with enchantments. She did not posture like Ares would have. She waited, calm and patient, but radiating a dangerous certainty.

Zeus Responds

Zeus rose first, storm crackling across his beard. His booming voice filled Olympus.

“The tree restored. The barrier whole. The camp — saved.” He paused, and his gaze narrowed. “But not by us.”

He waved a hand and conjured an image of the Freedom hanging over Camp Half-Blood like a hovering citadel. Its massive shadow eclipsed Long Island Sound.

“This… vessel,” Zeus growled, “descends from the stars themselves. Not wrought by our hands. Not bound to our will. And yet it saved them in our stead. A dramatic entrance,” he muttered with irritation, “that might have been mine.”

Poseidon’s chuckle rolled like a tide. “Jealousy does not suit you, brother.”

The Praise

Athena leaned forward, eyes sharp as they studied the image of the Freedom. “Its engineering is… breathtaking. A marvel of warcraft far beyond Hephaestus’ forges. And it has been turned not to conquest, but defense. Percy chose well.”

Apollo grinned, strumming an invisible lyre. “Percy chose very well. Admit it, old man, the kid made an entrance even you would envy.”

Zeus scowled. Thunder boomed.

Artemis silenced her twin with a raised hand, though she did not disagree. Her silver eyes stayed fixed on the looming vessel. “We knew this day might come. Apollo and I saw it when the four soldiers were freed.”

A flicker passed across her face — memory of the four clones, the last sons of the Grand Army of the Republic, now living quietly among her Huntresses. Hardened, weary men who treated monsters as simply another warfront.

“They warned us of ships like this. Of wars fought among the stars.” Artemis’s voice carried none of Apollo’s playfulness, only solemnity. “We should not be surprised that the stars have finally answered.”

Hephaestus’ Wonder

The Forge God stood, soot-stained and blunt as ever. His one good eye gleamed at the projection of the Freedom.

“She’s old,” he muttered. “Lines of a Lucrehulk-class battleship, if I don’t miss my guess. Overhauled and rehauled. But the bones are strong. And they’ve raised her from the depths?”

He turned toward Zeus. “You should be grateful, Lord of the Sky. Without that ship’s guns and Percy’s crew, the camp would already be ash and your tree a corpse.”

Zeus bristled but said nothing.

Hecate Speaks

The Throne of War hummed, and all eyes turned toward Hecate. Her voice was even, calm, carrying power that made the marble glow faintly.

“I have watched this boy. Perseus Jackson. He leads not with cruelty nor with rage, but with wisdom and unity. When I answered the call of War, I feared it would demand only blood.” Her lips curled in the faintest smile. “But perhaps it demands more. Perhaps it demands those who can build armies out of broken things.”

Her eyes glimmered with starlight. “The boy rebuilt my faith. He turned droids into guardians. Pirates into protectors. Outcasts into allies. Even the Fleece bows to his will without being commanded. This is not just mortal cleverness. It is something… older.”

Hermes leaned back, whistling. “You sound almost fond of him.”

“I am fond of victory,” Hecate replied smoothly. “And Jackson brings it.”

The Division

Hera’s voice was sharp as ice. “Or perhaps he brings danger. Already, mortals rally to his banner. Already, gods outside Olympus entrust their children to him. Will we stand by while the throne of War bends its ear to him, and the stars themselves crown him with ships and armies?”

“Careful, sister,” Poseidon rumbled, sea-green eyes flashing. “That is my son you speak of.”

“Exactly,” Hera said with acid.

Poseidon rose half out of his throne. “And what of it? He has done what none of us have. He saved the camp, united the pantheons, and even now shields your thrones from the Parasite’s poison. You should be thanking him.”

Zeus raised his hand for silence. Sparks hissed in the air.

The Verdict

“The boy has done well,” Zeus admitted at last, though grudgingly. “He has kept the West from falling. For that, Olympus owes him gratitude.”

He scowled at the projection of the Freedom. “But mark me: I will not allow the heavens to be cluttered with foreign ships as if Olympus were one kingdom among many. The sky is mine.”

Poseidon smirked. “Tell that to the boy who commands the sea and the stars now.”

Zeus glared, but he did not argue.

