"You'll love it here," Linus said as we stepped out of the cabin, his voice bubbling with that hopeful enthusiasm only someone young and untouched by monsters could pull off.
I glanced back one last time.
My little half-sister lay curled beneath a blanket, deep in some dreamworld. A half-open book balanced on her face like it had surrendered mid-sentence. She stirred faintly, a wisp of hair slipping down her cheek.
It tugged at something in me—something older than the soil we stood on.
"She's fine," Linus added quickly, like he'd caught the twitch in my jaw. "She's usually late for dinner. She likes to take her time."
I nodded faintly, casting a glance skyward.
Twilight was slipping into night. The sky above bled from amber to amethyst to deep velvet, stars shyly blinking into view one by one. The wind smelled of pine, salt, and old magic—the kind that clings to memories more than places. Demigods began pouring out of cabins in loose groups, their laughter and chatter skipping across the air like stones across water.
It felt like home. Looked like it, too.
But only if I didn't look too close.
The soil under my feet wasn't mine anymore. The trees, the sky, even the sea—they wore the same colors but not the same age. This place had kept growing while I... hadn't. I was a ghost walking through a painting of my old life. And every detail was just wrong enough to make the truth ache.
"So, which province are you from?" Linus asked, sidestepping a knot of arguing Hermes kids. "I'm from the Ecliptic Enclaves. Absolute mess. Power vacuum the size of a small god. Not that I'd know anything about politics—my mom just complains loudly and often."
I blinked. Ecliptic Enclaves? Sounded like something out of a sci-fi novel.
I nodded slowly, because what else could I do? "Sounds... lively."
He groaned. "Okay, you're either shy, evasive, or pretending to be cool."
"Bit of all three," I offered with a half-smile. "It's a strategy."
He snorted. "Oh, you're gonna be dangerous."
Cute kid. Endearing. Trying so hard to make me feel like I belonged here, even though we'd only just met. There was something refreshing about that kind of effort. It didn't feel forced. Just... genuine.
I liked him.
"You said you hadn't bathed in ages," Linus went on, wrinkling his nose dramatically. "What were you doing? On the run from something?"
I shrugged. "Run? Yeah… something like that."
Try running from nightmares stitched into the walls of time. Try clawing your way out of Tartarus twice with your soul barely hanging on.
"That's rough, man," he said with solemn sincerity. "I know some campers like that. Came in after being on the run for months. Years, even."
I smiled faintly. "Yeah. Always rough."
We blended into the flow of campers heading toward the dining pavilion. Linus pointed out cabins and tables like a self-appointed tour guide, introducing me to kids with names like Nova, Orion, and Aster. I stored the names in my mind.
When we reached the dining pavilion, Linus waved toward the tables. "That's Zeus' over there. Yeah, I know—three kids. Big guy's finally pulling his weight."
I raised an eyebrow. "Three?"
He nodded. "Wild, right? People say he's mellowed. Or maybe Hera stopped trying to murder his lovers for five minutes."
Hermes' table was overflowing. Loudest too—packed to the brim with chaos incarnate. Some things, apparently, never changed.
The sight twisted something in me.
All these centuries. All these children. And the gods still hadn't kept the one promise they'd made.
They still hadn't claimed them all.
Not really.
I spotted movement up ahead—something weaving through a small cluster of campers near the edge of the dining space. Something white, wispy, and very much… skeletal.
Ivory.
My little chaos gremlin was spinning in delighted circles as the earlier three border patrol campers cooed over her like she was a celebrity kitten and not a creature raised in the depths of Tartarus.
"Is that a skeleton cat?" Linus nearly choked. "Tell me I'm not hallucinating."
"That's Ivory," I said, watching her twirl dramatically in front of a daughter of Demeter. "Try not to look her directly in the ego."
Linus's eyes bulged. "Is she… friendly?"
"She's a cat," I said. "Friendly is negotiable."
Ivory pranced her way toward the Hermes table, flicking her tail like she owned the place. A few campers tried to pet her and were met with surprisingly gentle headbutts. One offered her a grape, which she promptly batted away.
"Why is there a crowd here?"
The stormcloud of a god known as Phobos stomped into view, his face twisted into permanent fury. His eyes swept over the gathering like he was seconds from going full supernova.
"Get to your tables!" he barked. "This is a mess. Damned kids."
Ivory meowed sweetly behind him.
It was, without question, the sassiest meow I had ever heard.
Linus sputtered. "Did she just mock him?"
I grinned. "Oh, she's fluent in passive aggression."
We made our way to the Poseidon table. Linus piled food on his plate like a man preparing for war. I followed more cautiously. He was about to dig in when I stopped him with a soft, "Offering."
He paused, blinked. Then nodded. "Right. Hearth."
We joined the slow-moving line forming by the central flame. I noticed how quiet it was here, how each camper seemed to retreat inward—murmuring prayers to distant, silent parents. Hoping someone up there still remembered their name.
Most wouldn't get answers.
That's the thing about gods. They demand loyalty and offer silence.
When it was my turn, I picked a bit of food—some kind of golden, sugar-dusted pastry I couldn't identify—and dropped it into the fire. The flames flared up gently, no divine message, no whisper on the wind.
Just warmth.
I leaned in and whispered low, words so quiet even the wind couldn't hear them.
"Let's see, Dad… if you remember me."
Not a question. Not a plea.
A challenge.
I stepped back—and then I froze.
"Get moving, Percy—there's a line," Linus called from just behind me, voice sharp with impatience.
I whipped my head around so fast I half-expected a crack in my neck.
"I'll sit on that side of the flame," I said, eyes locked on the opposite end of the pavilion, voice low but steady—no room for argument.
Linus blinked, confused. "What? That close to the fire?"
A groan echoed from further back, feet shuffling in frustration. "Hurry it up, would you?"
Linus leaned in, voice dropping to a near whisper. "Lord Phobos and Deimos guard the Hearth like it's their damn war table. They won't let anyone just stroll up."
I rolled my eyes. Let them come. I wasn't about to move just because two gods of fear and terror were throwing their weight around.
Firm, insistent, I patted Linus on the shoulder and stepped around the restless circle, crossing to the far side of the Hearth.
The murmurs softened instantly. The fire's crackle grew louder, warmer, almost as if it recognized me.
I dropped to one knee, bowing in a way that felt strange and yet utterly right—the kind of respect you give to a queen who's never demanded it but commands it anyway.
There she was. Small, unassuming at first glance—no taller than a child—but her eyes held the weight of every age this world had ever known.
Hestia. The Last Olympian. Keeper of the Sacred Flame.
"You waited to talk to me this time," she said, her voice soft as embers, carrying the weight of fallen dynasties.
There was no surprise in her tone. Only relief.