The council broke, each god murmuring among themselves — some with awe, some with unease, all with acknowledgment. Percy Jackson had shifted the balance.

Aftermath on Olympus

As the gods dispersed, Hecate lingered, her gaze locked on the image of the Freedom.

“A ship risen from the deep,” she whispered. “A boy who leads as a general yet refuses the name. War may yet be remade.”

Her hand brushed the shaft of her spear.

“And perhaps,” she said to the empty hall, “this war will not be lost.”

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Forty-Eight: The Feast of Survival

The Sky Clears

The night after the barrier blazed back to life, Camp Half-Blood looked more like a festival than a fortress. The Freedom hovered offshore like a mountain of steel and light, its silhouette framed by the orange-pink glow of sunset. A strange guardian, perhaps, but it was theirs.

Bonfires burned across the hill. The smell of roasting food filled the air. Dionysus had grudgingly allowed casks of magical wine to flow, watered down to the point where no demigod could get tipsy, but still sweet and rich enough to taste like victory.

For the first time in weeks, campers laughed without glancing nervously at Thalia’s tree. The air felt lighter, as though Olympus itself had exhaled in relief.

Percy and Clarisse

Percy and Clarisse walked side by side up from the shoreline, both looking like they’d been dragged through Tartarus and back again. Percy’s shirt was scorched in three different places, his hair still smelling faintly of sea salt and ozone. Clarisse’s armor was cracked along one pauldron, still smeared with ichor and monster dust.

The other campers didn’t cheer at first. They stared, wide-eyed, as if unsure whether to approach. Then Beckendorf let out a bellow loud enough to rattle the dining pavilion:

“They brought it back!”

The shout was all it took. A roar of applause shook the camp as demigods swarmed around them, clapping shoulders, whooping, tossing their helmets into the air.

Clarisse actually cracked a grin. “Not bad,” she muttered, though her eyes shone with exhaustion.

Dionysus, Ever Snarky

From the head table, Dionysus raised a cup of grape soda. His purple lightsaber hilt sat beside his plate like a wine knife.

“Well,” he said, voice dripping with long-suffering sarcasm, “you did it again, Jackson. Another year, another apocalypse narrowly averted. And, naturally, another stolen vehicle in tow.”

He gestured toward the silhouette of the Freedom. “I must say, your taste in theft has improved dramatically.”

Beckendorf shouted from the crowd: “Please tell me we get to keep the engine block this time!”

Percy smirked. “Try an entire shipyard.”

The Hephaestus cabin erupted into wild cheering.

The Raven Guard

Off to the side, the Ares kids stood together, but they weren’t sneering or sulking the way they usually did. They were watching Loki, who was seated on a log like he’d been born there, playing one of his strategy games with a group of them.

The Raven Guard, they were calling themselves now. No one teased them for it. Not tonight.

Loki caught Percy’s gaze across the firelight and inclined his head in silent acknowledgment. For once, his smile was genuine — not sly, not mocking, but proud.

Blackbeard and His Crew

Blackbeard and his five remaining crewmates were already half-celebrity, half-menace among the campers. Blackbeard himself was telling a group of wide-eyed Hermes kids about the time he’d blockaded Charleston Harbor with nothing but two cannons and his beard on fire.

“And now,” he declared, slamming a tankard down, “I find meself sailin’ under a lad with a glowing sword an’ the respect of gods. If that ain’t proof the world’s gone mad, I don’t know what is.”

The Hermes kids cheered and begged for more stories.

The Droids

The droids kept to themselves at first, lined up like sentinels at the edge of the pavilion. They were too tall, too metal, too alien. But slowly, campers began drifting toward them, curiosity overcoming hesitation.

A little satyr poked a super battle droid’s leg. “Are you… safe?”

The droid looked down, voice monotone. “Affirmative. Unless ordered otherwise.”

That didn’t reassure the satyr much, but Tyson bounded up, grinning ear to ear. “They’re good! They help Percy! Look!” He wrapped his arms around a commando droid’s waist and hugged it tight. The droid stiffened, then slowly, awkwardly, patted him on the head.

That was enough. The satyr laughed, and soon half the younger campers were swarming the droids with questions.