I exhaled, allowing myself to sit where she beckoned, conjuring a picnic blanket from golden light that smelled faintly of cedarwood and cinnamon. Folding my legs beneath me, I felt the fire's warmth seep in.
"Maybe I finally understand," I admitted, eyes tracing the flames as they danced like restless spirits. "How important family really is."
She tilted her head, flames flickering in her gaze. "Perhaps," she replied. "But saying that now implies you didn't understand it before."
I poked at a chunk of fruit on my plate—sweet, but tinged with something ancient and unsettling. Around us, the other demigods seemed to vanish, their whispers fading to silence. No one dared interrupt.
"Did I?" I asked quietly.
Her smile was gentle, but unyielding. "Yes. You sacrificed everything—your life, your safety—for this family. You carried their burdens when they turned away."
Her words hit hard, stones sinking deep in my chest. I had no fight left in me.
Memories swirled—battles, losses, promises shattered under thunderous indifference—hung heavy between us.
I gazed into the Hearth, letting the warmth fill what coldness lingered inside.
"Demigods are fine," I said, voice barely above a whisper. "But I think I'm starting to hate my godly family."
Her shoulders lifted in a tiny, sorrowful shrug.
"Hate your godly family..." Her voice cracked, a raw admission. "This family is often... disappointing."
A hush fell over the pavilion. Even the fire seemed to pause, its flames flickering like hesitant thoughts caught in the dark.
I closed my eyes and whispered, "Olympus failed me."
Silence answered — heavy, unyielding. The only response was the Hearth's steady roar, the heartbeat of flame, relentless and indifferent.
When I opened my eyes, Hestia was watching me — her gaze soft but sharp, filled with a compassion so deep it felt almost unbearable. Her hand hovered just above my shoulder, offering a fragile comfort without touching, as if presence alone was the only grace left to give.
"You know," I said, voice tight but steady, refusing to break, "being in a world that's not mine… that's bearable."
I paused, swallowed the knot of truth. "Maybe I'm lying to myself."
My eyes dropped to the picnic blanket, to the crumbs of untouched food.
What really tore me apart was missing Annabeth — her laugh, her fire. Missing my mom — the steady anchor in a storm.
I forced out a small bite, pushing the bitterness down.
"Even after the war ended... I wasn't allowed to be selfish. Not allowed to just be with the people I love."
My tone cracked just a little, raw and quiet.
"And worse..." I looked back up, eyes flashing cerulean, crimson, and gold in the flickering light, "all those sacrifices… they led to nothing."
Hestia's hand hovered over the flame, trembling.
"It didn't lead to nothing," she said softly, but I cut her off before she could soften the blow.
"Nothing's changed."
I spoke the words low enough that only she could hear them.
"Twelve cabins, same as before. Peaceful Titans still locked away. Olympus stuck in the same endless cycle. Demigods crammed into Hermes' cabin like unwanted leftovers."
I let the silence stretch like a wound between us.
"Nothing. Changed."
Her ember-bright eyes widened, and a single molten tear slipped down her cheek, glowing like a shard of the Hearth itself.
"Maybe… nothing has changed," she whispered, voice breaking.
My chest tightened at the sight of her grief — her sorrow was mine, carved from the same scars.
"I've seen changes in Olympus," she murmured after a moment, voice fragile like smoke drifting over ashes. "Gods kinder, gentler now... but I never noticed the broken promises beneath it all."
"Maybe they've softened," I said, voice bitter but resigned. "Maybe they're better than before. But all I see… is the same damn story."
The weight in my throat was thick as Daedalus' Labyrinth.
"And those changes? They're none."
Hestia's lips parted, then pressed shut again. Tears gathered as she turned away, whispering prayers I couldn't catch.
I watched her, helpless. No words could mend what the gods had shattered.
My gaze drifted across the pavilion.
My half-sister, bright-eyed and laughing, surrounded by younger campers. Her joy cut through the fire's crackle like a blade.
"So," Hestia's voice broke through the quiet, distant and fragile. "What will you do now?"
"Nothing."
The word was flat, worn by exhaustion that felt like armor too heavy to shed.
"I want to do… nothing."
Hestia cocked her head, disbelief flickering across her face.
"Nothing? Percy, if you marched to Olympus and demanded answers right now, they couldn't ignore you. You're Perseus Jackson—hero of Olympus."
"Not anymore."
I pushed my plate aside, voice final.
"I'm a ghost of their past. And I have no desire to climb their broken thrones again."
Hestia's brow furrowed. "No desire to climb?"
I met her gaze, eyes flickering with the fire's restless dance. "What has climbing ever gotten me?"
"I've climbed Olympus. Descended into the Underworld. Stormed Tartarus — twice."
"Where has it left me? What do I have now?"
Her expression softened, a quiet weight in her eyes. "You have your name — a legend that outshines many gods in their own histories. If you reveal you are Perseus Jackson, these children, who see you as a hero, might even worship you."
"Worship?" I scoffed, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "Most of my survival was luck."
"Luck only carries you so far," she said softly. "Surviving Tartarus twice… that's no accident."
Her words cut sharper than I expected. I leaned back, firelight casting shadows across my face.
"So why don't I confront the gods?" I asked, voice steady, almost cold. "Why don't I demand they answer for their broken promises?"
A slow, wry smile tugged at my lips.
"Because I've done the heavy lifting enough. This time... let Olympus come down to me."
"If they're too weary, there are always prophecies to nudge them forward."
"And if they try to force another quest..."
I shrugged with casual finality. "I'm retired."
Hestia sighed, a hint of sadness threading through her voice. "I doubt a demigod ever truly retires... especially one as celebrated as you."
I smiled, a flicker of amusement in the weariness. Her words were true enough. But I knew nothing could pull me back now.
Because I had made up my mind.
I had climbed Tartarus twice, faced Nyx, stared down horrors beyond mortal comprehension — all because I had made up my mind.
Only one sentence rose to meet her words:
"Then, in that case... let Olympus descend with their demands."
Hestia's eyes widened, then she gave a small, knowing smile.
"I suppose… that would be the only option."
Silence settled between us — quiet but alive with the faint flicker of hope.
For the Hearth is never without hope.
I watched the campers — how they ate, talked, laughed, teased each other.
It was like watching a fractured mirror of my own past, unfolding in an alternate reality.
And it was... strangely beautiful.
"Mew," I heard before I even saw her—Ivory bounding toward me like a ping-pong ball on a caffeine high.
"Finally found some time for little old me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ivory's meow was sharp and imperious, clearly saying, Yes, peasant. She leapt straight into my lap with practiced grace.
"Well, this bundle of pure mischief is Ivory," I said to Hestia, scooping up the skeletal cat despite her indignant protest meows. No sooner had I lifted her to my shoulder than she retaliated with a sharp scratch to my neck.
"Ow," I muttered, mock-glowering, poking her bony nose in return.
Hestia giggled—a soft, bright sound that made the moment feel lighter, warmer. Ivory immediately turned her gaze to the goddess who looked no older than ten, and without hesitation, sprang from my shoulder straight for Hestia's head.
"Ivory!" I yelped, half-rising to catch her, but managed to trap her mid-air inside a delicate, floating bubble.
Hestia dissolved into a fit of pure laughter, joyous and unrestrained.
"Mew," Ivory chirped happily, twirling inside the bubble like a tiny acrobat, the orb bobbing gently with her movements.
Hestia reached out, and I released the spell, letting the tiny feline tumble effortlessly into her waiting hands.
Ivory, ever the opportunist, wasted no time and immediately began batting at a flickering ember Hestia conjured—a tiny, glowing fish dancing just beyond her reach.
"You have quite a knack for making unusual friends," Hestia said with a laugh, as Ivory leapt again, mewing with determined delight.
"Well, nothing's truly unusual when someone becomes your friend," I shrugged. But I suppose she wasn't completely wrong. After all, Damasen—the gentle, story-loving giant—is one of my best friends.
Hestia's smile deepened, and she asked, "Have you reconnected with Mrs. O'Leary?"
My breath caught.
Mrs. O'Leary.
My tank-sized, shadow-jumping, slobbering hellhound.
"She's still…?" I asked, hope sparking like a match struck in the dark.
"Mew-meow!" Ivory squealed triumphantly, clutching the ember-fish before flopping contentedly into Hestia's lap.
"Yes," Hestia replied gently, petting Ivory's smooth bones. "She's near the stables most days. You can find her there."
A fragile, genuine smile tugged at my lips—small, but real.
A quiet moment settled between us, punctuated only by the crackling fire. For once, the weight of everything pressing down on me seemed lighter.
After a while, I glanced around. Most campers had finished their meals. Some were already drifting toward their cabins—no songs, no stories tonight.
"Well," I said, rising. "Dinner's wrapping up. So… please excuse me."
"Of course, Percy," Hestia said, standing with a graceful nod and that eternal, gentle smile.
Ivory bounced back onto my shoulder, curling around my neck like a smug, satisfied scarf.
"Thank you for joining me by the Hearth," Hestia added softly.
I nodded, feeling a quiet warmth spread through me. "Thanks for the warmth."
I stood up and walked toward the Poseidon table. A strange pressure tugged at the edges of my senses—subtle, steady, like a wave curling back just before the crash. Not painful, not loud… just insistent, like someone clearing their throat in the back of my mind.
Linus was in the middle of a wild monologue to a girl from the Apollo cabin(I could just sense that she was an Apollo child). Judging by his flailing arms and the look of pure theater on his face, he was either talking about a monster fight or trying to explain the multiverse using finger puppets. Aurora, of course, kept chiming in with sass-laced comments, poking at Linus's ego with the delicacy of a harpoon. The Apollo girl didn't seem bothered. In fact, she looked dangerously close to laughing out loud.
"So, you must be Aurora, hmm?" I asked sweetly, sliding onto the bench beside her like I owned the place.
She blinked, caught between suspicion and awe, like I'd just parachuted into the camp from Olympus with a flaming chariot. Then, just as quickly, her confidence crumbled.
"Y-yes, I-I'm Au-Aurora," she stammered, her face flushing a shade lighter than tomato soup.
The Apollo girl leaned toward Linus and whispered something. He muttered a reply, and her eyebrows shot up like she'd just heard I was actually Zeus's therapist. Well, Poseidon kids are rare, so fair reaction I suppose.
"Well," I said, extending my hand with exaggerated politeness, "I'm the new old man of the Poseidon cabin."
"Percy Jackson. Son of Poseidon."
And just like that, Aurora's nerves vanished like mist in the morning sun. Her eyes lit up with the brilliance of a thousand glow sticks. "New brother?! Yay!"
That… was an aggressive shift in mood. I couldn't help it—I laughed.
"Yes, yes. New brother," I chuckled, reaching to pinch her cheek. She dodged with suspiciously inhuman speed, grinning like she'd just bested a god. Noted.
Then I felt it again. That pressure. Tighter. More focused. It slithered around the edges of my awareness, like a leviathan circling beneath calm waves.
"Mew. Meow!" came an indignant squeak from behind me.
Ivory.
Right. I'd left her with Hestia. That was… a mistake.
All three of them turned. Except Linys, their eyes widened at the sight of the tiny skeleton kitten strutting toward me like she was here to reclaim her throne and tax my soul for the inconvenience.
"Oh yeah. Sorry, Ivory," I said, sheepishly lifting my arm. She climbed up onto my shoulder with the poise of a royal familiar.
"This little bundle of sugar-rush and chaos," I declared dramatically, "is Ivory."
Aurora giggled immediately, covering her mouth like she couldn't decide if this was adorable or terrifying.
"Wait… this kitten is yours?" the Apollo girl asked, blinking.
"Yup. This diva-wannabe—"
Ivory promptly leapt into my lap and began smacking my hand with all the fury of a betrayed anime sidekick.
"—is mine," I sighed, enclosing her in a soft, floating bubble. She immediately stopped thrashing and let out a smug little mew, tail flicking contentedly.
"How did you do that?!" Linus burst, practically falling over the table.
"Do what?"
"That!" he cried, pointing at Ivory's bubble like I'd just revealed a sentient marshmallow.
"Oh, that?" I shrugged, snapping my fingers to conjure another bubble. "Simple concentration."
The pressure in the air spiked. Sharper now. Focused. Watching. No, calling.
Linus stared at me like I'd just rewritten the laws of physics on a napkin. Aurora looked one heartbeat away from declaring me a wizard.
"It's just a trick," I said with a shrug, though my eyes drifted to the horizon. That weight wasn't just divine magic—it was intent. It was Poseidon. Watching. Reaching.
It felt like that moment—years ago—when I sat on his throne just to get his attention. That same vast, ancient presence staring down, waiting.
"New big brother is so cool!" Aurora declared, bouncing slightly. Then she stood up on the bench like a pirate queen about to knight me. "I hereby give you the legendary title of—"
Linus and the Apollo girl were already giggling.
"—The Old Bubble Man!" Aurora announced with dramatic flourish.
Linus laughed so hard he nearly toppled backward. The Apollo girl facepalmed.
I deadpanned. "Old man? Really?" I looked down at my hands, inspecting them like I expected them to suddenly grow liver spots. "Do I look that old?"
Sure, I'd been in Tartarus long enough to qualify for ancient relic status, but still.