A Moment with Annabeth

Later, as the fires dimmed and music hummed low across camp, Annabeth found Percy sitting apart from the noise, gazing out toward the hovering Freedom.

“You did it,” she said quietly.

“We did it,” Percy corrected.

Annabeth sat beside him, knees pulled up, gray eyes sharp in the firelight. “You know the gods are split about that ship. About you.”

“Yeah,” Percy admitted. “Zeus looked ready to fry it out of the sky.”

“And Athena’s probably already drawing up a schematic,” Annabeth added with a faint smile.

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the laughter of the campers, the faint hum of the ship’s engines in the distance.

“You’ve changed everything,” Annabeth whispered. “Not just here. Not just Olympus. The world.”

Percy looked down at his hands. “I didn’t want to change the world. I just didn’t want it to burn.”

Clarisse and the Raven Guard

Across the fire, Clarisse was watching her half-siblings argue over one of Loki’s strategy boards. For once, they weren’t fighting each other. They were working together.

When she caught Percy’s eye, she gave him a nod. Not a mocking nod. Not even reluctant. A true warrior’s nod of respect.

Percy returned it.

Dionysus’ Closing Words

As the feast drew to a close, Dionysus rose again, raising his soda can.

“Camp Half-Blood endures,” he said, voice quieter now, less sarcastic. “It always endures. Tonight we live, because some of you were brave enough to fight, and some of you were foolish enough to succeed. That is… worth celebrating.”

He paused, then sighed. “But do not grow lazy. The poison of the Parasite is not gone. And though Olympus basks in this victory, the war ahead will not wait.”

He sat, clearly exhausted, and muttered into his drink: “Still. Better than paperwork.”

The campers laughed.

The Night

As the fires burned low, Percy lay awake beneath the stars. The Freedom’s running lights blinked across the bay, steady and strong. Camp was safe. For now.

But in his heart, Percy knew the truth: this was only the beginning. The gods were watching. The stars were stirring. And the Parasite was not finished.

He clenched his fists.

“Come what may,” Percy whispered, “I’m ready.”

And for the first time, he almost believed it.

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Chapter Forty-Nine: A Ship for the Homeless

The God of Fire Meets a Droid

The clang of Hephaestus’ hammer rang across the bay like thunder. The god hunched over a hunk of metal that had once been a stabilizer vane from the Freedom, muttering under his breath. Sparks showered his forge as he tried welding together parts with Olympian bronze, celestial steel, even fragments of star-metal he’d hoarded for centuries.

None of it worked.

The metal fused for a heartbeat, then fizzled apart, leaving nothing but a blackened seam that mocked him.

The droid standing nearby tilted its head, photoreceptors blinking.

“Forgemaster,” BX-772 said in its clipped, metallic tone, “that procedure is… inefficient.”

Hephaestus glared up at it, beard bristling, one molten eye glowing hot. “I’ve fixed things since before your kind knew how to stand upright, tin can. Don’t tell me inefficient.”

The droid was unfazed. “Correction: our commander states that the technology is beyond your current parameters. He advised that I remind you to conserve resources rather than destroy them.”

The god growled, but he sat back anyway, wiping soot across his scarred face. He hated being reminded of his limits. Still… the Freedom wasn’t Olympian. It wasn’t Greek. It was alien, and his pride warred with the truth: he couldn’t just hammer it into place with fire and will.

For the first time in millennia, Hephaestus admitted he had something to learn.

The Camp Expands

Meanwhile, the shores of Long Island Sound looked nothing like they had two weeks ago. The Freedom hovered just above the waterline, like some colossal guardian spirit. A constant line of dinghies ferried people and supplies from ship to shore.

The refugees — satyrs, cyclopes, mortals rescued from Circe, and even a handful of wayward pirates — had started to carve order from chaos. Some worked in the strawberry fields. Others built makeshift huts near the forest edge while waiting for the gods to decide if they could stay.

And through it all, Percy watched. He walked among them, droids at his back, greeting them by name when he could remember, by smile when he couldn’t.

They called him Commander now. Even the pirates. Even the droids. And though Percy still felt weird every time the word slipped from their mouths, he didn’t argue.