Note to self: never call yourself the 'new old man' around kids. They weaponize words faster than Hermes steals wallets.
I tried to play along, maybe even smile again—but the pressure was building to a roar now. It was no longer ambient. It was directed.
Poseidon wasn't just watching anymore.
He was summoning me.
Away from the firelight. Away from the chatter and laughter.
Into the dark.
I wasn't going to let him summon me like a loyal little wave.
Poseidon had been watching me ever since I left the Hearth, that much was obvious. The pressure in the air hadn't faded—it had only grown, curling around my spine like seawater filling a sinking hull.
But I'd learned a thing or two in Tartarus.
And one of them was this: just because a god calls, doesn't mean I have to come running.
Let him wait.
"So, where were you till now?" Linus asked, blinking at me with that wide-eyed confusion I was starting to find strangely endearing.
"By the hearth, of course," I replied. I mean, wasn't it obvious? That's where I'd left him. "Was talking with an old friend."
"By the hearth? Friend?" he echoed, like I'd just told him I went fishing with Kronos. "No one sits by the hearth…"
My lips curled into a sad smile. "Oh, that's not true. She's always there," I said, tilting my head slightly toward the flickering flames. "The last Olympian."
"The last Olympian?" Linus repeated, frowning. The Apollo girl leaned in, brows knit. After a beat, Linus murmured, "Hestia? I think I read that name in some old tale from the Heroes of Olympus era…"
The pressure didn't recede. Poseidon's call still echoed in my bones like sonar through deep water.
But I'm his son, only. And the world already knows I'm stubborn enough to survive Tartarus—twice.
He could wait.
"Exactly. Hestia," I said, and this time the smile on my face was genuine—soft, even a little warm.
It caught me off guard, honestly, that Linus even knew the name. Most didn't. Not even back in my day. Hell, I hadn't known her until right before the Battle of Manhattan, when I was a teenager with a sword and too much hope.
"Wait, wait, wait," the Apollo girl—ugh, I really needed her name at this point—suddenly cut in. "You mean to say an Olympian goddess was sitting by the hearth? And she's, what, your buddy?"
Okay. Fair.
When she put it like that, yeah… it sounded a bit insane.
"Up to you. Believe whatever you want," I said, shrugging like I hadn't just casually name-dropped a goddess. "What's your name, by the way?"
"Helen," she said quickly, cheeks turning a shade pinker as she realized she hadn't introduced herself.
"You two dating?" I asked without missing a beat, pointing at her and Linus—who were sitting suspiciously close, knees practically whispering secrets.
"What?!" Helen jolted like I'd just doused her with cold water. "No! I mean—what?!"
"Hell no!" Linus blurted out, flailing backward so fast he nearly toppled off the bench. "We're not—it's not like that—it's not that kind of friendship!"
Helen crossed her arms tightly, her face blazing now as she turned her glare on Linus. "He's just a friend! Geez."
"A very friendly friend," I added with a sage nod, eyes twinkling like a mischievous oracle.
Aurora snorted. "New big brother is a menace," she declared, clearly thrilled by the drama.
I grinned wide. "You'll learn to love me."
"Mew," Ivory added, bumping the edge of her bubble as if in judgmental agreement, her tail swishing with perfect disapproval.
The pressure kept building up inside me—like a tightly coiled spring threatening to snap—yet I forced it down, keeping my breaths even, anchoring myself to the gentle warmth of the Hearth. Somehow, the weight of it all kept growing, invisible but relentless, curling around my ribs like smoke. But I kept it at bay.
Nearby, Linus and Helen were still stuck in the awkward aftermath of my comment—blushing so hard, you could toast marshmallows off their faces. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. They were two statues in denial, standing in a puddle of teenage tension.
Around the pavilion, life moved on. A group of Aphrodite girls glided past, giggling behind manicured hands and casting glances toward Linus and Helen like they were watching a rom-com in real time. In the distance, a minor scuffle broke out near the Hermes table. Plates clattered. Someone yelled. Deimos barked at them with all the grace of a drill sergeant who had skipped dinner.
"I wanna go an' sleep," Aurora muttered beside me, rubbing her eyes with a fist and leaning heavily into my side like a warm, sleepy koala.
I raised an eyebrow. "Weren't you just sleeping, like, fifteen minutes ago? You had a book draped over your face and were drooling on chapter two."
"That was nap," she corrected, blinking slowly. "Nap is not sleep. Nap is pretend sleep. Now is big sleep time. Real sleep. Sleep-sleep."
I bit back a laugh. "Of course. How foolish of me to confuse the sacred difference between nap and 'sleep-sleep.'"
Jesus Christ, I thought, the pressure in my chest still rising like a tide. I gave it one more breath and buried it again.
Behind us, Linus and Helen still hadn't said a word. Linus was sitting stiff as a board. Helen kept nervously playing with a bracelet on her wrist. I was getting secondhand social anxiety just looking at them.
"Well," I said, standing up with exaggerated flair, "if you two are done writing your silent love poem, dinner's over. Chop-chop."
Ivory, still in her bubble, watching everything, let out a loud mew of agreement.
Linus blinked, clearly startled, and Helen practically jumped to her feet like she'd been jolted by lightning. "Y-yeah! Right. Dinner. Over. Yep."
Aurora yawned theatrically and climbed up onto the bench beside me, pulling my arm to lean her sleepy head against it like a cat claiming a sunspot. "Percy says chop-chop," she murmured to Linus, mimicking my voice poorly but with the full authority of a sleepy six-year-old.
"I heard him, thanks," Linus muttered, ears still red. He grabbed his plate and fumbled a quick "Goodnight," nearly tripping over the bench as he stood.
Helen looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her, but instead she gave Aurora a quick smile and reached out to ruffle her hair. "Sleep well, little one."
Aurora beamed at her, then turned to me and whispered—loudly, "She smells nice. Like shiny flowers."
Helen definitely heard it, judging by the way she flushed again and ducked her head with a laugh. Linus groaned quietly.
Around the pavilion, the air was thinning out. Most of the other campers had already trickled away, leaving behind empty plates, a few tired conversations, and the soft hiss of the Hearthfire winding down for the night. The chaos from the Hermes table had finally settled—probably because Deimos threatened to toss their dessert into the stables.
"Alright, come on," I said, gently lifting Aurora into the crook of my arm. She wrapped herself around me like a koala, already half-asleep. Ivory floated above us in a softly glowing bubble, paws tucked under her ribcage and a self-satisfied grin on her skeletal face. Her tail flicked in lazy arcs, batting at invisible fireflies.
Linus picked some book from the table, still stealing glances at Helen like he wasn't sure if he should say something more.
"Night, Helen," I said with a casual wave. "Try not to combust from mutual pining."
She laughed and gave a mock bow. "Goodnight, Percy. Take care of those two menaces."
"Hey," Linus said, voice cracking just slightly. "Thanks… for—uh… dinner?"
Helen gave him a small smile. "You're welcome… for… existing?"
It was so awkward it circled back around to being kind of sweet.
We turned and began the walk toward our cabin, the stars spilling across the sky above like spilled sugar. Aurora was already snoring softly, and Linus was muttering something under his breath that might've been "kill me now."
I just smiled and walked on, already missing the warmth of the Hearth lingering like a memory behind us.
"It's much more fun to keep you alive," I teased, giving him a not-so-gentle poke in the ribs. "Strictly for teasing purposes, obviously."
"Jeez, you are actually a menace," Linus muttered, shaking his head and turning a shade redder than Helen's campfire robe.
I rolled my eyes but let it slide. No need to fan the flames—yet.
We walked in relative silence after that. Well, "silence" was generous. The other campers around us were anything but. The paths to the cabins buzzed with chatter, clanking armor, laughter, and the occasional curse as someone tripped over a tree root. A satyr somewhere sneezed like a shotgun blast.
It was oddly comforting—chaotic normalcy. Something I had unknowingly missed for a long time.
Then Linus froze mid-step like someone had smacked him with a prophecy. "Oh, shit, we forgot to take your schedule from Chiron!"
I blinked. "…Huh."
Right. That was a thing.
"I completely forgot that even existed," I admitted, rubbing my temple. "Guess I haven't followed a schedule in years."
Linus looked vaguely horrified and then awkwardly sympathetic. "Uh. we'll get yours in the morning, I guess."
"Sounds good," I muttered. "Jeez…" I added under my breath, the pressure in my chest tightening like a slow coil. I'd been trying to ignore it, but it wasn't going away. Just hiding under layers of humor.
"You okay?" Linus asked, catching my shift a beat too late.
"Yeah," I lied smoothly. "Just… lost in thought."
He didn't push. I was grateful.
When we reached the cabin, I gently placed Aurora in her bunk—after prying directions out of Linus, who'd, for some reason, insisted we leave her in the fountain.
"It's just water," he defended, crossing his arms. "She likes it."
"She also likes daggers. That doesn't mean I'm letting her nap on them."
Linus muttered something about me being boring and stalked off toward his bed.
I, in the meantime, floated Ivory's bubble over the cabin fountain and popped it with a snap.
"Very mature," Linus called over his shoulder, only half-sarcastic.
"Mew," Ivory squeaked, landing in the shallow water with all the grace of a soggy marshmallow.
To her credit, she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she immediately started bouncing in the pool, spraying droplets everywhere like she was reenacting her own private monsoon season.
Eventually, Linus climbed into his bunk and passed out with the lights still on. I took a bunk near the corner and laid Ivory gently on the pillow.
"Stay here, okay?" I said, voice low.
"Meow, mew," she chirped back, indignant. Translation: Take me on the adventure too!
"Not tonight, Ivory," I said, stroking her bony head. She purred like a rattling wind chime. "This one's solo. Gotta handle it myself."
"Mew?" she asked, tilting her skull just slightly.
"Nothing dangerous," I assured her, a small, practiced smile creeping onto my face. I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince. "You trust me, right?"
Ivory gave a small huff. The kind that said, I wouldn't tame a human I didn't trust.
"Good girl," I murmured, scratching just behind her translucent ear.
I stood, making sure the cabin was silent, and crept toward the door. I wrapped the air around my footsteps with moisture, muting each one as I pushed the door open with surgical quiet.
Outside, the night greeted me with a breeze. The stars above shimmered like silent sentinels.
And I walked into them, quiet as the sea.
The feeling was undeniable now.
Salt in the air. Mist on my skin. The magnetic tug in my gut — not gentle, not patient.
It wasn't calling anymore.
It was demanding.
Beneath a sky littered with stars, I slipped past the dining pavilion, the amphitheater and other buildings like a shadow with purpose. Camp had quieted — that sacred stillness right before dawn or disaster. Every step I took felt ceremonial. A pilgrimage. A defiance.
The stables loomed to my right. For a flicker of a heartbeat, I almost turned. Mrs. O'Leary. Her slobbering grin, that thump of her tail like a war drum. Just a glimpse, I thought. Just to ground myself.
But my legs didn't stop. My feet carried me like they remembered something my mind refused to admit.
And then — the beach.
It opened before me like a memory too sharp to forget. The sea breathed in the moonlight. Whispered my name like a prayer and a threat.
Percy…
The wind hit — cold, honest, full of salt and starlight. The kind that reminded you you're still alive. That you can still feel. That you haven't drowned. Not yet.
It wasn't Tartarus. Gods, no.
This… this was its opposite.
This was home.
I walked until the surf kissed my feet. The tide was gentle — respectful, almost. The sand beneath my soles felt too soft now. Like silk after stone. Like comfort I didn't know how to accept.
And then the pressure hit.
Full force. No veil, no grace. Like the entire ocean had risen, not to crash, but to pull. Down. Deep. To the roots of Atlantis. To thrones buried in coral and salt and the bones of ancient gods.
And that — that was where I drew my line.
I stopped.
The tide lapped at my ankles again. But I didn't move.
I turned my back on it. On him.
"No," I said, voice steady as steel beneath the stars. "I'm not coming, Dad."
I stepped back, beyond the reach of the waves.
The ocean recoiled — not physically, but in essence. The divine pressure flexed, coiling around me like a noose.
I stood still.
I had followed this call out of habit. Maybe respect. But I wasn't his errand boy. Not anymore.
I have climbed Tartarus twice. Bled in realms no god dared name.
I didn't owe Olympus anything.
If they had rules… So did I.
And this? This was Rule Number One.
The pressure rose like a tsunami behind my ribs. Clawing. Pulling. Insisting.
My eyes burned. I could feel the glow — that furious, cerulean storm boiling from within, casting streaks across the beach like ghost-fire.
I exhaled, and power spilled out like a breach in the sky.
I could feel everything.
The moisture in the air. The fish darting miles beneath. The pressure of tides. The starlight bending through the clouds. The hearts beating back in camp — soft, scattered—
One stood out.
Linus.
He was watching me.
He followed me?
My jaw locked. Of all the times…
I didn't move. Didn't turn. I just lifted my hand, and focused on the divine threads I now saw clinging to my aura like spider silk.
Strings. Subtle, ancient. A god's leash.
I snarled, and my voice cracked like thunder:
"I. Want. NONE—OF—THIS!"
CRACK.
It was like tearing heaven in half.
A soundless explosion. A rift.
And then—Rain.
Not water, no.
Fragments.