The Hermes Problem

Inside the Hermes cabin, it was chaos. Again.

The Stoll brothers were balancing precariously on a rafter, trying to hang a hammock between two beams because there was literally no floor space left. Kids were stacked three bunks deep. Sleeping bags crammed the corners. The cabin smelled like unwashed socks, sour grapes, and prank powder.

Travis Stoll spotted Percy in the doorway and let out a groan of exaggerated relief. “Finally. Jackson. Tell me you came to solve all our problems.”

“Depends on the problems,” Percy said, ducking inside.

Connor waved his arms dramatically. “Overcrowding. Noise. Stink. Did I mention overcrowding?”

A satyr sneezed explosively from the corner.

“Yeah,” Percy said. “That tracks.”

He hesitated a moment, then took a breath. “Look. The Freedom has more room than this entire camp put together. If anyone wants… I don’t know, space to breathe, space to sleep, space to not live on top of each other—”

The Stolls froze.

“Wait,” Travis said slowly. “You’re offering a flying battleship as… what? Overflow bunk space?”

Percy shrugged. “Call it what you want. But the Hermes cabin’s too full. The Freedom can be the cabin for the unclaimed and for kids of the minor gods. They deserve a place that’s theirs, not just the leftovers.”

For once, the Stolls didn’t crack a joke. Connor blinked, looking genuinely stunned.

“You’d do that?”

Percy nodded. “Already did. All I need is campers who want to move in.”

The silence that followed was broken by a cheer from the back of the room. One by one, kids started whispering, grinning, standing.

Travis finally let out a whoop. “Jackson, you beautiful seaweed-brain. Do you have any idea how long we’ve been drowning in strays? You might actually be my hero.”

“Don’t tell Annabeth that,” Percy muttered, but he couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his face.

A Ship Finds Its Crew

By sundown, lines of campers were hauling bags up the gangplank of the Freedom. Droids organized sleeping quarters with mechanical efficiency, dividing spaces by age and size. Percy guided them through corridors that still smelled of salt and rust, though already repairs had begun to shine steel bright again.

A girl with no cabin to claim her whispered as she touched a bulkhead: “It feels alive.”

A son of Hecate nodded. “It feels like home.”

For the first time in decades, perhaps centuries, the ship had a true crew — not soldiers, not slaves, but family.

The Night Sky

That night, Percy stood on the deck, the sea breeze tugging at his hair. Campfires flickered on the hill behind him. Ahead, the stars burned cold and bright.

Annabeth joined him, arms crossed, watching the refugees settle into their new bunks. “You know you just rewrote the rules again, right?”

“What else is new?” Percy asked.

She smirked. “The gods won’t like it. A mortal warship for minor gods’ children? That’s not how Olympus works.”

Percy glanced at her. “Then maybe Olympus needs to change.”

Below Decks

In the hold, BX-772 made its log entry, mechanical voice calm as always:

“Day One of integration complete. Refugees have been housed aboard the Freedom. Commander Skywalker has assigned this vessel as sanctuary for the unclaimed and for offspring of lesser deities. Efficiency rating of morale has increased by 37%. Probability of long-term loyalty: high.”

It paused, sensors humming as it watched a group of children laugh in their bunks for the first time.

“This ship is not merely repaired. It is alive. And it has chosen its new crew.”

Chapter Text

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Epilogue: Roots and Storms

Life on a Warship That Shouldn’t Exist

The Freedom hung in the bay like a mountain of steel suspended in the air. Camp Half-Blood had never looked smaller beneath it. Even Dionysus admitted, in his usual dry tone, that it gave the place a “much-needed sense of grandeur.”

For the campers living aboard her, though, the ship was less symbol and more home.

The Hermes overflow had cleared overnight. Kids who had spent their lives crushed together in bunks now had private rooms — real rooms — with doors that slid open with a hiss. The first morning, one daughter of Demeter had burst into tears because she had her own bed for the first time.

Droids patrolled the halls, polite but precise, making sure no one wandered into restricted maintenance shafts. The cafeteria deck had been converted into a massive mess hall where mortal refugees and demigods alike shared meals. Blackbeard’s five remaining crewmen took over the galley, whipping up dishes that tasted suspiciously like pirate food but kept everyone fed.