Dust of magic, broken threads cascading around me like stars being unstitched. They shimmered — warm and cold at once. Unraveling the pressure. Freeing me.
Unleashing me.
And then… silence.
Not calm.
Not peace.
Just the kind of silence that follows when even the sea forgets to breathe.
No whispers.
No pull.
No call.
Just me.
Standing at the edge of the world I once belonged to — and no longer bowed to.
After a few seconds, I turned to leave.
Back to the Poseidon cabin — how ironic. I'd just denied the call of the sea itself. Ignored the pull of my father like it was any other passing breeze.
I wasn't a pawn. Not anymore.
And yet… something shifted.
A silence too deep to be silence. A weight in the air — divine, dense, and undeniable. It hovered just behind me, like a stormcloud not yet formed, but felt in every hair on your body.
Not yet there. But already present.
I turned, just slightly. "Dad," I said, eyes narrowing at the shimmer in the air. "Enough with the theatrics."
No answer.
And then — without fanfare, without thunder or spectacle — he appeared.
Poseidon.
Lord of the Sea. Bringer of Storms. The father I barely remembered how to feel about.
He didn't boom or blaze. No trident raised, no chariots of hippocampi. Just a man—a god—stepping forward with an impossible calm. His seaweed-dark hair tousled gently by a breeze that hadn't been there a second ago. The ocean behind him leaned forward, waves freezing mid-break as if the entire sea was holding its breath.
"I'm impressed," he said. His voice didn't echo — it rolled, like a tide whispering to the shore.
"Welcome back, son. And yes—" a half-smile curved his lips, "I do remember you."
I arched a brow, leaning casually against an ice pillar that bloomed beneath my hand. A subconscious flex. His presence was relentless — like high tide against a cliff — but I wasn't in the mood to be worn down.
"Not the best at reunions, are you?" I asked, voice sharp, but laced with tired humor.
Poseidon winced. "I deserve that."
"You do," I said plainly, then let a chuckle slip past. "So. What brings the mighty sea god to grace me with his damp, salty presence?"
"Do I really need a reason to see my son?"
I didn't blink. "Yes. You do."
Because gods never show up without one. Not in dreams. Not in visions. Not in person. And certainly not after eight hundred years of silence.
Poseidon's shoulders lowered — not in defeat, but in something older. Sadder.
"You may not know but," he began as if giving me the present of the century, a reassurance, "there haven't been any prophecies in nearly three centuries."
He said it like it meant something. Like it mattered.
I tilted my head, unimpressed. "Right. Well, I wasn't here, was I?"
That caught him. He laughed — a real one. Sudden, rough around the edges. The sea behind him relaxed as if exhaling with him.
"Fair enough," he said softly. "Welcome back, Percy."
Then he raised a hand — slow, deliberate — and a thick woolen blanket materialized on the sand, wide enough for two. He sank down onto it cross-legged, casual as a mortal dad on a beach vacation, and patted the space beside him.
I hesitated.
Some part of me — some forgotten, hollowed-out piece — still remembered being a twelve-year-old kid, hoping his dad might actually show up.
I sighed, then sat beside him.
Because I wasn't that kid anymore.
But maybe… maybe I still wanted him to be that dad.
Silence settled around us like a cold, damp blanket — not suffocating, but undeniably present. A little too intimate. A little too familiar.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
Then Poseidon exhaled, long and slow.
"It's never this hard to talk to one of my kids," he said at last, like I was the one making it weird.
Right. Me — making one of the Big Three uncomfortable?
I gave him a flat look. "Congrats," I said, a dry grin tugging at the corner of my mouth, "I can still surprise you."
"When have you not?" he quipped, raising a brow with a wry smile.
Touché.
His gaze drifted out to the sea, where the stars blurred with the horizon. "I won't ask about your time in Tartarus," he said, his voice quieter now. "That would be… presumptuous."
"It would be," I replied evenly, tone deliberately flat. No venom, just steel.
He shot me a side-glance. Mild glare. Smirked.
Yeah. Still got it.
Another beat passed in silence.
Then:
"Your eyes," he murmured, like he was just noticing something no one else had dared to mention. "They're… different."
I tilted my head, playing dumb. "That so?"
"There are specks," he said slowly, "fragments of color that don't belong. Not in mortal eyes. Not even in divine ones. Something fractured… or forged."
I didn't answer immediately. Just met his gaze and let the moment stretch, letting the weight settle before I spoke.
"And I'm sure," I said at last, voice low, weary, "you know exactly what that means."
Poseidon nodded once.
Grim. Certain.
"I do," he said, voice thick with meaning.
His eyes scanned mine — not like a god looking at a son, but like an immortal reading runes carved in bone.
"You've killed Titans," he said softly. "Maybe even gods. Not with borrowed strength. Not with favors. You didn't survive divinity… you conquered it."
I didn't blink.
"Hyperion," I said quietly. "Before that, Perses. Both in Tartarus. Perses alone. Hyperion, he was out of commission already."
Poseidon looked away for a moment, as if even he needed time to process that.
When he spoke again, his voice had changed — reverent, distant.
"There's no doubt left," he said. "You are the greatest demigod to ever walk the earth."
I didn't smile.
"I only hope," I murmured, eyes trailing the dark line of the sea, "that no one ever has to take that title from me."
Because I knew what it cost.
And if this world demanded another "greatest"... It would mean another life ripped apart, another soul carved down to its rawest pieces.
People talk about heroes like they're made in moments. They're not. They're broken across lifetimes.
I might not have liked Hercules. But … I understood him.
And me?
I'm not sure anyone mortal ever could.
"Why did you come to visit me?" I asked at last, breaking the silence that had stretched too long. The question had been needling at me since he appeared — because gods don't just drop by for small talk.
He'd said a few things, tossed around some praise like confetti, and now we were just... sitting here, doing nothing. Waiting.
I wasn't about to believe the Lord of the Seas had cleared his schedule just to catch up.
Poseidon looked at me, unreadable. Then, finally: "I have a proposal for you."
Great.
I almost groaned aloud. "Of course you do."
"Listen first," he said, already catching my grimace.
I raised an eyebrow. "Alright. Humour me."
He rolled his eyes — the kind of eye-roll only a parent can pull off — but his voice stayed calm. Almost soft.
"Come live in Atlantis."
The words dropped like a stone in a still lake.
I blinked. "What?"
"It's your home too," he said simply. But there was something behind the simplicity — expectation. A quiet hope.
I stared at him. He was serious. Poseidon, god of oceans, ruler of tides… inviting me into his kingdom. Not as a soldier. Not as a hero. As his son.
I didn't even need to think about it.
"No," I said flatly. "I can't. I won't."
His brow furrowed, but he didn't speak.
"My home is here," I said, jerking my thumb over my shoulder toward Camp Half-Blood. "Among the demigods. That's where I belong."
His smile faltered, just for a breath.
"Yes," he said after a moment. "It is. But your home is also in the sea. Atlantis would be yours to come and go as you wish. No obligations. No demands. Just... peace."
And that's when I got it.
This wasn't just an invitation. It was a lifeline. A way out.
From the endless expectations. The quests. The gods. The weight.
Here, I was available. Any time, any moment, someone could need something — a prophecy, a monster problem, a war.
But down there? In the deep?
I could vanish. Choose when to surface. Choose who to be.
It was tempting. Gods, it was dangerous how tempting it was.
But still...
"I appreciate it," I said, more gently this time. "But I'm not ready to trade the land for the sea. Not yet."
Poseidon's gaze dropped, just slightly. "I understand."
"I would like to visit, though," I added. "Maybe just… to breathe underwater without the weight of the world on my chest."
He nodded, the corner of his mouth curling upward. "That can be arranged."
A thought struck me — a name, warm and familiar.
"Is Tyson still there?"
Poseidon's entire posture shifted. His expression softened instantly. "Of course. He's one of our finest smiths. Keeps trying to convince the cyclopes to build underwater hot tubs."
That got a smile out of me. A real one.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt it — a flicker of warmth in my chest. Something quiet. Something steady.
Family.
Poseidon started telling stories — half-proud, half-exasperated tales about Tyson's antics in the forges. I listened, letting the words fill the silence like waves over stone.
And for a few precious minutes… I wasn't the hero, or the survivor, or the godslayer.
I was just a brother. Just a son.
Just me.
"I think…" I began, voice tight with emotion I didn't fully understand.
I wanted to be mad at him. I should've been mad at him. For the years of silence. For the oath the gods swore and never kept. For calling me like I was a chess piece — not a person.
But after everything he said… after hearing those stories about Tyson, after the offer — Atlantis, a place I didn't even know I'd been missing…
I just didn't have the heart to hate him.
I shook my head, a tired smile curling at my lips. "Thank you."
Poseidon returned it with a small one of his own — soft, weathered, like a breeze over still water.
"But," I added, narrowing my eyes, "you're still not off the hook."
That earned me a sigh as he looked toward the horizon again. "No one ever is, in this messed up, dysfunctional family. All we can really do is try."
I gave a dry laugh. "Do you even know what I'm referring to?"
He glanced at me, a little too innocent. "Not really. I'm not a mind-reader, unfortunately."
He said it with the solemnity of an actual dad — which only made it more ridiculous.
I snorted. "You remember the Titan War, right? When you and the gods fought Typhon?"
"Of course." His voice firmed. "It was one of the defining moments in Olympian history."
"Yeah," I said quietly. "While you all were chasing a storm across the world… we — me, the camp, the Hunters — we fought the Titan army. On the front lines. In New York."
He didn't interrupt. Just listened. Let me say it.
"The promises made to me that night — the ones carved into fate like they meant something — they weren't kept."
I looked him dead in the eyes.
And let the storm inside me show.
Disappointment. Hurt. Betrayal. It burned behind my gaze, low and steady like magma beneath a calm sea.
"You remember that, don't you?" I said, my voice sharper now. "You all swore. Recognition. Support. Protection for all demigods — minor or not. All children of the gods. Freedom of Peaceful Titans. Recognition for minor gods."
Poseidon met my stare. The ocean in his eyes didn't waver — but it rippled. Like he felt it.
"I remember," he said quietly.
"But you didn't keep it," I said. "None of you did."
I didn't need to say more. We both knew the stories — of kids lost, camps fallen, names forgotten. Promises broken.
And we both knew this moment wasn't about revenge.
It was about truth.
About accountability.
And whether he —whether any of them — could finally face it.
I took a deep breath, steadying the storm boiling just beneath my skin.
"If any god — any Olympian — dares come to me with demands…" I said, voice low, each word etched with ice and fire, "I will haunt them with the weight of their broken promises."
My gaze didn't waver from his. Not for a second.
"I'm Perseus Jackson," I continued. "And you know I'm stubborn."
Poseidon didn't argue.
"I won't go to the gods," I added, the words laced with quiet defiance. "Because, let's be honest… the gods always come to me."
"That we do, that we do," he muttered, exhaling like the tide itself. His gaze drifted out over the sea as mine did. "Old habits… they die hard."
He was trying to lighten the mood.
It didn't work.
A hushed silence wrapped around us again — not hostile, but brittle.
Then, after a pause, Poseidon said something that pulled me out of my thoughts.
"You know… the ancient laws didn't stir when I came to see you tonight."
I blinked. "What?"
"They've always bound me," he said, his tone thoughtful, distant. "Restricted me. From seeing my children too often. Too directly. But tonight… nothing. No resistance. No divine tension. It was like the rules weren't watching."
"They weren't… evoked?" I asked, brows furrowing.
"Exactly," he said, a small nod. "Normally, a god has to walk razor-thin lines when dealing with mortals — even our children. But when I came here, after you shattered that pressure-pull of mine… I expected punishment. Interference. Something."
"And?"
"And nothing happened."
That was unsettling.
"So let's say," I said slowly, flicking my eyes toward the rocks off to the side, "you wanted to meet the guy hiding behind that boulder — Linus, by the way — would the laws stop you?"
Poseidon smirked, the breeze picking up with his amusement. "No. Because I'm already here. And I didn't come for him."
There was something hilariously casual about both of us knowing we were being watched and not caring.
"If I'd come solely for Linus," Poseidon continued, "there would've been a price. A penalty. Either for me, or him."
"Why?"
"Because intent matters. The laws — old as Gaea — demand purpose. Sacrifice. A need greater than want. Gods can't visit mortals on a whim. Not without loopholes. Not without consequence."
I exhaled slowly, absorbing that.
"And yet… they didn't stop you for me."
He nodded. "Exactly."
So am I not a demigod, a mortal?
"So that can mean only one thing," I muttered, bitterness laced through my voice like salt on a wound. "I'm not a demigod anymore. At least… not fully."
"Perhaps," Poseidon said softly. "Yes."
I let that sink in — not with awe or fear, but with the tired realization of someone who's crossed too many thresholds to still be surprised by doors.
Then I raised my voice. "Linus! Stop eavesdropping and get over here."
My words cracked through the air like a whip. "You're about as subtle as a cyclops in a tutu. So get your scrawny redhead out here."
Poseidon let out a snort — half surprise, half amusement.
For a few seconds, nothing. Then, like a guilty campfire trying to hide behind its own smoke, a tuft of wild red hair poked out from behind the rocks.
Linus emerged slowly, the world's most awkward fox caught mid-heist, looking every bit like a kid who just got busted raiding the cookie jar and rewriting the pantry inventory to hide it.