It was noisy, crowded, and alive.

Percy walked those halls every day, and every day someone new stopped him with a thank you. It made him squirm, but it also reminded him why he had accepted the mantle of Commander.

Annabeth’s Skeptical Tour

“An aircraft carrier in the sky,” Annabeth muttered, pacing along one of the upper walkways. She eyed the exposed machinery with suspicion. “Floating with no celestial bronze, no runes. You do realize this thing is rewriting our entire understanding of shipbuilding, right?”

“Good thing you like studying,” Percy said, trailing behind her with Tyson.

“I’m serious.” She tapped the bulkhead, listening to the hum deep within. “This ship shouldn’t exist. Yet here it is, feeding kids, housing refugees, and repairing itself. Do you know how much knowledge is in here?”

Tyson beamed. “She’s pretty. And she likes us.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched upward.

Refugees Find Roles

The satyrs had claimed the hydroponic bays, singing to rows of strange alien plants that seemed to respond just fine to Pan’s children. Cyclopes had claimed the forges, working side by side with droids. Mortals — sailors, artisans, wanderers freed from Circe — built classrooms, kitchens, even a library.

For the first time in their lives, the unclaimed kids had a cabin that wasn’t a corner of Hermes’ floor. They had their own banners, stitched by mortal hands: a silver circle on black, a stylized tree and star entwined. They called themselves the Skyborn.

The Tree Awakens

All of this paled beside what happened on the hill.

The Golden Fleece shimmered on Thalia’s pine. The barrier had grown strong again, bright as a dome of sunlight. But the tree itself glowed too — its bark golden at the seams, leaves humming with power.

One morning, campers gathered in silence as the trunk began to split.

Percy stood front and center, heart hammering. Annabeth’s nails dug into his arm, eyes wide. Grover clutched his reed pipes so tight they squeaked.

The crack widened, light spilling out, until at last a girl stumbled forward — tall, with stormy eyes and hair like midnight.

Thalia Grace collapsed to her knees.

Chiron was there in an instant, catching her. “Thalia…”

Her eyes flickered open, electric blue sparking. A pulse of lightning arced between her fingers before she could stop it. She gasped, clutching her head as a flood of visions surged through her.

“I see—” Her voice shook. “Storms. Roots. So many roots. Branches that stretch into other worlds. And a shadow… gnawing at the bark.”

Grover whimpered. Annabeth’s breath caught.

Percy crouched beside her, steadying her shoulders. “Easy. You’ve been inside the World Tree. It’s gonna leave a mark.”

Her gaze locked on him, clear and sharp now. “You’re the Jedi. The one Revan spoke of. You’re the storm and the choice.”

Percy’s throat tightened. “Yeah, well, you’re alive. That’s what matters.”

She smiled faintly. “Alive. And lightning still answers me. But now… so does the green.” She brushed her fingers across the grass, and tiny wildflowers bloomed at her touch.

A Family Grows

That night, the camp celebrated. Not just for Thalia’s return, but for survival. For the Freedom. For the barrier whole again.

The gods appeared only briefly, flickering on the horizon like uneasy stars. Even Zeus could not deny his daughter’s return. But it was Dionysus who raised a cup and muttered, “Try not to burn the place down, children.”

On the deck of the Freedom, Percy watched Thalia walk among the unclaimed kids, laughing despite the weight in her eyes. Blackbeard’s crew taught pirate songs in the galley. Droids recorded logs of resource distribution. For one fragile night, there was peace.

A Warning in the Wind

Later, when most of camp slept, Thalia found Percy at the bow. The wind whipped her hair, lightning faintly dancing in her pupils.

“I saw him,” she whispered. “The shadow you fought. It’s not finished. It’s reaching into everything. Even Olympus.”

Percy’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. I figured.”

Thalia touched his arm, grounding him. “Then we’ll fight it. Together. No matter how many storms it takes.”

The sea stretched before them, endless and dark. Above, the stars shimmered, as if the Force itself were listening.

And so ended the Sea of Monsters.

But the war for the soul of Olympus — and the galaxy — had only just begun.