"Hi," he mumbled, walking toward us with all the grace of someone stepping onto an Olympic stage in mismatched socks.
Poseidon arched an eyebrow. I just sighed.
"Next time you want to spy, bring popcorn. At least pretend to be fun about it."
"What is… popcorn?" Linus asked, his voice barely a whisper, eyes wide as saucers as he stared at me and Poseidon sitting cross-legged on a blanket like some bizarre campfire cult.
I blinked. "Wait. Hold up."
Then turned to my dad, genuinely appalled. "They don't have popcorn in this era?"
Poseidon gave a long-suffering sigh — the kind that carried centuries of disappointment. "Tragically, the world has moved on without the joy of binge-eating popcorn during movies."
"And movies?" I asked, my voice rising in panic.
He winced. "Gone. Extinct. Like cassette tapes and decent diplomacy."
I stared at the horizon as the last shred of my hope crumbled like a stale Dorito.
Linus, my sixteen-year-old, red-haired, sea-green-eyed brother, just stood there, visibly struggling to process this apocalyptic revelation. His mouth opened, then closed. Not a word.
Speechless.
"Gods," I muttered, staring at him. "He's so well-mannered. I'd have dropped five curses and at least one sacrilegious pun by now."
Poseidon gave me a look that was equal parts proud and exasperated.
Linus, bless him, just blinked again — the poor boy still trying to figure out what a movie was.
"You're The PERSEUS JACKSON?!" Linus practically screamed, his voice cracking like thunder over calm surf — completely ignoring our darling Father sitting beside me like he was yesterday's tide report. "THE HERO OF OLYMPUS?!"
I physically recoiled. "Gods, indoor voice, man. You're gonna summon something."
Poseidon just chuckled like this was normal.
"Yes," I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. "I'm that dumbass. Back from the good ol' tartar sauce, baby."
Linus gawked. Shook his head. Then remembered — belatedly — that Poseidon, actual divine sea monarch, was right next to me.
"Oh gods— Father— I didn't— what even—" His mouth tripped over his thoughts like a kid learning to swim in a tsunami.
He started hyperventilating.
I casually flicked my wrist, summoning a splash of seawater straight into his face.
Splat.
He gasped, blinking, soaked, a little calmer.
"There. Hydrotherapy," I said, grinning. "Now breathe, bro. You're acting like I just crawled out of legend."
"I mean," Linus wheezed, "you did."
Fair point.
Poseidon just leaned back, smirking like this was the most entertainment he'd had in centuries.
"You split yourself in two?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at Dad. Because seriously — when did he have this much free time to sit on a blanket and chat?
Poseidon blinked. His smirk faltered into a mildly baffled expression. "Uh… yeah? Of course. I have duties, you know."
"That's exactly why I'm asking," I deadpanned, crossing my arms.
Linus just stood there, mouth open like a fish flung on deck.
Poseidon gave a helpless shrug. "Multitasking. One of the perks of godhood."
"Right," I muttered. "Divine delegation at its finest."
He stood, brushing off imaginary dust. "Well, it's getting late anyway. I shouldn't overstay."
I gave a slow nod. Zeus probably had a drama quota to fill. Hera likely had fresh grudges to polish. And don't even get me started on Dionysus.
"It was nice seeing you two," Poseidon said, and his gaze drifted toward the horizon. His voice lowered, reverent and warm. "Remember — every child of the sea is welcome in Atlantis."
And then, just like that — no glowing light, no thunderclap, no dramatic music swell — he was gone.
No theatrics.
Just silence, waves, and the faint scent of salt.
"Did I just see Dad?" Linus asked, still wide-eyed. "And did he actually say I could visit him?"
I shrugged. "Yeah, he was unusually diplomatic today. But to be fair, he's one of the better gods when it comes to their kids."
"Diplomatic…" Linus echoed like the word was foreign to him.
Oh, poor kid. He had no idea how sideways that could've gone. Poseidon didn't try to assert dominance, didn't go all divine and glowing, didn't throw responsibility at me. He walked a tightrope — stayed respectful, offered an olive branch, listened. Actually listened. And managed to act like a father… not just a god.
That was rare. That was something.
Linus stared at me again, and then, with full theatrical disbelief, blurted out, "You're Perseus Jackson!"
"Yes, yes," I said, raising my hand with mock grandeur, "autographs after breakfast—tomorrow's."
"You're my hero," he said, awe dripping off his words. "Why didn't you tell me?"
I shrugged. "Didn't feel like it."
Honestly, I'd just wanted some peace before the inevitable revelation. But peace was a rare luxury lately. Today alone I'd had conversations with Artemis, Hestia, Hermes, and Poseidon. That's three Olympians and the Last Olympian — all before dinner. I wasn't even going to count Phobos and Deimos. Chaos was becoming routine.
And Artemis being nearby? That only meant one thing.
"You'd have found out tomorrow anyway," I said with a sigh. "The Hunters of Artemis are coming to camp. And… a friend of mine is among them."
"Ohhh, the lieutenant, right?" Linus said quickly. "I've heard the story about you, her, and Nico di Angelo defeating a Titan!"
Great. Fanboy confirmed.
"Does everyone know my life story?" I asked, wincing slightly.
"Of course!" he said like it was obvious. "You're the greatest hero to ever live. And you survived Tartarus again. That's just—insane. And no one even knows what happened down there."
My smile faded. My eyes glazed, just for a second, as my thoughts slipped beneath the cracks — to that endless darkness, the red skies, the sound of flesh being rejuvenated and torn apart far below.
"It's better if the world doesn't know the horrors," I said quietly.
Then, forcing myself back to the present, I stood and flicked the sand off with a swirl of vapor-guided air.
"Let's head to the cabin," I said, stretching until my joints popped. "I could sleep like a log. Haven't done that in… weeks."
Linus gawked. "Weeks?!"
Honestly, it might've been longer. The last time I really slept was after the fight with Nyx — on that ledge, that strange little piece of heaven tucked into hell.
As we walked back to the Poseidon cabin, Linus kept rattling off stories he'd heard about me — most of them exaggerated, some outright ridiculous — and one by one, I had to admit… unfortunately, yeah. Most of them were true.
Author's Note: So this chapter... took me... over a month and a half, four drafts, and over fifty fucking hours to write. I still don't consider it the best. But to me, most of my stuff sucks. So I can't judge y own work. That's you guys' departments.
Anyways, studies are hell. Calculus finally started in maths(Liit just ended, now i am on continuity), physics is a blast, and chem sucks with its inorganic chem's never-ending theory.
So, you can guess... Updates will be rare.
I have a rough idea what next chapter can hold... so maybe if I get time, I will update soon. No promises.